Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Content Warnings:This story contains themes of incarceration, foster care, and trauma in a minor. While distress is explored, it serves a narrative purpose, and the story remains sensitive to its characters and themes.

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Peter Burke had arrested countless criminals in his career, but he’d never expected to find himself staring across an interrogation table at a thirteen-year-old boy. Neal Caffrey—if that was even his real name—was a curiosity, to say the least. Arrested in the middle of a high-profile art forgery case, he wasn’t just another petty thief. He was something else entirely. A prodigy.

Still, as Peter studied him, he saw more than a criminal. Neal was pale, dark circles under his too-blue eyes, his shoulders hunched defensively. The faint tremor in his hands didn’t escape Peter’s notice.

“Kid, you look like you’re about to fall over,” Peter said gruffly, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a granola bar he’d grabbed that morning but hadn’t eaten. He slid it across the table. “Eat this.”

Neal blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t reach for it.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not fine,” Peter countered, his voice softening. “Look, you can’t give me answers if you pass out. Just eat.”

It was a small moment, but when Neal finally relented and took the granola bar with trembling hands, Peter felt an unexpected pang of protectiveness. How had a kid like this ended up here?

CPS was called, and Neal was taken to a halfway house. He escaped twice, and Peter was brought in to catch him. The DA asked for an expedited trial, which was granted.

The sentencing was harsh but unsurprising. Neal was sent to the most secure juvenile detention facility in the state—a place meant for violent offenders. Neal, being what the judge called a “high-risk manipulator,” is led away in shackles. Peter watches, numb. Sometimes doing the right thing wasn't the right thing to do - but what else could he have done?

Chapter Text

The van’s engine rumbled steadily as Neal sat shackled in the back, the harsh bite of metal cuffs digging into his wrists and ankles. Each jolt of the vehicle sent a sharp vibration up through the chain linking his hands to the belly chain strapped tightly around his waist. His throat was dry, and his chest ached with a heavy, unfamiliar weight—fear.

Outside the small, grated window, the world blurred by in streaks of gray and brown, and Neal couldn’t help but think of how far he was from the life he used to know. The streets of New York, where he’d once felt invincible, were gone. Now, all that awaited him was the unknown.

The van slowed, its tires crunching over gravel as it came to a halt. Neal glanced up, his heart pounding as the rear doors opened, flooding the dim interior with blinding light.

“Out,” barked a guard, his voice sharp and unyielding.

Neal hesitated for just a moment before scooting to the edge of the van, the chains around his ankles rattling with every movement. The guard grabbed him roughly by the arm, hauling him to his feet and marching him toward a building that loomed ahead.

The juvenile home was nothing like Neal had imagined. High walls surrounded the facility, topped with spirals of barbed wire that seemed to glint menacingly in the sun. Electric fences buzzed faintly in the background, a constant reminder of how impossible escape would be.

As Neal was marched inside, the sound of his chains echoed against the stark, concrete walls. The air was cold and sterile, and the fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh glare on everything, making the space feel even more unwelcoming.

He was led to a small, uncomfortable chair and shoved into it without ceremony. The guards didn’t speak, leaving him to sit there under their watchful eyes for what felt like hours. Neal kept his head down, his hands resting in his lap, the metal cuffs cold against his skin. Every second stretched endlessly, the silence broken only by the occasional shuffle of boots.

Finally, one of the guards stepped forward. “On your feet,” he barked, yanking Neal up by the arm.

Neal stumbled slightly, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. The guard shoved him through a heavy steel door, leading him into another stark room.

“Stand there,” the guard ordered.

Neal obeyed, his heart pounding as he watched the man approach with a set of keys. The guard unlocked the cuffs, the belly chain, and the shackles around Neal’s ankles.

“Strip,” the guard commanded.

Neal’s breath caught in his throat. “What?”

“Take off your clothes,” the guard said impatiently. “Now.”

Swallowing hard, Neal hesitated for only a moment before pulling off his shirt and then his pants. The cold air bit at his skin as he stood there in nothing but his underwear, his arms instinctively wrapping around himself.

“All of it,” the guard snapped.

Biting his lip to stop it from trembling, Neal removed the last of his clothing.

The guard stepped forward, conducting a thorough search that left Neal feeling humiliated and exposed. He squeezed his eyes shut, his cheeks burning with shame.

“Shower,” the guard ordered, shoving Neal toward another door.

The room was tiled and sterile, with a single spray of water streaming from an overhead showerhead. Neal stepped in, the icy water hitting his skin and making him gasp. He hurried through the process, his body trembling as he washed away the last remnants of familiarity.

When he stepped out, a guard tossed him a pair of threadbare underwear and an ill-fitting jumpsuit. Neal caught them and quickly pulled them on, desperate to feel covered again.

“Move,” the guard barked, grabbing him by the arm and leading him down another long hallway.

They stopped outside a door marked “Warden.” The guard opened it, shoving Neal inside before stepping back and closing the door behind him.

The warden sat behind a large, imposing desk, his sharp eyes piercing as he looked up at Neal. “Neal Caffrey?”

“Yes, sir,” Neal said, forcing a small, nervous smile onto his face.

The response earned him a hard slap across the cheek, the sound echoing in the silent room. Neal stumbled, his eyes wide with shock as tears sprang to them unbidden.

“Don’t smile,” the warden said coldly, gripping Neal’s arm tightly. “You’re a criminal. You have no right to smile. Do you understand?”

Neal nodded quickly, his voice caught in his throat.

The warden leaned back, his hand reaching for a baton that rested on his desk. He held it up for Neal to see. “Now, this is all you need to know. Every guard and teacher here has one of these. And as long as you don’t bleed or break a bone, no one cares what they do to you.”

Before Neal could process the words, the warden swung the baton hard against his calves. Neal cried out, collapsing to the floor as pain shot through his legs.

Tears streamed down his face as he looked up, his body trembling.

“Take him away,” the warden ordered, waving the guards back in.

They grabbed Neal under the arms, dragging him through another set of doors. His legs throbbed with every movement, but he forced himself not to cry out again.

Finally, they reached a dormitory. The guards shoved him inside, and Neal stumbled to a stop, his wide eyes taking in the room. It was filled with boys—at least a dozen of them—most of whom looked older, tougher, and far more hardened than him.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Neal standing there, his heart pounding as every pair of eyes turned to him.

And for the first time in his life, Neal Caffrey felt completely and utterly alone.

Chapter Text

The days in Hudson turned into weeks, and the weeks stretched into months. Neal learned quickly that survival here required silence and submission—two things that didn’t come naturally to him.

In class, he tried to focus, to cling to the one shred of normalcy left in his life. But his intelligence, once his greatest asset, now painted a target on his back.

“You think you’re smarter than me, Caffrey?” the teacher snapped one day after Neal answered a question no one else could.

“No, sir,” Neal said quickly, keeping his gaze down.

The answer didn’t save him. The teacher slammed a ruler against Neal’s knuckles, making him hiss in pain. “Keep your mouth shut unless you’re asked directly.” He reached for his baton, bringing it down on Neal's legs. "Smartass" he said with the last blow.

In the dormitories, the boys were relentless. They punched him for sport, their laughter echoing in his ears as he tried to curl into himself, protecting what he could. His ribs ached constantly, and his arms were perpetually bruised.

“You don’t belong here,” one of the older boys sneered one night, shoving Neal against the wall. “Pretty boy like you? You’re just waiting to get crushed.”

Neal started to escape to the library. He looked like a shadow of himself. His once-bright blue eyes were dulled, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. The library became his sanctuary, the only place where the silence wasn’t oppressive but comforting.

---

Even in the depths of his despair, Neal’s mind remained sharp. He pored over books, finding solace in the structured world of law and precedent. The glimmer of hope was faint, but it was enough to push him forward.

Confidential Informants. They worked with law enforcement. If only he could contact Agent Burke. There had never been a minor CI, but some juveniles had been released to foster care.

One day, armed with carefully collected information on precedent and procedure, Neal approached the warden. His hands trembled as he handed over a neatly written document.

“This…” Neal’s voice shook but didn’t falter. “I want to be a confidential informant.”

The warden stared at the paper, then at Neal, his lip curling in disdain. “You think you can get out of this so easily, you little punk?”

Before Neal could respond, the baton came down hard across his back. He cried out, crumpling to the floor as the warden loomed over him.

“You think you’re special?” the warden spat, striking him again. “You’re nothing. Just another piece of trash.”

Neal didn’t get up this time. He stayed on the floor, his body wracked with pain as tears blurred his vision.

---

A few days later, Neal found himself in the restroom, leaning against the wall as silent tears streamed down his face. He’d thought he could endure this place, but the weight of it all was crushing him.

He didn’t hear the group of boys until it was too late.

“Hey, Caffrey,” one of them said, his voice low and menacing. “Having a little pity party, huh?”

Neal stiffened, wiping at his face quickly. “Leave me alone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Aw, look at him,” another boy sneered. “Little Nealie thinks he can tell us what to do.”

Before Neal could react, they grabbed him, shoving him down onto the cold, dirty tiles.

“No,” Neal gasped, panic seizing him as one of them forced a gag into his mouth. His muffled cries filled the room as they started pulling at his clothes, their laughter echoing in his ears. Neal realised what they were going to do.

He struggled desperately, his heart pounding with a terror so consuming it left him breathless. No one was coming. No one ever came.

Then, suddenly, there was a roar of rage, and the weight pinning Neal down disappeared. He heard the boys’ shouts of pain and the sickening thuds of blows landing.

“Get up, Caffrey,” a voice barked.

Neal looked up to see a guard standing over him, his face hard and unreadable. The boys were crumpled on the floor, groaning in pain.

“Stop sniveling,” the guard snapped, grabbing Neal by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

Neal wiped at his face with trembling hands, his body shaking uncontrollably.

“You’re going to the warden,” the guard said, dragging Neal out of the restroom.

---

The warden didn’t look up when Neal was shoved into his office. “Attempted rape,” he said flatly, as if discussing the weather. “It can’t be unreported or untreated. It’ll bring down the whole damn place.”

Neal stood there, shaking and silent, his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

The warden’s gaze flicked up to him, cold and dismissive. “Shackle him and take him to the prison hospital. Make it clear this stays quiet.”

The guards grabbed Neal again, snapping shackles onto his wrists and ankles as if he were the perpetrator, not the victim. He didn’t resist. He didn’t even speak.

As they dragged him down the hall, Neal’s mind felt blank, his body numb. The hope he’d once clung to was slipping away, replaced by the suffocating certainty that Hudson would never let him go.

Chapter Text

Neal sat in the van, his shackled wrists resting heavily on his lap. The rattling of the vehicle on the uneven road barely registered in his mind, drowned out by the chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirling inside him.

The restroom. The boys. The guard.

His chest tightened as the memories replayed over and over, each detail cutting deeper. He stared down at the floor, his breath shallow and unsteady, his mind struggling to process the sheer weight of what had happened.

The van came to a stop, and the guard beside him barked, “Let’s go.”

Neal didn’t move at first, his legs feeling like lead. The guard grabbed his arm and yanked him out, his chains clinking as he stumbled onto the pavement.

---

Hudson’s prison hospital loomed ahead, a grim, gray building that exuded an air of sterility and indifference. It was shared by all the facilities on the grounds, from the juvenile center to the maximum-security wing. The staff here weren’t strangers to brutality—they treated hardened criminals day in and day out.

Neal was dragged through the front doors, his chains rattling loudly in the sterile hallway. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the walls, each step feeling heavier than the last.

At the front desk, a woman sat flipping through a clipboard, her expression bored and detached. She barely looked up when the guard approached.

“Attempted rape from juvie,” the guard said flatly, his hand tightening on Neal’s arm.

The woman scribbled something on a form, not even glancing at Neal at first. Then, her eyes flicked up—and froze.

Her bored expression melted into shock as she took in Neal’s pale face, his trembling hands, and his too-thin frame. “Oh,” she said, her voice softening. “That young?”

The guard grunted. “Yeah. What do you want us to do with him?”

The woman stood quickly, her clipboard clattering onto the desk. “Take him in there,” she said, pointing toward a room down the hall. “That one. I’ll page Dr. Lawson.”

She turned, raising her voice. “Carter? Nurse Carter!”

A moment later, a massive man appeared from around the corner, his presence filling the hallway. He was broad-shouldered and towering, with a stern face and steady eyes that softened slightly when they landed on Neal.

“What is it?” Nurse Carter asked, his voice deep but calm.

“Can you take care of this kid?” the woman said, gesturing toward Neal. “He’s from juvie. Attempted rape case.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flicking from the guard to Neal. “Alright,” he said after a pause. He stepped forward, his large hand resting lightly on Neal’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you looked at.”

Neal flinched slightly at the touch but allowed himself to be guided into the room.

---

Inside, the room was stark and clinical, with a single bed in the center and cabinets lining the walls. Neal sat down slowly, his shackles clinking as he moved.

Carter knelt in front of him, his large frame surprisingly gentle.

“You’re safe here,” Carter said quietly, his voice steady. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Neal didn’t respond, his hands trembling.

The nurse pulled a chair over and sat down, his large hands resting on his knees. “What’s your name?”

“Neal,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Neal,” Carter repeated, nodding. “Alright, Neal. Dr. Lawson’s on his way. He’s a good guy. He’ll take care of you.”

Neal looked down at his hands, his fingers curling tightly into fists. His mind was still spinning, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

“Neal,” Carter said softly, his tone firm but kind. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Neal raised his head, his tear-streaked face pale and frightened.

“You’re going to get through this,” Carter said, his voice steady. “One step at a time.” He closed the curtains around the bed and helped Neal into a hospital gown. "It's not your fault, all right?" he says, making sure that the gown is covering Neal before helping him out of his pants.

Neal swallowed hard, his lips trembling as fresh tears welled in his eyes.

A gruff-looking doctor walked in, flipping through Neal’s chart. He looked up at the guards, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Take those restraints off. Now.”

One of the guards opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor cut him off with a stern glare. “The boy’s injured, not a threat. Off.”

With reluctant grumbles, the guards complied, removing the cuffs from Neal’s wrists and ankles. Neal sat up slowly, rubbing his sore wrists, but he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

The doctor nodded briskly and turned back to Neal. “All right, son, I'm Dr.Lawson. I need to check you over,” he said. “Lie on your tummy for me.”

Neal froze, his blood running cold. His mind flashed back to the incident—the boys pinning him down, the tearing of his clothes. He blanched, his stomach twisting in fear.

The doctor noticed immediately, his expression softening. “Hey,” he said gently, holding his hands up. “I promise, I’m just going to look. Not touch. Nothing you don’t consent to, okay?”

Neal hesitated, still trembling.

Nurse Carter stepped forward and held out his hand. "He's Neal Caffrey, doctor" he told Dr.Lawson, and the doctor smiled. “Here,” he said softly. “Hold on to me if it helps.”

Neal stared at the offered hand for a moment, then took it tentatively.

“That’s it,” the nurse said encouragingly, giving Neal’s hand a gentle squeeze.

The doctor pulled on a pair of gloves, moving slowly and deliberately. “I’m going to lift the back of your gown now, Neal” he said, his voice calm. “That’s all.”

Neal nodded shakily, clutching the nurse’s hand tighter.

True to his word, the doctor kept the examination brief, his eyes scanning Neal’s back and limbs. “A lot of bruises,” he muttered under his breath. “But no signs of anything worse.”

When he was finished, he stepped back and removed his gloves. “All done,” he said with a reassuring nod.

Neal let out a shaky breath, his grip on the nurse’s hand loosening.

---

A few minutes later, the doctor pulled out a clipboard. “We’re going to need to treat that fever,” he said. “Do you have a fear of needles?”

Neal stiffened, his eyes darting toward the guards. He shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, though his voice trembled.

The doctor frowned, studying him carefully. “Neal,” he said gently, “you don’t need to lie. If you’re afraid, it’s okay. No one here is going to hurt you.”

Neal hesitated, his fingers curling into the blanket. “I don’t like them,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor nodded. “That’s all I needed to know. We’ll stick with pills instead.”

Neal’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn’t say anything.

"Nurse? We need to catalogue his bruises," the doctor said. "You can treat them while I write down my remarks."

"All right. Neal? I'm going to treat your bruises. I'll keep you covered everywhere else, okay?" The nurse said, and started applying ointment to Neal's arm. Dr.Lawson started writing.

---

The first night at the hospital was rough. Neal slept fitfully, tossing and turning as his mind replayed the events that had led him here. The scratchy blanket and the antiseptic smell of the room didn’t help, but it was the fear—the constant, gnawing fear—that kept him on edge.

At some point in the night, the nurse returned with a tray of food. “You need to eat, Neal,” he said gently, setting the tray on the bedside table.

Neal sat up slowly, his stomach growling despite his exhaustion. He took the plate, nibbling at the food while the nurse sat beside him.

“We’re going to keep you here for a few days,” the nurse said, his tone calm and reassuring. “Not for too long, though, because then we’d have to transfer you to a different hospital. But until then, no restraints, no needles. Just rest, okay?”

Neal blinked at him, his throat tightening. “No restraints?”

The nurse shook his head firmly. “Not here. You’re safe, Neal. We’re going to take care of you.”

For the first time since arriving, Neal felt a tiny sliver of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let him lie back down and close his eyes, the nurse’s words echoing in his mind: You’re safe.

Chapter Text

The days at the hospital felt like heaven, but soon, Neal was back in restraints. He was taken back to the juvenile home and thrown into solitary. The warden came into his cell after a couple of days.

"You're a thorn in my side, Caffrey." He snaps. "If I keep you here, I'll be questioned for denying you education. If I let you out, those kids will finish what they started. And you're just too damn weak to fight back."

Neal kept looking at the floor. There was nothing he could say. After slapping him for no reason, the warden went out, locking the door.

He didn't know how long he had been in solitary before the guards came in and shackled him again. He was dragged to a room and cuffed to a table. "You have a visitor, Caffrey" the warden said as he came in. "Talk him into taking you with him."

****

The juvenile home was as bleak and foreboding as Peter had imagined it would be. Stark concrete walls, cold metal fences topped with barbed wire—it felt more like a prison than a place for kids. Peter adjusted his tie as the warden escorted him down the dimly lit hallway. The sound of his own footsteps echoed ominously against the tile floor.

"You’ll find he’s... different from the last time you saw him," the warden said gruffly, glancing at Peter. "Caffrey’s not the same bright-eyed kid you brought in, Agent Burke."

Peter’s chest tightened at the thought. He hadn’t been able to shake the memory of Neal’s arrest—how small and defiant the boy had looked in his oversized hoodie, his sharp blue eyes brimming with intelligence and mischief.

When they reached the meeting room, Peter stopped short. Neal was seated at the table, his wrists shackled together with heavy cuffs, his ankles bound in leg irons that clinked faintly whenever he shifted. His shoulders were slouched, his head slightly bowed. He looked thinner, paler, and so much smaller than Peter remembered.

“Caffrey,” the warden barked, and Neal’s head snapped up. His expression was unreadable—detached, almost empty—but his eyes briefly flicked with recognition when he saw Peter.

Peter stepped inside, his throat tightening at the sight of the boy bound like a hardened criminal. He forced himself to keep his tone steady. "Neal."

Neal’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile but didn’t quite remember how. “Agent Burke,” he muttered, his voice low and flat.

Peter pulled out a chair and sat across from him, his gaze fixed on Neal. “How are you holding up?”

Neal shrugged, the chains rattling softly with the motion. “I’m still here,” he said quietly.

Peter’s jaw tightened. He turned to the warden. “What’s with the cuffs and leg irons? He’s a kid, not a threat.”

The warden sighed, folding his arms. “Policy. We don’t take risks, especially not with someone like him.”

“Someone like him?” Peter’s voice sharpened.

“Smart,” the warden said bluntly. “Too smart for his own good. He’s been looking for ways out—not digging where he shouldn’t, mind you. He’s been using the library, reading about how other kids got out of places like this.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, glancing at Neal. “Is that true?”

Neal hesitated, then nodded slightly. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he said softly. “I just... wanted to know how to get out of here. Legally.”

The warden huffed, gesturing toward Neal. “He’s found all kinds of things—cases where juveniles moved to foster homes under supervision, where convicted felons became confidential informants.”

Peter looked back at Neal, his heart sinking at how hollow the boy looked. “You’re resourceful, I’ll give you that,” Peter said gently.

Neal didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping to the table. “I’ll be good, Agent Burke,” he murmured, his voice so quiet Peter almost didn’t catch it.

Peter leaned forward, his expression softening. “I know you will, Neal.”

The warden cleared his throat, drawing Peter’s attention. “Agent Burke, he can’t stay here. We've tried keeping him safe —but he doesn’t belong in a place like this. If he stays, one of two things will happen: he’ll be dead within the year, or he’ll go mad in solitary. It’s not a question of if—it’s when.”

Peter grimaced, his hand curling into a fist on the table. Neal, however, didn’t flinch. His face remained blank, as if he’d already accepted the warden’s grim prediction.

Peter turned back to Neal, his voice firm but kind. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “We’re going to figure this out, Neal. You don’t belong here either, and I’ll make sure you don’t stay.”

For the first time, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—crossed Neal’s expression. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same guarded detachment he’d worn since Peter walked in.

Peter stood, his jaw set. He looked at the warden. “Get those shackles off him. He’s not a danger to anyone.”

The warden hesitated, but the steel in Peter’s gaze left no room for argument.

As the guard stepped forward to unlock Neal’s restraints, Peter placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re not alone in this, Neal. I’m going to help you. Do you believe me?”

Neal glanced up at him, his blue eyes wary but searching. After a long pause, he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Peter sat across from El in their cozy living room, recounting his visit to the juvenile home. His tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of frustration and worry that El picked up on immediately.

"He’s changed," Peter said quietly, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You remember how sharp and cocky he was when we arrested him? That kid’s gone, El. What I saw today..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

El crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t like it, Peter,” she said, her voice firm. “You met with him, after everything? After all the lies and tricks and leading you on a chase for momths?”

Peter nodded, understanding her feelings but also knowing he had to explain. “I get it, El. Believe me, I do. But this isn’t about the chase or the crimes he committed. He’s thirteen. He’s just a kid. And he’s in a place where he won’t last.”

El’s expression softened slightly, but her eyes remained skeptical. “And what are you thinking, Peter? Because I know you, and I know what you’re not saying. It’ll be easier to help him if we offer to foster him, won’t it?”

Peter hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Yeah. That’s the truth. It’d clear a lot of the red tape. And... well, we *did* just get approved to act as foster parents for teens.”

El frowned, leaning back against the couch. “That’s a lot, Peter. Bringing a boy like Neal into our home—it’s not just paperwork. It’s trust. It’s our life.”

Peter looked at her, his gaze steady. “I know. But I wouldn’t even consider it if I didn’t think it was the right thing to do. Neal doesn’t belong in that place, El. He’s not like the other kids there. He’s... he’s different.”

El stared at him for a long moment, and then her shoulders relaxed slightly. She sighed. “I want to meet the kid,” she said.

Peter smiled faintly. “I’ll arrange it.”

---

The next day, they walked through the halls of the juvenile home together, the stark environment sending a chill down El’s spine. Every boy they passed had a hard, untrusting look in his eyes, and the weight of the place seemed to press down on her.

“Peter,” she whispered, glancing at a group of boys who eyed her with unsettling intensity. “These are psychopaths. They’re dangerous.”

“Yes,” Peter muttered, his voice low. “And Neal isn’t.”

When they reached the meeting room, El stopped short. Neal was sitting at the table, his wrists cuffed to the metal surface. He looked even smaller than Peter had described—thin, pale, with a defeated posture that broke her heart.

Neal glanced up briefly, his sharp blue eyes flicking to El before darting back down to the floor. “Mrs. Burke?” he asked softly.

El’s chest tightened. His voice was so quiet, so uncertain, that it was hard to imagine this was the same boy Peter had described chasing for months. She stepped forward, her instincts to comfort him warring with the stark reality of the setting.

“Yes, Neal,” she said gently, sitting across from him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Neal didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the table. He answered her questions in monosyllables, his shoulders hunched and his demeanor wary. Despite the cuffs and the surroundings, El couldn’t shake the feeling that what she was seeing wasn’t defiance—it was fear.

When the meeting ended and they walked back out into the hallway, El’s mind was made up. She grabbed Peter’s arm, her eyes blazing with determination.

“I want that child, Peter Burke,” she said firmly. “Do what you need to do.”

Peter blinked at her, caught off guard by the fierceness in her tone. “You’re sure?”

“More than sure,” El said, her voice unwavering. “He doesn’t belong here. And I can’t live with myself if we leave him in this place a moment longer than we have to.”

Peter nodded, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over him. “Alright, El. Let’s bring him home.”

Chapter Text

Peter stood in the sterile, dimly lit visiting room of the juvenile home, his hands on his hips as he studied Neal. The boy sat slouched in a chair, his wrists cuffed to the table, his expression guarded but curious.

“Three months,” Peter said, his voice steady but firm. “That’s the deal, Neal. If you can behave and contribute usefully to the FBI for three months, you get to stay. If not...” He let the words hang in the air, his meaning clear.

Neal’s jaw tightened, but he nodded slowly.

Peter softened slightly, giving him a faint smile. “The paperwork’s all done, Neal. You’re coming with me today.”

Neal blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “It’s... done?”

Peter nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

The guard moved to Neal’s side, pulling him to his feet. Neal turned to Peter, his expression a mix of disbelief and guarded hope, but Peter just nodded reassuringly and left the room.

---

An hour later, Peter leaned against the car, arms crossed as he watched the gates of the juvenile home. The sun was bright, and the air carried the faint scent of freshly cut grass.

When Neal finally stepped out, was dressed much the same as the day Peter had first arrested him—wearing the same oversized hoodie and jeans, now worn and faded. A small, worn duffel bag hung from his shoulder, and the new, gleaming tracking anklet around his ankle caught the sunlight as he walked. But he looked so different. He walked guardedly,.clutching his hoodie, eyes looking at the ground.

Peter straightened up and gestured toward the car. “Get in, Neal.”

Neal hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding and climbing into the passenger seat. He set his bag at his feet and glanced at Peter, who was already sliding into the driver’s seat.

---

As they drove, Peter kept his eyes on the road but began laying out the rules.

“No lock on your door, Neal,” Peter said. “And no lock in the bathroom, either. El and I will use a padlock when we need privacy, but all you can do is put a sign on the door. Understood?”

Neal nodded silently, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap.

“No allowance,” Peter continued. “Your anklet is set to a one-kilometer radius from the house and the five hundred meters from your school to the bureau. No school bus—I’ll drop you off every morning, and you’ll walk to the bureau after school. Work there, and then we go home together. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Neal murmured, his voice barely audible.

Peter glanced at him briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “Some of your clothes and books have already been brought to your room to get you started. But keeping your grades up, doing your work properly, and following *all* the rules are non-negotiable.”

Neal swallowed hard, nodding again.

“If you mess up,” Peter said, his voice low and serious, “if you step out of line even once, I’ll drag you back to that place without a second thought. Is that clear?”

Neal’s throat tightened, but he managed a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

Peter softened slightly, his tone losing some of its edge. “Good. Stick to the rules, Neal, and you’ll be fine. You’ve got a chance here—don’t waste it.”

Neal glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I won’t,” he said quietly.

For the rest of the drive, Neal stared out the window, his mind racing. The prospect of freedom, even with all the rules, was almost too much to process. What if Peter also beat him? The thought was too much to bear.

Peter glanced at the boy. He didn't seem happy to be out at all, and seemed way too thoughtful. He winced at the dark circles around Neal's eyes. The poor kid needed sleep.

When they pulled into the driveway, Peter turned off the engine and looked at Neal. “Welcome home, Neal,” he said simply.

Neal looked at the house, then back at Peter, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hope, maybe, or cautious gratitude. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Peter nodded. “Let’s get you settled.”

Chapter Text

El met them at the door, her face lighting up as Peter and Neal stepped inside. “Welcome home,” she said warmly, pressing a kiss to Peter’s cheek before turning to Neal. Her smile softened as she took in his thin frame and the way he clutched the strap of his bag tightly, as though it might be taken from him.

“First, a sandwich,” Elizabeth said gently, reaching out to take his bag. “And then a nice bath. You must be exhausted.”

Neal blinked, his eyes darting between her and Peter, unsure of how to respond.

“And this,” Elizabeth continued, crouching down, “is Satchmo.”

A little golden retriever puppy bounded into view, his tail wagging furiously. Neal’s eyes widened, and he immediately dropped to his knees, holding out a tentative hand.

“He’s so tiny!” Neal exclaimed, his voice soft but full of awe.

“Well,” Peter said, hanging his coat on the rack, “he’s just come to his forever home. Go on, kid—go eat that sandwich while we get you settled.”

Neal glanced up at Elizabeth, who was smiling warmly, and then at Peter, who gave him an encouraging nod. Slowly, he rose to his feet and followed Elizabeth to the kitchen.

---

The sandwich was a simple turkey and cheese, but to Neal, it tasted like heaven. The bread was fresh and soft, the cheese perfectly melted, and the turkey seasoned just right. It was worlds away from the bland, often barely-edible meals he’d endured at the juvenile home.

Neal ate slowly, savoring every bite, as if afraid it might be the last good meal he’d have. When he finally finished, he glanced around, unsure of what to do next.

“Neal!” Peter called from upstairs.

Neal stood quickly, wiping his hands on a napkin before heading up. He found Peter standing in front of an open door, gesturing inside.

“This is your room,” Peter said, stepping aside to let Neal in.

Neal took a cautious step inside, his breath catching as he took it all in. It wasn’t large, but it was cozy, with a neatly made bed, a small bookshelf, a wardrobe, and a desk with a chair tucked underneath. It felt... warm. Inviting. Like it belonged to someone who mattered.

“Pick out something to wear,” Peter said, his tone much warmer than it had been during the car ride. “I’ll draw up a bath.”

Neal hesitated, glancing up at Peter. “A bath?” he asked softly.

Peter smiled, tilting his head. “You want bubbles, Neal?”

Neal blinked, caught completely off guard by the question.

“Do you want a bubble bath?” Peter repeated, his voice kind.

Neal nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing. He hadn’t dared to ask for anything like that—he hadn’t dared to think of it.

“Alright,” Peter said, stepping out of the room. “Pick out your clothes. I’ll grab you a towel.”

Neal moved to the wardrobe, his fingers brushing over the neatly folded shirts and jeans. He chose a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, holding them close as Peter returned with a fluffy towel.

“Here you go,” Peter said, handing it to him. “Come down when you’re done. And don’t worry—” He pulled a "Occupied" door tag from his pocket and hung it on the bathroom doorknob. “You’ll have privacy, Neal.”

Neal nodded, clutching the towel and clothes tightly as he headed to the bathroom.

---

The warm water and bubbles were like nothing Neal had experienced in months. He sank into the tub, letting out a soft sigh as the heat seeped into his aching muscles. The bubbles rose around him, soft and comforting, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to relax completely.

This was more than he deserved—more kindness, more comfort, more care than he had ever thought possible. Neal stared at the bubbles, his chest tightening.

He wouldn’t break a rule. He wouldn’t mess this up. Not for anything.

Chapter Text

After dinner, Peter made his way to Neal’s room, pausing in the doorway to see the boy sitting on the edge of the bed. Neal looked small and uncertain in the cozy space, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his borrowed pajamas.

Peter leaned against the doorframe, giving Neal a reassuring smile. “I just wanted to check in before you turn in for the night,” he said, his tone calm and steady. “El and I are right down the corridor. If you need anything—anything at all—you come find us, okay?”

Neal nodded slowly, his gaze flicking up to Peter’s before dropping to his lap again. “Okay.”

"You mind if I call you Trouble?" Peter asked, and to Neal it seemed like it came out of the blue. "Not that you're troublesome or a troublemaker - that's just something boys were called where I grew up."

Neal nodded. A nickname - that did feel nice.

Peter stepped into the room and gestured to the bed. “Alright, Trouble. Get into bed. You need to rest.”

Neal hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, climbing under the covers with guarded movements. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this—of being told to sleep in a room that felt like it had been made just for him, with clean sheets and a soft pillow that didn’t smell of bleach or dampness.

Peter walked to the small nightstand and switched on the nightlight, its soft glow casting a warm, comforting light over the room.

As Neal settled under the blanket, Peter surprised him by tucking the covers around him with gentle hands. Neal stiffened briefly, unused to the care, but Peter’s calm presence kept him from pulling away.

Then Peter did something Neal hadn’t expected at all—he reached out and ran a hand gently through Neal’s hair, smoothing it back in a way that was both unfamiliar and soothing.

“Good night, Trouble,” Peter said softly, his voice full of quiet affection.

Neal’s throat tightened, and he nodded quickly, his voice barely a whisper. “Good night.”

Peter stepped back, switching off the overhead light but leaving the nightlight on. He glanced back at Neal, his expression unreadable for a moment, then smiled softly and closed the door behind him.

Neal lay in the warm cocoon of the bed, staring at the faint glow of the nightlight. The events of the day felt surreal—being welcomed into the Burke’s home, eating a delicious meal, having a bath, and now this. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

But the exhaustion of months of fear and sleepless nights began to catch up to him. The soft mattress cradled his body, the warmth of the blankets wrapped around him like a shield, and for the first time in a long time, Neal felt himself begin to let go.

His eyes fluttered shut, and as his breathing slowed, a small, quiet thought passed through his mind: Maybe I really am safe here.

Sleep claimed him before he could think any further, and for the first night in far too long, Neal slept deeply and peacefully.

Chapter Text

The next day began early, the Burkes’ home alive with the quiet hustle of a weekday morning. Neal ate breakfast nervously, his stomach twisting at the thought of what lay ahead. By the time Peter pulled the car up in front of the school, Neal’s palms were clammy, and he couldn’t stop fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“You’ve got this, Trouble,” Peter said, giving Neal a reassuring look as they walked toward the main office.

Inside, Neal was introduced to the principal, a stern woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wasted no time laying out the expectations.

“Neal,” she began, folding her hands on her desk, “we’ve been informed of your circumstances. Let me be perfectly clear: this is your second chance, and it may very well be your last. Any misbehavior or failure to follow rules—any at all—and you’ll be expelled. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Neal said quietly, his voice steady but subdued.

Peter stood nearby, arms crossed, his presence steady but silent as he let the principal handle the matter.

Neal was then introduced to his class teacher, Ms. Thompson, a younger woman who, while less stern than the principal, clearly shared her sentiments.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Neal,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Your attendance, your grades, your behavior—it all matters. You’re here because someone believes in you. Don’t make them regret it.”

“I won’t,” Neal promised, his voice small.

The principal dismissed them, and Peter gave Neal a nod as they walked out of the office together. “You did fine, Neal. Just remember what they said and keep your head down. You’ll be alright.”

---

After school, Neal was surprised to see Peter waiting just outside the gates. He had expected to have to figure out the route to the bureau himself, but Peter smiled as Neal approached.

“Ready?” Peter asked.

Neal nodded, falling into step beside him as they began the walk. Peter pointed out landmarks along the way—a coffee shop, a bus stop, the park—and made sure Neal paid attention to the turns they took.

By the time they arrived at the bureau, Neal’s nervous energy had returned in full force. The building was imposing, and he felt small walking through its halls. Peter led him to the bullpen, where a group of agents waited, their expressions ranging from curious to skeptical.

“Neal Caffrey,” Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hughes greeted him, his voice sharp and direct. “Welcome to the bureau. Let me be perfectly clear: you’re here on borrowed time. Not a toe out of line, young man. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Neal said, standing straighter.

Hughes nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Good.”

As Peter led Neal around the bullpen, introducing him to the agents, Neal couldn’t help but notice the way most of them regarded him—with doubt, suspicion, or outright disdain. Many of them had played a role in his arrest, and it was clear that they thought having him there was a bad idea.

“He’s just a kid,” Neal overheard one of them mutter, though the tone wasn’t sympathetic.

“Yeah, but you saw his rap sheet,” another whispered.

Neal’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. He wasn’t surprised by their reactions—he had expected it. Still, it stung more than he wanted to admit.

Peter, sensing Neal’s discomfort, gave his shoulder a quick squeeze as they walked toward Peter’s desk. “You’re going to prove them all wrong, Trouble,” he said quietly.

Neal looked up at him, surprised by the confidence in Peter’s tone.

Chapter Text

Neal felt like he was drowning.

Every morning at school, it was the same—forgotten assignments, misplaced books, and a growing list of detentions. He’d sit in class, trying to focus, but his mind refused to cooperate. The other kids whispered about him, and Ms. Thompson’s concerned gaze only made him feel smaller.

I’m not good at this. I’ll never catch up, he thought miserably, staring blankly at the open textbook on his desk.

When the detention slip slid onto his desk for the third time that week, Neal didn’t even argue. What was the point?

---

Peter’s frustration grew with every detention slip he signed. Neal was smart—*too* smart for this, and Peter couldn’t understand what was happening.

“Neal, you’ve got to get it together,” Peter said one morning as Neal handed over yet another slip. His voice was stern, but worry simmered underneath.

Neal just stood there, his head down, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Peter sighed as Neal walked away. He didn’t want to push too hard, but the boy wasn’t giving him much to work with.

Why won’t he fight back? Peter thought. Neal wasn’t lazy—Peter knew that much. There had to be something deeper going on, but Neal wasn’t letting him in.

---

At the bureau, Neal felt like a ghost.

Peter had brought him into briefings and let him assist with cases, but lately, Neal’s performance had been awful. Clues that should have been obvious slipped past him, and he struggled to follow conversations.

“You missed it again, Neal,” Peter said sharply during one case briefing, pointing to a photo on the board. “It’s right there—how are you not seeing this?”

Neal’s cheeks burned as he mumbled, “I’ll do better.”

But Peter’s disappointment cut deep. He wasn’t angry—not really—but Neal could feel the weight of Peter’s expectations pressing down on him. I’m just making it worse, he thought, staring at the board as Peter turned back to the team.

---

Peter’s concern deepened with every mistake Neal made. The boy’s sharp wit and natural intuition seemed dulled, like a flame flickering out.

“Neal’s off his game,” Diana said quietly one afternoon. “What’s going on with him?”

Peter didn’t have an answer. He watched Neal from across the bullpen, hunched over his desk with his head resting in his hand.

I’m losing him, Peter thought grimly.

---

At home, Neal’s struggles were just as obvious.

Chores went unfinished, his laundry piled up, and the trash sat untouched despite reminders. When Peter called him out on it, Neal just nodded and said, “Sorry,” in the same hollow voice.

“Go to your room,” Peter said one evening, his frustration boiling over.

Neal obeyed without a word, slipping upstairs and closing the door behind him.

Peter stared after him, the anger draining from his face. He rubbed his temples, muttering to El, “He’s too quiet. It’s like he’s punishing himself more than I ever could.”

---

Upstairs, Neal sat on his bed, staring at the wall. He felt safe in his room, away from the disappointed looks and expectations he couldn’t meet. It was only a matter of time before he was sent back, he knew, and it seemed like he could do nothing to stop it.

------

Peter was in the middle of reviewing a complex fraud case when Neal trudged into his office, his shoulders hunched, and his head bowed like he was trying to disappear. Without a word, Neal held out a slip of paper. Peter glanced at it, already knowing what it was.

“Another one?” Peter muttered, snatching the detention slip. He read it quickly—talking back to the teacher this time—and sighed heavily. “Do you *want* to be sent back, Neal?” His voice rose, his frustration spilling over. “Do you even care what’s going to happen to you?”

He slammed the case file he’d been holding onto the desk, the sharp sound echoing in the room.

The reaction was immediate. Neal flinched, his arms coming up instinctively to shield his head as he staggered back a step.

Peter froze.

“Neal?” he said, his voice softening instantly. “Neal, hey. It’s okay.”

Neal didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow, and his eyes were unfocused, staring past Peter at nothing.

“Neal,” Peter tried again, stepping closer. He kept his hands at his sides, his voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

The kid didn’t move, his arms still raised protectively.

Peter’s chest ached as he realized what was happening. Neal’s reaction wasn’t about him. It was about whatever Neal had been through before they met, and Peter’s heart broke at the thought of it.

Gently, he stepped closer, keeping his tone calm and steady. “Neal, it’s me. Peter. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

Slowly, Neal’s gaze flicked toward him, his body trembling.

“There you are,” Peter said softly. “It’s just me, kid. You’re okay.”

Reaching out cautiously, Peter placed his hands over Neal’s wrists and gently guided his arms down. Neal didn’t resist, but his breathing was still shallow, his whole body taut with tension.

“Come on,” Peter said, his voice still gentle. “Let’s go sit down, yeah?”

He led Neal to the rec room, leaving the door open to make sure the boy didn’t feel trapped. Neal perched on the edge of the cot, still trembling, his eyes darting around the room. Peter poured a glass of water from the small kitchenette, then sat beside him, holding the glass to Neal’s lips.

“Take a sip,” he urged softly.

Neal obeyed, his hands trembling too much to hold the glass himself. Peter stayed patient, guiding him through a few more sips until Neal’s breathing began to even out.

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered finally, his voice barely audible.

“Hey,” Peter said gently, setting the glass aside. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Not with me. Do you hear me?”

Neal glanced at him uncertainly, his blue eyes still wide and filled with lingering fear.

Peter leaned forward, his voice firm but kind. “I will *never* hurt you, Neal. No matter what you do, no matter how mad I get, I will *never* hurt you. Ever. Do you understand?”

For a moment, Neal didn’t answer, but then he nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

Peter let out a quiet breath, relief washing over him. He gave Neal’s knee a gentle pat. “You’re safe here. Always.”

Neal looked away, but Peter caught the faintest flicker of something in his expression—hope, maybe, or trust beginning to take root. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

Chapter Text

Neal curled deeper into the blankets, his small body trembling as flashes of memory overtook him. No matter how tightly he shut his eyes, the juvenile home came back to him in vivid, gut-wrenching detail.

The echoes of clinking chains filled his ears, louder than the quiet hum of the house around him. His wrists burned with the phantom weight of cuffs; his ankles ached with the remembered drag of leg irons. The walk to court played in his mind like a cruel loop—every step accompanied by the guards’ impatient shoves, their hands gripping his arms too tightly, their taunts drilling into his skull.

“You’re not special anymore.”

The warden’s words hit him like a slap all over again, his breath hot and rancid, the sting on Neal’s cheek radiating outward. The man had smiled coldly, enjoying Neal’s humiliation.

And then the rules of that place—of survival—had been rewritten.

The guards’ voices, deep and mocking, came to him as if they were in the room. He flinched involuntarily, curling tighter under the blanket as their words blended with the crack of batons. He could feel the sharp pain lashing across his legs, his back, his arms—anywhere the teachers or guards had decided he needed to be “corrected.”

“Don’t cry, Caffrey.”

Neal could still hear it, their sneering laughter as he bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood.

And the boys…

His stomach lurched as his mind dragged him back to those moments. The jeers, the hands grabbing him, the fabric tearing. He heard their laughter, felt their sickening closeness, and then the rush of relief and shame when the guards had finally stepped in. The bruises from that night had faded, but the memory hadn’t. It never would.

He shuddered violently, clutching his pillow like it was the only thing tethering him to the present. But the memories didn’t stop.

The silence of solitary confinement was deafening, pressing against his chest like a weight. He’d thought he might go mad in that dark cell, alone with the echoes of his failures, the sting of humiliation, and the knowledge that no one cared.

The memories blurred as another fear crept in, just as sharp and suffocating: he wasn’t at Hudson anymore, but nothing felt safe.

Every time Peter scolded him for a mistake at the bureau, Neal’s heart clenched. Every time he forgot a book or an assignment at school, he felt the walls of his old cell closing in.

If I don’t follow the rules…

If I’m not good enough…

The thoughts spiraled endlessly, each one coiling tighter around his chest.

Neal pressed his face into his pillow, muffling the tears that spilled down his cheeks. He couldn’t let Peter or El see him like this. They’d see how weak, how broken he was.

And Peter would send him back.

The flash of memory was so sudden it felt like a punch: the guards dragging him down the hall, their hands rough and unforgiving. The clink of chains, the slam of a door, the hollow sound of laughter echoing in his ears.

“No,”

Neal whimpered, his voice breaking as the blanket slipped from his trembling hands. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t survive it again.

The thought alone made him shiver so violently he felt his teeth chatter. He bit his lip to keep quiet, his whole body shaking under the weight of his fear.

But the memories didn’t relent.

The jeering voices, the batons, the ripping fabric, the darkness—they pressed into him from all sides. Neal’s sobs grew harder to suppress, his chest heaving as he curled tighter into himself, clutching the pillow like a lifeline.

Don’t let them notice,

Don’t let them see.

Because if Peter or El noticed, if they asked him what was wrong, Neal wasn’t sure he’d be able to say anything at all. And worse—he didn’t know if he could survive the disappointment he imagined waiting in their eyes.

Biting his lip to keep from making any noise, Neal curled into himself, the tears soaking into his pillow. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up—pretending to be okay, pretending he wasn’t haunted by every step of his past.

Peter stirred awake, the quiet hum of the night settling over the house. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what had woken him—no sounds, no disturbances. But something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, a sense of unease that he couldn’t shake.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his feet padding softly against the floor as he moved down the hallway. It wasn’t unusual for him to check on Neal late at night—not since the boy had come into their care. Neal had a knack for bottling things up, and Peter worried constantly about how much the kid wasn’t saying.

When he reached Neal’s room, he hesitated for just a second before quietly pushing the door open.

The sight before him made his chest ache. Neal was curled up tightly on the bed, his small frame shaking as he sobbed into his pillow. The muffled sounds of his cries broke Peter’s heart in ways he hadn’t expected.

Aw, Neal, Peter murmured softly, stepping inside.

Neal immediately went still, his body tense, his breathing uneven as he tried to pretend he was asleep.

Peter sighed and walked over, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. He didn’t speak right away, giving Neal time to react. When he didn’t, Peter reached out gently, placing a hand on the boy’s back.

Hey, he said quietly, his voice warm and steady. Trouble.

Neal didn’t respond.

Come on, Peter said, rubbing slow circles on Neal’s back. You’re not fooling me, buddy. Sit up.

Neal stayed frozen for a moment, then reluctantly shifted, letting Peter guide him up until he was sitting. He wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes, his cheeks wet with tears, his small hands clenched tightly in his lap.

Peter didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled Neal into his arms, wrapping him in a firm but gentle hug. Neal resisted at first, his shoulders stiff and his breath catching in short gasps.

Go on, Trouble, Peter said softly. Cry it out. I’ve got you.

The words were like a dam breaking. Neal clutched at Peter’s shirt with trembling hands and began to bawl, the sobs tearing out of him like they’d been trapped for years.

Peter held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of Neal’s head, the other rubbing his back. That’s it, he murmured. Let it out. I’m right here.

Neal cried like he’d never cried before, the pain and fear spilling out in waves. He cried for the juvenile facility, for the things he’d endured, for the relentless weight of his own guilt and shame. He cried for the fear of being sent back, for the crushing pressure to be perfect, and for the deep, gnawing loneliness that had followed him everywhere he’d gone.

Through it all, Peter held him, murmuring quiet reassurances.

You’re safe, he said. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here. I promise, Neal.

Eventually, Neal’s sobs began to subside, his small body sagging against Peter in exhaustion. Peter didn’t let go, keeping him close until his breathing evened out.

Better now? Peter asked softly.

Neal nodded against his chest, his voice hoarse. I’m sorry, he whispered.

Don’t you dare apologize, Peter said firmly. He pulled back just enough to tilt Neal’s chin up so their eyes met. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Neal. Nothing. Do you hear me?

Neal hesitated, then nodded again, tears still clinging to his lashes.

Hmm, you know what? Peter said, still rubbing Neal's back. This is a two-person job.

Neal blinked at him, confused.

Peter slipped an arm under his knees and the other around his back, lifting him up effortlessly.

Chapter Text

Peter slipped an arm under his knees and the other around his back, lifting him up effortlessly.

Neal made a soft sound of protest, but Peter murmured, “Shh, I’ve got you, Trouble. You’re coming with me.”

Peter carried Neal down the hall, his steps steady and deliberate, as if to remind Neal he wasn’t going anywhere. When they reached the master bedroom, Elizabeth was already awake, sitting up in bed with a concerned look on her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly, her eyes widening as she saw Neal, his tear-streaked face and trembling form nestled against Peter’s chest.

Peter didn’t answer immediately. He lowered Neal onto the bed beside her. Elizabeth wasted no time, leaning in to cradle Neal gently, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.

“What happened, you sweet, precious child?” Elizabeth whispered, her voice full of love and worry.

Neal didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The lump in his throat was too big, and the warmth of her embrace only made the tears threaten to spill again.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of water to Neal’s lips. “Here, buddy,” he said softly. “Just a sip.”

Neal hesitated, but the quiet encouragement in Peter’s eyes made him take a small drink. He couldn’t look at either of them, his gaze darting around the room as his emotions churned.

The overwhelming sense of care—of safety—was too much. He wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to being held, comforted, treated like he mattered. It made the ache in his chest bloom into something bigger, something he couldn’t contain.

The tears came again, harder this time, and Neal buried his face in Elizabeth’s shoulder, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“Oh, Neal,” Elizabeth murmured, holding him tighter. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let it all out.”

Peter reached over, running a hand up and down Neal’s back. “We’re right here,” he said quietly. “We’ve got you.”

Neal couldn’t stop crying, the unfamiliar love and care breaking through the walls he’d spent years building. Peter's arms had been strong, but El's hug was softer. It felt like something that lingered at the edges of his memory, before his dad left and his mom started to drink. He didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to feel the weight of the memories or the fear. All he wanted was to stay in this moment, where he was safe and cared for.

Slowly, the sobs began to fade. Neal’s body went limp, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. His breathing evened out as he drifted into sleep, his head resting against Peter’s chests.

Peter looked down at the boy, his heart aching with a fierce protectiveness. “He’s been holding this in for too long,” he said softly to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she brushed a hand over Neal’s hair. “He’s starting to let it out now. That’s what matters.”

Peter stayed where he was, leaning back against the headboard with Neal cradled in his arms. He didn’t move, didn’t even try to shift the boy.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Neal was at peace, and Peter intended to make sure he stayed that way—at least for tonight.

-------

Neal stirred in bed, the soft sound of Peter’s voice pulling him from sleep.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Peter said gently, his fingers stroking through Neal’s hair.

Neal blinked his eyes open slowly, the sunlight filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he just lay there, his body heavy with sleep, before he glanced up at Peter.

“There you are,” Peter said softly. “Come on, El’s made chocolate chip pancakes, and there’s caramel coffee waiting for you.”

Neal blinked, a little surprised. “Okay,” he mumbled, sitting up sluggishly.

Peter helped him to his feet. “Take your time, Trouble,” he said, guiding Neal toward the bathroom. “We’ve got all morning.”

---

The smell of pancakes and caramel coffee filled the kitchen as Neal quietly took his seat at the table. He picked at the food at first but soon found himself eating more, the comforting flavors grounding him.

Peter waited until Neal was done before leaning forward, resting his arms on the table. “Alright, Neal,” he began, his tone steady. “We need to talk about a few things.”

Neal stiffened slightly but nodded, not looking up.

“Things are going to change a bit,” Peter continued. “We’re going to make things easier for you for now. You’ll get reminders for chores, more help with schoolwork, and we’ll cut back on how much you do at the bureau.”

Neal glanced up, his expression faintly puzzled. “Less?”

Peter nodded. “Just for a while,” he said. “We’ll take it slow and build things up when you’re ready. No rush.”

Neal processed this for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Peter smiled faintly, noticing the tiredness still clouding Neal’s face. “Come on,” he said, standing and placing a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “You’re still wiped out, huh? That’s normal.”

Neal yawned but said nothing, following Peter to the couch.

“You’re feeling safe after a long time,” Peter said quietly, settling Neal on the cushions and draping a throw over him. “It’s okay to rest. Sleep as much as you want.”

Neal didn’t respond, simply closing his eyes and letting the exhaustion take over again.

---

Neal woke briefly for lunch, eating slowly but obediently. Grilled cheese and tomato soup—another favorite—passed without much comment before Neal drifted back to the couch, his body still craving rest.

The evening was quiet, the kind of stillness that made the house feel warmer, safer. Neal was curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He finally seemed more alert, though he remained quiet. Peter was drying dishes at the counter while El folded laundry at the table, both working together to wrap up the day’s tasks.

“It’s too quiet in here,” El said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Peter glanced at her, then nodded and put the dish towel down. “You’re right,” he said. He walked over to his laptop and started off their playlist of comfort songs.

Neal looked at peace while he listened, and soon a soft, familiar melody began to play.

“Baby mine, don’t you cry,
Baby mine, dry your eyes…”

“That song,” El said softly, moving to sit beside Neal on the couch, “my mom used to sing it to me when I was little.”

She reached out, gently brushing her hand against Neal’s shoulder. “Come here,” she said. “Lie down if you want.”

Neal hesitated, his body tense. But after a moment, he shifted, resting his head on El’s lap. His movements were slow and guarded, but he didn’t resist as El began stroking his hair, her touch gentle and soothing. She softly began to sing along.

“Rest your head close to my heart,
Never to part, baby mine…”

Peter leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on them both. Neal’s breathing seemed to slow, though his body remained rigid. Peter could see the faint flicker of something in Neal’s expression—uncertainty, maybe even longing.

“Little one, when you play,
Don’t you mind what they say…”

Peter watched as Neal’s eyes flickered slightly, his gaze shifting as though he were trying to process something unfamiliar.

“Let those eyes sparkle and shine,
Never a tear, baby mine.”

Peter’s breath caught, his chest tightening. He glanced at Neal’s face—those sunken, haunted eyes that had seen far too much. They were guarded, dull, carrying the weight of countless moments Neal hadn’t yet shared.

El had never seen them sparkle, he realized. But Peter had seen it— during the arrests, the interrogation, even while cuffed and shackled in court. The sparkle able confidence were gone now.

Unable to stop himself, Peter stood abruptly, walking to the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, gripping its edge as he blinked back tears.

“From your head to your toes, you’re so sweet,

El’s voice grew stronger, the melody carrying through the house as Peter mouthed the words from the kitchen.

You are so precious to me…”

“Cute as can be, baby mine.”

When the song ended, the room fell into a soft silence. Peter returned, sitting beside El on the couch and placing a hand on Neal’s back.

Neal didn’t react, but his breathing was even now, his body a little less tense.

Peter glanced at El, who gave him a small, knowing smile. He looked back at Neal and thought with fierce determination:

I’ll bring back that sparkle. This precious child won’t cry anymore.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the promise sat heavy in his heart as he leaned back and let the quiet peace of the moment linger.

Chapter Text

Peter and El couldn’t hide their amazement as they watched Neal’s transformation. Without the constant scolding and looming threats of detention, the boy genius began to thrive. The clear expectations set by Ms. Thompson’s planner and the gentle reminders from both her and Peter worked wonders. Neal went from having multiple detentions a week to completing his work flawlessly.

The planner became his lifeline. At first, Neal only used it with guidance, filling in assignments and deadlines under the supervision of Ms. Thompson and El. But soon, he started taking ownership, cautiously adding his tasks and plans on his own.

“That’s it,” El encouraged one evening as Neal wrote down a reminder for a science project. “You’re doing great.”

Ms. Thompson noticed the change, too. “He’s a completely different student,” she remarked to Peter during a quick check-in. “He just needed structure and support. The rest was already there.”

And it showed in Neal’s demeanor. He started walking with his head a little higher, his shoulders a little straighter. He looked up more often, though his caution remained.

---

One afternoon, while Peter was in a meeting with Diana and Jones in the conference room, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” Peter called, his voice encouraging.

Neal hesitated before pushing the door open, his head slightly bowed as he stepped inside.

“Yes, Neal?” Peter asked, gesturing for him to speak.

“Um…” Neal’s voice was tentative. “The forged portrait had different brushstrokes in one corner?”

Peter’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Yes, Neal,” he prompted gently.

Neal glanced up briefly before lowering his gaze again. “I looked at it through a magnifying glass, and it has initials... in Greek. I thought I saw them somewhere before, and it’s here too.”

He held up a photograph, slightly crumpled from his careful grip. Peter leaned forward, taking the photo and inspecting it. Neal continued, “It’s on another painting, done by that forger who got probation a few years ago.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he studied the image. He turned it to Diana and Jones. “Take a look.”

The room fell quiet as they examined the photo, comparing it to the images of the forged painting. Sure enough, the same Greek initials were there in the corner.

Peter stood, triumphant. “Get a warrant,” he said to Diana, his tone full of energy.

Then he turned to Neal, smiling broadly. “Good work, Trouble.”

Neal didn’t have time to react before Peter pulled him into a quick hug. The room buzzed with excitement as Neal stepped back, his cheeks pink but a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Peter watched as he quickly suppressed it.

“You’re amazing,” Peter said quietly, ruffling Neal’s hair. “Absolutely amazing.”

Neal ducked his head.

Peter sat down beside El in the evening, relaying the story of Neal’s breakthrough at the bureau. Her face lit up with pride as he described how Neal had spotted the initials and connected them to a previous forger.

“You’re amazing,” El said softly, moving over to Neal, who sat at the table, still guarded. She leaned down and kissed his cheek gently.

Neal tensed slightly, but El didn’t pull back immediately, brushing a hand over his hair. “You’re incredible, Neal,” she said warmly.

Peter joined them, crouching beside Neal’s chair. He gently held Neal’s chin, tilting his head up.

“You’ve done well, Neal,” Peter said sincerely. “We closed a case that we thought would drag on for weeks. How about a smile, hmm?”

Neal’s eyes darted away, and he hung his head, his posture defensive.

Peter sighed, pulling Neal into a hug. “I’m sorry, Trouble. I’m not forcing you,” he said gently, holding him until Neal gave the faintest nod against his chest.

---

The next morning, Peter’s phone buzzed early with a call from CPS. He answered groggily but quickly sat up as the representative explained.

“Neal’s been assigned a doctor,” the woman said. “It's a routine thing, but you need to take him in for the first appointment as soon as possible.”

Peter called the practice, and they explained that Neal would need blood and urine tests before the appointment.

When Peter told Neal about the plan, the boy visibly paled.

“Blood tests hurt for less than a second,” Peter reassured him. “And I’ll be there, holding you the whole time.”

---

Later that day, Neal sat in the clinic chair, his arms rigid at his sides, trembling slightly. Peter crouched beside him, an arm around him and the other hand holding Neal's hand tightly.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” Peter said. “Want to hear about the time I accidentally locked myself in the evidence locker?”

Neal gave a faint nod, his eyes darting toward the nurse preparing the needle. Peter launched into the story, his tone light and funny, and Neal managed to focus on his voice.

The needle pricked Neal’s arm, and he shivered violently but didn’t pull away. Peter squeezed his hand tighter, murmuring encouragement until it was done.

“Hold him as long as he needs,” the nurse said softly as she put a bandaid on Neal’s arm.

Peter didn’t let go, keeping his arm around Neal’s shoulders until the boy’s breathing evened out.

---

The next day, they saw the doctor. Neal sat stiffly on the exam table as the doctor reviewed the results.

“All good,” she said with a kind smile, “but you’re underweight and have some deficiencies.” She turned to Neal. “Are you okay with shots, young man?”

Neal’s face turned pale again, and he muttered, “Yes.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be a master conman, but that’s the worst lie I’ve seen.”

Peter chuckled softly as the doctor continued, “We’ll stick to pills, hmm? But you have to answer me truthfully next time.”

Neal nodded, visibly relieved.

“Thankfully, your vaccinations are up to date,” the doctor added, flipping through the chart.

Neal’s pale face turned ghostly white. Peter noticed immediately, wrapping a steadying arm around him.

The doctor frowned slightly. “Did something go wrong during your last round of vaccinations?” she asked.

Neal stared vacantly, his lips parting slightly before he shook his head. “No, Ma’am,” he said quietly.

The doctor exchanged a glance with Peter. “Neal, wait outside for a moment, okay? I need to talk to Agent Burke alone.”

Neal hesitated, glancing at Peter, who nodded reassuringly. Once Neal was gone, Peter turned back to the doctor, his brow furrowed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry—he’s in good health, and the pills will help with the deficiencies. But I’d like to speak with you without Neal present. His mother has authorized you to access his charts, and we’ll need to go over some history. It might take a while.”

Peter nodded, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Chapter Text

Peter sat across from the doctor in her office, the room quiet except for the faint rustle of papers as she opened a file. She pushed it across the desk toward him, her expression somber.

“Neal’s mother has authorized his foster parents to see his charts,” she said gently, her tone softening slightly. “I’m warning you, Agent Burke—it’s terrible. That child has gone through hell.”

Peter swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He picked up the file and flipped to the first page. The initial entries were unremarkable—routine doctor visits, vaccinations, a couple of childhood infections.

Then he turned to the pages from Hudson.

The first entry made his jaw clench. It detailed Neal’s vaccination records at the facility, but the accompanying note chilled him: “Patient was difficult and required restraint during vaccination.” Peter could picture it vividly—Neal, terrified and resisting, only to be pinned down by guards.

The next page was from the prison hospital, not the juvenile facility. Peter froze as he read. His hands began to shake, and the doctor said "Attempted" in a low voice. "He was rescued, probably. But that doesn't change the fact that the child is badly traumatized."

Peter’s stomach twisted as he read the clinical yet unmistakably human description. The notes catalogued dozens of bruises across Neal’s body—on his back, arms, legs, and ribs.

Dr. Lawson’s thoroughness made it impossible to look away. He had detailed each injury with precision, leaving no doubt for whoever read it: these weren’t isolated incidents. The bruises were in various stages of healing, clearly the result of continuous abuse.

Peter’s hand tightened around the edge of the file, his breath coming shallow. He flipped through more pages, each one more devastating than the last—reports of beatings, injuries from "disciplinary measures," and observations of Neal’s malnourished state.

The doctor broke the silence, her mouth a thin, grim line. “Dr. Lawson’s notes were meticulous,” she said. “He clearly wanted anyone who read them to understand how abusive the situation was. That boy endured far more than anyone should.”

Peter nodded wordlessly, his throat too tight to speak. He closed the file, his hands trembling slightly, and set it back on the desk.

The doctor leaned back slightly, her gaze fixed on Peter as he stared at the file, his knuckles white against the desk.

“I don’t know if he was afraid of needles before,” she said quietly, “or if it’s a result of what happened.” She flipped back to one of the earlier pages, pointing to a nurse’s note. “Here—it says there was bruising and pain at the vaccination sites. These vaccinations should have been painless, Agent Burke. There’s no reason for those marks to have been there.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his breathing steady but labored, like he was holding something back.

"I didn't think - I knew he was being attacked by the other kids and took him out, but not -" Peter spoke from between gritted teeth.

The doctor hesitated, studying him for a moment. She could see it—the barely contained fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. It wasn’t just anger; it was a profound sense of injustice.

“He needs therapy,” she said firmly. “And I will arrange for it. Someone experienced with children who’ve been through trauma. But you must tell your wife, Agent Burke. As soon as you can. She needs to know.”

Peter nodded sharply, his voice low but steady. “I will.”

The doctor softened slightly, her tone gentle but insistent. “Neal needs both of you. This isn’t something you can face alone, and he’ll need every ounce of support you can give him. What’s been done to him—it’s going to take time to heal.”

Peter exhaled slowly, setting the file down with careful precision. He met her eyes, the fire in his gaze unwavering. “We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said quietly. “Neal will get the help he needs, I promise you that.”

The doctor nodded, satisfied, but her expression remained solemn. “Good. I’ll be in touch with the therapist’s details soon.”

Chapter Text

Peter sat at his desk, staring at the phone for a moment before dialing El’s number. His hands were steady, but the weight of the conversation he was about to have pressed heavily on his chest.

“Hey, Hon,” El answered, her voice bright. “Everything okay?”

“I need you to come to the bureau,” Peter said softly. “It’s about Neal.”

El’s tone immediately shifted. “I’ll be right there.”

---

When El arrived, Peter led her to a quiet conference room and shut the door. He placed the file on the table between them, resting his hands on the edges.

“El... these are Neal’s medical charts,” he began, his voice low and serious. “His mother authorized us to see them.”

El tilted her head slightly, a question in her eyes, but Peter didn’t leave her waiting.

“It’s bad, El. Worse than we thought,” he said, opening the file. “There’s detailed documentation of everything he endured at Hudson. The bruises, the attempted assault... all of it.”

El’s eyes filled with tears as she covered her mouth, shaking her head. “Oh my God, Peter. That poor boy.”

Peter moved to her side and pulled her into his arms as she started to cry. “At least he’s with us now,” he murmured. “He’s safe, and we know what happened. We can help him heal.”

El nodded against his chest, sniffling. “We have to, Peter. We have to.”

---

Later that day, when Neal came to the bureau, Peter greeted him differently. Instead of the usual light hug, kiss on the head, or ruffle of his hair, Peter wrapped Neal in a tight hug that lingered for a moment longer than usual.

Neal blinked in surprise. There was something about it that felt... special. It felt warm and safe.

“Hey, Trouble,” Peter said, releasing him. “What’ve you got for me today?”

Neal pulled a paper from his bag and handed it over. “It’s a test,” he said softly.

Peter glanced at the score, his face breaking into a grin. “A perfect score! This is getting to be a habit, Trouble.” He ruffled Neal’s hair affectionately.

Neal smiled faintly but quickly ducked his head, hiding it.

Peter caught it anyway. “I saw you bite back a smile, buddy. Why not just smile, hmm?”

Neal looked at him, confused for a second, then dropped his gaze again. “I’m not allowed to,” he said quietly. “I’m a convicted felon. I shouldn’t smile.”

Peter froze for a moment, closing his eyes briefly. Then, in the gentlest tone possible, he said, “Neal, I know that's something you learnt at Hudson. But that’s a lie. You’re allowed to smile. You’re allowed to smile and laugh as much as you want.”

Neal stared at him, his expression unreadable. At Hudson, a smile had meant a beating, from the warden, guards or the other boys. He had been tricked into laughter a couple of times.

Peter didn’t push him further, instead patting Neal’s shoulder. “Go on, Trouble. Get your homework done. I’ve got a pile of documents to sort through.”

---

After dinner that evening, Peter and El called Neal to sit with them on the couch. Neal sat stiffly, his hands folded in his lap as Peter began.

“Neal,” Peter said gently, “There's something you should know. I saw the doctor today. She wanted me to see your medical charts. We know what happened at Hudson."

Neal paled instantly, then turned red, his head dropping in shame. Peter squeezed his shoulder, saying "Shhh, Trouble."

“Neal, sweetie,” El said softly, moving closer and rubbing his back. “None of it was your fault. They should be ashamed, not you.”

Peter nodded. “It was not your fault. A juvenile facility is supposed to rehabilitate, not break you. They were monsters, Neal." He paused and went on. "Nothing’s going to change. We won’t treat you any differently.”

Neal straightened up a bit, still looking at the carpet.
Satchmo, who had been sitting in a corner watching, suddenly jumped onto Neal’s lap, licking his neck enthusiastically. Neal managed a small smile for a brief moment before looking down again.

Peter petted Satchmo before putting an arm around Neal's shoulders. “The doctor recommended therapy,” he said gently. "She'll arrange for it."

Neal’s head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes. “No, please!! Not a psychiatrist!” he said, his voice shaky and pleading.

This was unexpected, and Peter and El stared at each other. Neal bit his lip, clutching Satchmo and staring at the carpet.

El rubbed his back soothingly, glancing at Peter again. “Peter will be with you, love. And if the therapist says or does something you don’t like, you can leave. Isn’t that right, Hon?”

Peter nodded. “Right.” That was the best they could do.

Neal went stiff, his arms tightening around Satchmo.

"How about some fresh air?" Peter asked, getting up and opening the back door. Neal looked up, confused, but before he could respond, Satchmo wriggled out of his lap and bounded toward the yard, his tail wagging furiously. For some reason, the puppy loved the yard after dark, darting around as if it were a magical playground.

Neal hesitated for a moment, then slowly rose and followed Satchmo outside.

Peter watched as Neal stepped outside, the puppy bounding across the yard. Peter moved to join him, but El stopped him with a finger to her lips.

They stood at the window, watching as Neal slowly began to toss a stick for Satchmo. Neal’s movements were tentative at first, but as Satchmo wagged his tail and brought the stick back, Neal started smiling faintly.

When Satchmo jumped on him, Neal laughed quietly, a sound that was barely audible but unmistakable. Peter and El exchanged a look, stepping back and letting Neal have his moment.

They only called him back inside when it was time for bed.

---

Peter and El tucked Neal in, lingering by his bedside for a moment before heading downstairs.

El sat on the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Peter,” she said softly, “we have to help him. He has to let us.”

Peter nodded, sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders."We will,” he said firmly. “We just have to take it one step at a time.”

Chapter Text

Neal’s progress was quiet, measured in moments that felt small but meant everything to Peter and El. They started leaving Neal alone with Satchmo, trusting him with the puppy’s care. He seemed happiest with Satchmo, tossing a ball or running around the yard. But whenever he noticed Peter or El watching, the faint smile would vanish, replaced by his neutral, guarded expression.

“You’re so good with him,” Peter remarked one evening as Neal wiped Satchmo’s muddy paws after a walk.

Neal shrugged, avoiding Peter’s eyes. “He’s easy to take care of.”

Peter said nothing, but the sight of Neal’s gentle care for the puppy stayed with him long after Neal had gone to bed.

---

Peter received a call from Ms.Thompson one afternoon. "The PE teacher says Neal is constantly messing with his socks. I think it's because he's scared that the anklet will show." She paused. "I suggest Neal wear an ankle brace on the days he has P.E. It’ll hide the anklet completely, and he won’t have to worry about it slipping out of his sock.”

Peter thanked her, and brought the idea to Neal that evening. The boy hesitated, his face uncertain, but finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said softly.

The brace made an immediate difference. For the first time, Neal seemed more at ease during P.E, no longer glancing nervously at his ankle every few minutes.

---

Neal began to take on more at the bureau, though Peter kept his tasks light. One afternoon, Neal sat at a desk flipping through cold case files.

“These are weird,” he said, holding up a set of coded letters.

Peter glanced over. “Ah, those. That case is over five years old. No one ever cracked that code.”

Neal frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied the symbols. An hour later, he looked up and walked to Peter’s desk.

“I think I figured it out,” he said, holding up his notes.

Peter skimmed them, his eyes widening. “You cracked it? Neal, this is incredible!”

Neal ducked his head, but Peter caught a brief flicker of pride in his eyes.

---

At home, Neal began helping in the kitchen. At first, he stuck to simple tasks, chopping vegetables or measuring ingredients. But it quickly became clear he had a natural flair for cooking.

“That’s impressive.” El said as she watched him deftly dice an onion.

“It’s just following instructions,” Neal said with a shrug, but his movements were precise, almost instinctive.

Peter laughed, clapping a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “You’ve got a real talent, Trouble.”

Neal didn’t respond, but he stayed in the kitchen longer than usual, watching intently as El explained the recipe.

---

When it was time for Neal’s first therapy session, Peter kept his promise and sat beside him. Neal stayed silent for most of the session, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the floor.

The therapist tried coaxing him to speak, but Neal didn’t budge. Finally, she leaned back, her tone calm and warm.

“Very well,” she said gently. “I’ll tell you what I think of you, Neal.”

Neal’s eyes darted toward her, cautious but curious.

“I think you’re a brave and resourceful young man,” she said. “You were in a terrible place, but you found a way out.”

Neal blinked, his posture softening slightly. This wasn’t what he had expected.

“The warden called Agent Burke,” she continued, “but who gave him the idea in the first place? Who came up with the concept of a juvenile confidential informant who lives in foster care? That was you, wasn’t it?”

Peter felt Neal relax beside him, the tension in his shoulders easing.

The therapist said, turned to Peter. “Agent Burke, when did you first realize you liked Neal?”

Peter squeezed Neal’s shoulders gently. “Right when we found out he was a child,” he said. “I was fascinated. I thought, ‘This kid doesn’t belong in that world. He just needs someone to teach him right from wrong.’”

Neal turned to Peter, his wide eyes filled with disbelief. “You liked me?” he asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Peter smiled warmly. “I liked you then. I love you now,” he said, pulling Neal into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re my foster son.”

Neal stiffened for a moment, then slowly leaned into the hug, his small hands clutching Peter’s shirt.

The therapist smiled softly. “We’re off to a good start,” she said.

As they left the session, Neal stayed quiet, but Peter noticed something different in his step—an ease, a quiet assurance that hadn’t been there before. Healing wasn’t linear, but this felt like a step in the right direction.

Chapter Text

Peter’s phone buzzed just as he and Neal were leaving the therapist’s office. He glanced at the screen and answered with a quick, “Hey, Hon.”

“I’m meeting the baker near your therapist’s office,” El said. “If you and Neal come here, we can go out for lunch together afterward.”

Peter turned to Neal. “What do you think, Trouble? Lunch with El?”

Neal shrugged slightly, his voice soft. “Okay.”

---

When they arrived at the bakery, things were clearly not going well. The baker, a flustered woman in her 40s, was gesturing at a small table covered in samples of fondant. El looked equally frustrated, her arms crossed as she listened.

“It’s just not possible,” the baker was saying, her voice tense. “The image your client wants is too complex to replicate in fondant, especially in that exact shade. An edible print is the best option, but she’s refusing it.”

Peter raised an eyebrow as he stepped closer, and Neal hovered just behind him.

“Sorry, guys,” El said, sighing as she noticed them. “I thought I’d be done by now.”

Neal shifted slightly, his eyes darting to the fondant samples on the table. “Um,” he said softly, his hands fidgeting. “Can I try?”

Both El and the baker turned to look at him in surprise.

Peter bit back a grin. “Mixing inks and colors to precision is his specialty,” he said, his voice light but encouraging.

The baker hesitated, her eyes scanning Neal skeptically. “You’re good with colors?”

Neal nodded. “Really good. But I don’t know much about fondant.”

The baker frowned but eventually relented. “Alright.” she said, handing Neal a cap and gloves. Neal pulled them on, then began asking the baker rapid-fire questions. “What kind of pigments do you use? Does the fondant hold color evenly, or does it shift when it sets? How do you adjust the consistency without changing the shade?”

The baker blinked, startled by his precision. But as she answered his questions, her skepticism melted into curiosity. After a few minutes, she even smiled.

Neal mixed his first batch of colors carefully, his hands steady despite the unfamiliar medium. But when he applied it to the fondant, the shade was completely off. The second attempt wasn’t much better, the color too pale this time.

Neal frowned in concentration, staring at the sample. “Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “A little less white, a touch more blue...”

The third attempt was perfect. The shade matched the client’s request exactly.

The baker leaned over the sample, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “That’s... spot on,” she admitted.

Neal glanced at Peter, who nodded encouragingly.

“I can do the picture,” Neal said softly. “It’ll take me a couple of hours.”

Peter stepped in before El or the baker could reply. “Right after lunch,” he said firmly, placing a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “You’ve earned a break.”

Neal glanced at him, a flicker of protest in his eyes, but Peter’s expression didn’t budge. With a small nod, Neal followed Peter and El out of the bakery.

------------

Peter whispered to Neal, his tone calm but firm. “You can’t leave the building, Trouble. I’ll come pick you up, hmm?”

Neal nodded, pulling on the cap and gloves again, his expression guarded.

Peter raised his voice slightly so the baker could hear. “And if you need me for anything at all, call me. Got it?”

The baker nodded with a smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

Peter squeezed Neal’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

---

Neal worked meticulously, his focus sharp as he mixed the colors and carefully recreated the image the client had requested. The baker hovered nearby at first, observing his technique, but soon she left him to it, only stopping by occasionally to check his progress.

Two hours later, the cake was finished. The fondant image Neal had painstakingly created looked flawless, the colors perfectly blended, the details precise.

When Peter arrived to pick him up, he stopped short as his eyes landed on the cake. “Why, Neal…” he trailed off, astonished.

Neal ducked his head, fidgeting slightly under Peter’s gaze.

The baker, however, looked delighted. “Do you have an afterschool job, Neal?”

“Yes,” Neal answered quietly, his voice unsure.

Peter’s voice, however, was filled with pride. “He consults for the bureau,” he said, grinning.

Neal’s cheeks flushed as the baker smiled warmly. “Well, how about individual jobs like this one?” she asked, turning to Neal directly. “I’ll call you when I get an order, and you can help me out.”

Peter watched Neal carefully, grinning at the way she addressed Neal instead of him. But Neal hesitated, glancing at Peter for reassurance.

Peter met Neal’s gaze with a smile. “Do you want to? If you do, we’ll figure out a way to make it work.”

After a moment, Neal nodded.

---

As they climbed into the car, Peter turned to Neal, his expression soft. “I’m very proud of you, Trouble,” he said. “You stepped in to help, used your skills for something good, and found yourself a new job. That was well done.”

Neal tried to turn away, but Peter caught his chin and turned him gently.

“How did it feel to finish that cake, hmm?” Peter asked, his tone encouraging.

Neal hesitated, but the smile broke through before he could stop it.

Peter grinned. “That’s my boy,” he said warmly.

Neal turned his head, but this time, he didn’t suppress the smile. It lingered, quiet and real, as Peter drove them home.

By the time they reached home, El was already buzzing with excitement. She had her phone in hand, showing Peter the photographs the baker had sent her.

“Neal, come here!” she called, pulling him into the living room. She greeted him with a kiss on each cheek. “The baker sent these over. My client has seen them, and everyone is thrilled. You were amazing!”

Neal smiled shyly, glancing at Peter, who grinned and said, “No ducking your head while smiling, Trouble.”

Caught off guard, Neal lifted his head, the faintest trace of a wider smile breaking through.

“There it is!” El said, giving him a tight squeeze. “Look at that handsome smile.”

Neal’s cheeks flushed, but the smile stayed as he let himself relax into her hug.

---

“How was therapy, love?” El asked once she’d released him.

“It was okay,” Neal said thoughtfully, his tone quiet but not hesitant.

Peter exchanged a glance with El, then turned to Neal. “How about some quiet time, hmm? You’ve had a heavy day today.”

Neal tilted his head slightly, confused but nodding anyway. He followed Peter to the couch, where Peter gently guided him to sit.

“Here,” Peter said, patting his own lap. “Lie down.”

Neal hesitated but obeyed, his head resting awkwardly at first until Peter adjusted him.

“Just relax, Trouble,” Peter said softly, running a hand through Neal’s hair in slow, soothing strokes. “No need to do anything—not even think. Just breathe. Relax.”

At first, Neal stiffened, unused to the kind of quiet affection Peter offered. But as the minutes passed, his body began to unwind, the tension slowly draining away.

Finally, Neal spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Was it my fault?”

Peter’s hand stilled. “What do you mean, Trouble?” he asked softly.

Neal hesitated, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “The beatings, the chains, the anklet… Was it my fault?”

Peter’s chest tightened as he took a moment to find the right words. “You made some bad choices, Neal,” he said gently. “You broke the law, and there had to be consequences. But you deserved a place where you could be taught right from wrong—not what happened at Hudson. The beatings, the abuse—that’s on the people who hurt you. None of that was your fault.”

Neal’s eyes grew distant. “The psychiatrist at the prison hospital said it was my fault,” he murmured. “He said I brought it on myself.”

Peter and El looked at each other. No wonder Neal didn't want therapy. El looked furious and Peter clenched his hand. After a moment, he spoke in a firm but calm voice. “He was wrong, Neal. He was so wrong. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. Right now, the constraints you have—your anklet, the rules—that’s the kind of punishment you deserved. Not what they did to you.”

Neal stayed quiet, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, Satchmo bounded up onto the couch, landing on Neal’s chest with a happy wag of his tail. Neal let out a startled laugh, his arms instinctively wrapping around the puppy.

Peter watched as Neal’s small smile lingered, his face softening as he stroked Satchmo’s fur. “This doesn’t feel like punishment,” Neal said quietly, the faintest hint of surprise in his voice.

Peter smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Neal’s forehead. Satchmo jumped up, nudged Neal with his nose, pushed Neal's head off and then plopped down directly onto Peter’s lap.

“Satchmo!” Neal exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. “What are you doing?”

Peter chuckled, scratching behind the puppy’s ears. “Looks like someone’s feeling a little left out.”

Satchmo looked up at Peter with wide, innocent eyes, his tail wagging slightly.

Neal huffed dramatically, standing up and crossing his arms. “You jealous little…” he muttered, his voice trailing off as he stomped toward his room.

Satchmo leapt off the couch and scampered after him, tail wagging even more furiously.

Peter leaned back, his laugh quiet and warm, as El joined him in the living room. She sat beside him, resting her hand lightly on his arm.

“That’s the most unguarded Neal’s been since he came to us,” El said softly, her eyes shining.

Peter nodded, his gaze following the sound of Neal’s distant voice as he talked to Satchmo in his room. “It’s a good start,” he said, his voice filled with hope.

Chapter Text

Neal’s transformation was subtle at first, but undeniable. His cheeks no longer looked so hollow, and his pale complexion began to regain some warmth. His hair was growing out from the harsh buzz cut he’d had while incarcerated, softening his appearance. The dark circles under his eyes, once a permanent feature, started to fade, making him look less haunted and more like the teenager he was supposed to be.

At school, Ms. Thompson approached Peter one afternoon with an idea. “Neal’s been doing so well lately,” she said. “I was wondering if he might want to participate in a one-act play we're putting up for the school. It’s just a small part—something to help him connect with his classmates.”

Peter smiled. “I think that’s a great idea. He’ll need limited rehearsal time, though. Schoolwork and the bureau take priority.”

Ms. Thompson nodded. “Of course. I’ll make sure it doesn’t interfere.”

---

A few days later, Neal walked into the bureau after his first rehearsal. Peter glanced up from his desk and immediately noticed the difference.

Neal looked happy. Not his usual guarded “not sad,” but genuinely happy, his eyes brighter than Peter had seen in weeks.

But the moment Neal noticed Peter watching, his expression shifted. He schooled his features into the neutral, cautious look he’d always worn when unsure of how to act.

Peter didn’t let it deter him. “What’s the part?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.

Neal hesitated, then said, “The Devil.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “The Devil?”

“They wanted to give me a minor part,” Neal explained, his voice gaining a hint of pride. “But when they saw how I act, I got a major one.”

Peter grinned. “Well, Trouble, you ARE an excellent actor. I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”

Neal cracked the faintest of smiles before catching himself and glancing away.

“Good work,” Peter said, ruffling Neal’s hair as he passed. Neal didn’t flinch, and Peter felt a quiet sense of victory. Whatever this play brought, it was helping Neal take another step toward the light.

-------

Neal was sprawled on the couch, the faint glow of the TV illuminating his face as he flipped lazily through channels. He seemed content, his posture relaxed, but not entirely engaged.

El walked into the room, her voice warm but firm. “Time to head to bed, Neal.”

Neal glanced at her, his voice quiet. “It’s still early, Elizabeth.” Peter watched from the kitchen. Neal never refused to do anything they said. This quiet resistance was a good thing.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, sitting on the armrest of the couch. “But you’ve got rehearsals now. You need to sleep and take care of yourself. Go on, sweetie.”

Neal hesitated, but stood, turned off the TV, and made his way upstairs.

---

In his room, Neal changed into his pajamas and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the floor. He didn’t feel sleepy, not yet.

A soft knock at the door made him glance up as Peter stepped inside. “Hey, Trouble,” Peter said, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not feeling sleepy?”

Neal shrugged. “Not really.”

Peter smiled, reaching out to stroke Neal’s hair in soothing, rhythmic motions. “That’s okay. Just relax.”

At first, Neal resisted the pull of sleep, his thoughts drifting to the play and his lines. But Peter’s hand was steady and comforting, and before he realized it, the weight of the day settled over him. His eyelids grew heavy, and he sank deeper into the mattress.

By the time Peter whispered, “Good night, Trouble,” Neal was already fast asleep—half an hour earlier than usual, his small frame finally at rest.

---------

Putting Neal in the play was a stroke of genius, Peter mused as he leaned back in his chair. The devil role let Neal channel his conman instincts into something productive, something creative. It was helping him in school, where he seemed more focused and engaged, and at the bureau, where his sharp insights had started to shine in meetings.

The other agents smiled whenever they saw him, and Peter had even caught Diana and Jones exchanging amused looks when Neal pulled yet another cold case from the record room. Peter had to intervene at times, gently ensuring that Neal didn't work on more than one case at a time.

Neal approached Peter’s desk and handed him a sheet of paper. Peter opened it, his brow furrowing slightly. It was the suggested list of classes for the next term. He saw that Ms.Thompson recommended that Neal switch to more advanced classes in Math, Science and History.

Peter glanced up, a flicker of worry in his eyes. “This sounds like a big change, Trouble.”

Neal shrugged. “She said it’s temporary. Three weeks. If I find it too hard, I can go back.”

Peter nodded slowly. Ms. Thompson was careful and thoughtful in her approach, and Neal seemed genuinely interested in the challenge. He couldn’t deny the pride swelling in his chest. His Trouble had a lot of support, and it was showing.

“Alright,” Peter said with a smile, handing the note back. “Let’s give it a shot. But if it gets to be too much, you tell me. Deal?”

Neal nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

---

Later that evening, Neal brought home his costume. El insisted they could handle any alterations at home, and as Neal stepped into the living room wearing the outfit, Peter could hear her delighted gasp. "Do your entrance, sweetie!" El said. Peter turned to look.

“Oh my,” El said, laughing softly as Neal swirled the cape dramatically around him and snarled. “You’re terrifying!”

Peter chuckled as he walked over and tugged on the pointed tail, surprising Neal, who swirled around again. Satchmo, however, darted into the corner of the room, his ears flat against his head.

“It’s just Neal, Satchmo,” Peter said reassuringly, crouching down to pat the puppy. “No real devils here.”

El knelt beside Neal, pinning the edges of the costume to adjust the fit. “Hold still,” she murmured, smiling. Peter leaned against the doorframe, watching as Neal glanced at Satchmo with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

He let out a quiet laugh, his heart light as he caught the sparkle in Neal’s eyes. It was coming back—slowly, but surely. He folded his arms, content to just watch the scene unfold.

Chapter Text

Neal sat in Peter's office, with a folder in hand. Rehearsal had gone well, and he had finished his homework. Hopefully the case Dad - Not Dad, Peter! he corrected himself mentally - and Agent Hughes were talking about would be a good one.

He looked up to see the warden. Warden Strickland. How - what??? Neal's cheek seemed to burn with a slap. He's going to take me away, Neal thought, and he was suddenly back at Hudson with the pain and fear.

-------

When Jones had first noticed Neal’s unusual stillness in Peter’s office, he’d been puzzled. Neal sat stiffly in the chair, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the man standing near the reception area. It was only when Jones followed Neal’s gaze that he realized something was wrong.

The look on Neal’s face wasn’t one of casual curiosity or annoyance. It was raw fear.

Jones walked up the stairs to Peter's office and locked the office door.He moved to sit beside Neal. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “You okay?”

Neal didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at Jones. His eyes stayed locked on the man in the suit by the reception desk.

Frowning, Jones pulled down the blinds to shut off Neal's view, took out his phone and called one of the other agents nearby. “Hey, can you find out who the guy at the front desk is? Tall, older, gray hair, suit. Talking to reception.”

There was a pause, then the agent’s voice came back, tight and grim. “That’s Warden Strickland from Hudson Juvenile Center.”

Jones swore under his breath and ended the call. He turned back to Neal, whose breathing was shallow and uneven.

“It’s okay, Neal,” Jones said, keeping his voice calm and steady as he dialed Peter’s number. “I’ve got you. Peter’s coming.”

---

Peter was in the conference room with Hughes, flipping through a stack of case files, when his phone buzzed insistently on the table. He glanced at the screen: Jones.

Peter answered, his tone brisk. “What’s up, Jones?”

There was a pause, and then Jones said, his voice low but tense, “You need to get to your office. Now.”

Peter sat up straighter. “What’s going on?”

"The warden of Hudson Juvenile Center just walked in. I’ve got Neal locked in the office with me, but... he’s not okay. He’s pale as a ghost, and he’s not talking.” 

Peter’s stomach sank as he muttered a quick apology to Hughes and strode out of the conference room.

---

By the time Peter burst into his office, Neal hadn’t moved. Jones stood up as Peter came in, his expression dark. He jerked his head toward the reception area.

Peter’s jaw tightened, and his gaze snapped to Neal, who still hadn’t spoken.

“Neal,” Peter said gently, crouching in front of him. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Neal blinked slowly, his hands clenched tightly in his lap.

Peter looked at Jones. “Stay with him,” he said firmly. “Don’t let him out of this room.”

Jones nodded, his face set in determination.

As Peter straightened, his eyes burned with quiet fury. He stepped out of the office, his strides long and purposeful, heading straight for Strickland.

The man stood stiffly, holding a folder, his expression carefully neutral.

“I don’t understand why this couldn’t have been handled over email, Mr. Strickland,” the agent he was speaking to said, a hint of annoyance in their voice.

Strickland gave a thin smile, his eyes darting around the room. “I was in the locality,” he said lightly, though his gaze betrayed his true intentions. He was looking for someone. Peter didn’t need to guess who.

Peter’s voice cut through the tension, firm and deliberate. “Strickland.”

The warden flinched slightly, his eyes snapping to Peter. Peter was larger than the warden and he looked over the man, hands on his hips and eyes glaring daggers. Strickland's forced smile faded, replaced by a guarded expression.

Peter stepped closer. “What’s your business here?” he snapped.

“I’m delivering documents for a case,” Strickland replied smoothly, though his voice lacked the confidence it usually carried.

Peter didn’t miss the way Strickland’s gaze shifted toward the hallway leading to his office. He felt his temper flare but kept his tone calm. “Well, you’ve delivered them. Time to move on.” Peter said, his voice low and firm.

Strickland’s face twitched, but he said nothing. Instead, he nodded curtly, handed the folder to the agent, and turned to leave. Peter watched him go, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

---------

Peter stepped back into his office. Neal hadn’t moved, still sitting stiffly in the chair, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. His face was pale, and his eyes had a faraway look that made Peter’s chest tighten.

Jones stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression a mix of anger and concern. He caught Peter’s eye and gave a sharp nod.

“Thanks, Jones,” Peter said quietly.

Jones nodded again, his jaw tight. “I’ll keep an eye out. Let me know if you need anything.”

Peter crossed the room and grabbed Neal’s coat from the back of the chair. “Hey, Trouble,” he said softly, crouching down so he was level with Neal. “It’s almost time for us to leave.”

Neal blinked slowly, his gaze shifting slightly toward Peter.

Peter reached out, gently resting a hand on Neal’s arm. “That monster is gone,” he said firmly, his tone calm. “We’re going home.”

He helped Neal to his feet, moving carefully as if Neal might shatter at the slightest touch. Neal didn’t say anything, but he allowed Peter to guide him. Peter swore mentally. They had made so much progress and that man had destroyed it in minutes.

As they walked out of the office, Peter kept a protective hand on Neal’s shoulder. He could feel the boy’s tension, but he also felt the faintest hint of trust in the way Neal leaned into his touch.

As soon as Peter and Neal settled into the car, Peter glanced over and noticed Neal’s shoulders slowly losing their stiffness. The tension in his face eased, and Peter felt a wave of relief wash over him.

Neal looked out the window, his voice quiet but steady. “What was he doing there?”

Peter exhaled slowly, keeping his tone calm. “He had to meet another agent, Trouble. Nothing to do with you.”

Neal didn’t respond immediately, but then he said softly, “I’m scared, Peter.”

Peter’s hand left the wheel briefly to grasp Neal’s shoulder in a firm, reassuring squeeze. “He can’t do anything, Neal,” Peter said gently. “We’re going home. You’re safe.”

Neal gave a small nod, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

---

Once they got home, Neal seemed more like himself. Satchmo bounded up to greet him, and Neal crouched down to give the puppy a long hug. Peter and El exchanged a quiet look of understanding, letting Neal settle into the comforting routine of being at home.

That night, Neal went to bed as usual, his movements unhurried and relaxed. Peter tucked him in, turned off the light and closed the door. He felt the tension of the day start to ease.

--------

The door slammed open with a deafening crash, jolting Neal awake. Marshals and cops marched into the room, guns in hand. Before he could even sit up, hands grabbed him roughly, dragging him out of bed.

“Let me go!” Neal screamed, thrashing against the iron grip of the men holding him. Cold steel clamped around his wrists and ankles, the cuffs and chains biting into his skin. A belt fastened around his waist, tightening everything.  

“Peter! Elizabeth!” Neal shouted desperately, his voice breaking. He was forced to his feet and dragged out the door.

Chapter Text

Peter and El burst into the room, yelling as they tried to intervene.

“Get your hands off him!” Peter bellowed, his face red with fury.

“He’s a child!” El cried, trying to push past the marshals, but she was shoved aside.

“Mom! Dad! Help me!” Neal screamed towards them, tears streaming down his face as they hauled him toward the front door.

“Stop struggling, boy!” one of the marshals barked, dragging him through the hallway.

The night air was cold against his skin as they forced him into the back of a police car. The door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life.

“No! No! No!” Neal screamed, pounding his fists against the inside of the door.

His heart sank as the car slowed. He recognized the looming gates of Hudson.

“No, no, please,” he whimpered, his strength fading.

The guards were waiting when the car stopped. They yanked him out, their grips unyielding as they dragged him forward.

The warden stood at the entrance, arms crossed, a cruel smile on his face. “Welcome back, Caffrey,” he said coldly.

Neal thrashed harder, his voice raw. “No! Please! Take me back to Mom and Dad!!”

From somewhere behind him, he heard frantic barking.

“Satchmo?” Neal whispered, confused. “What’s Satchmo doing here?”

The barking grew louder, and then he heard a voice—Dad’s voice—cutting through the chaos.

“Neal! Neal! Neal!”

"Open your eyes, sweetie!!" Mom called frantically.

Neal gasped. "Mom? Dad??" He opened his eyes.

His room came into focus, dimly lit by the glow of the nightlight. He was sitting up in bed, being held tight, drenched in sweat, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re finally awake!” El said, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “It’s okay, Trouble,” he said softly. “It was just a nightmare. You’re safe. We’re here.”

Neal trembled in El’s arms, his tears soaking her shoulder as Peter’s hand moved in soothing circles. It was over, but the terror still clung to him like a shadow.
His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his skin with sweat.

“Big bed?” Peter asked quietly, glancing at El.

“Mhm,” she nodded, stroking Neal’s hair gently. “But first, let’s get him out of this shirt. It’s drenched.”

She moved to the wardrobe, pulling out a soft t-shirt and setting it down beside them. Peter carefully began to peel Neal’s damp shirt off, murmuring soft reassurances when he stirred, his eyes fluttering open briefly before falling shut again.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” El said soothingly. “We’re just getting you into something dry.”

Neal’s head lolled against Peter's shoulder, too exhausted to respond. Once the wet shirt was off, Peter slid the fresh t-shirt over Neal’s head, guiding his arms through the sleeves. El straightened the fabric, smoothing it down gently.

“There,” El whispered, brushing her fingers across Neal’s cheek. “Much better.” Neal relaxed. It did feel really good.

Peter bent down, scooping Neal into his arms. Neal barely stirred, his head resting against Peter’s chest.

In the master bedroom, El pulled back the covers, and Peter gently laid Neal down in the middle of the big bed. Neal shifted slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket as Peter and El worked quietly around him.

Peter grabbed a towel and began drying Neal’s damp hair, his movements slow and careful. “You’re okay, Trouble,” he murmured. Neal’s breathing was still uneven, his body still tense from the lingering terror of his nightmare.

Satchmo stood a few feet away at the edge of the room, his ears pinned back and his wide eyes darting nervously between Neal and the bed.

“Satch, come here,” Peter called softly, his voice gentle.

The little puppy hesitated for a moment before padding over, his head lowering onto Peter’s lap as though he could sense Neal’s distress. Peter stroked Satchmo’s head absentmindedly with one hand while the other rested securely on Neal’s back. Slowly, Neal's breathing evened out and he looked up. "That was scary," he whispered.

Peter rubbed soothing circles on Neal’s back. “It’s okay, Trouble,” he murmured. "It wasn't real."

After a few minutes, they settled Neal between them in the big bed, tucking the blankets securely around him. Satchmo jumped up and curled at Neal’s feet, resting his head on the boy’s legs.

Peter lay back, one hand resting lightly on Neal’s arm as the boy’s breathing settled into a slow rhythm and his eyelids fluttered shut.

El lay beside him, her fingers brushing through Neal’s soft hair. When she looked up, her eyes met Peter’s.

For a moment, they just watched Neal, his face peaceful in sleep. Quietly, El held Peter's hand while it rested on Neal. Neal smiled, still asleep. Peter and El gazed at him and at each other. No words had to be said.

--------

Neal stirred awake the next morning to the sound of Peter’s steady voice. “Time to get up, Trouble. It’s a school day.”

Neal stretched. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, but let himself be helped up. Peter smiled as Neal ambled down to the bathroom. A short while later, Neal came to breakfast, getting hugs from Peter and El. He poured out cereal into a bowl, and Peter handed him the milk.

“Neal, precious?” El said gently as Neal finished eating. “We heard what you were calling us in that nightmare yesterday.”

Neal went rigid, his face red. He stared into the table as if to hide.

El hesitated before continuing. “You can call us that,” she said, her tone light and matter-of-fact. As if she hadn't felt like her heart would stop when she heard Neal scream "Mom!"

Neal glanced up, his eyes wary and his voice flat. “I’m a convicted felon,” he said, his words carrying the weight of shame.

El tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Hon?” she said. “What do convicted felons call their moms and dads?”

Peter caught her cue, his voice calm and steady as he answered, “Oh, mom and dad.”

Neal’s brow furrowed, his eyes darting between them as though searching for a trap. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he whispered, “Dad...Mom?”

El’s hands flew to her mouth as tears filled her eyes, and Peter pulled Neal closer, his arms tightening around him. Neal barely had time to react before he was enveloped in a crushing hug from both of them.

They held him till Neal pulled away and blinked up at them.

"Grab your backpack, Trouble. Time for school!" Peter said in a light voice.

“Okay… Dad,” he murmured, the word feeling new yet surprisingly natural on his tongue.

Peter smiled, ruffling Neal’s hair. “That’s my boy. Let’s get moving.”

Peter and El gazed longer when they said "Hon" to each other. El squeezed Neal when he said "Bye, Mom."

This was going to be a good day.

Chapter Text

After school, Neal spotted Peter’s car waiting for him at the curb. He climbed in, buckling his seatbelt as Peter gave him a quick smile. “How was school?”

“It was fine,” Neal replied with a shrug.

“Well, we’ve got a meeting with your parole officer,” Peter said, his tone light. "Don't worry, I asked for it. Just for you to know that you're safe."

Neal shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to the window.

-----------

The office was quiet except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Neal sat stiffly in the chair, his hands clenched together in his lap. Across from him, his parole officer, Ms. Carter, leafed through a folder. She had a calm presence, her steady gaze softening when she glanced up at Neal.

Peter sat beside Neal, his posture relaxed but watchful. His hand rested lightly on Neal’s shoulder, a quiet reassurance.

Ms. Carter closed the folder and folded her hands on the desk. “Neal, I want to start by saying that you’ve been doing well,” she began, her tone measured and warm. “Your reports from school and the bureau are very positive. I can see how hard you’re working.”

Neal shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze flickering to Peter before settling on the edge of the desk. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Ms. Carter leaned forward, her expression kind but serious. “I understand you’ve been worried—about Hudson, about what might happen if something goes wrong. That’s a lot of weight for anyone to carry.”

Neal’s jaw tightened, and Peter’s grip on his shoulder firmed slightly.

“You need to know this, Neal,” Ms. Carter said gently. “No one wants to take you away from where you are now. No one wants you to go back to Hudson. That would only happen under very specific circumstances.”

Neal glanced up at her, his blue eyes wary.

“If you were to run - I mean, if you went out of your radius and we had to arrest you again, or if you failed a drug test, you'll be taken back immediately."

Neal fidgeted, biting his lip.

She smiled at him and went on. "If you were to commit a crime - a forgery, theft, or even cheating at school - there would be an investigation, but you would not be sent back right away. You would remain where you are, in Agent Burke's custody, until the trial,” she said, her voice calm and deliberate. “And you would only return to Hudson if you were convicted."

Her smile broadened. "Under no other circumstance will you be taken back. Do you understand?”

Neal hesitated, then nodded slowly. “But... what if I mess up?” he asked in a small voice.

Ms. Carter’s tone softened further. “You've already proved that you're of more use to the society as a C.I, Neal. As harsh as it sounds, that's what the system looks for when imprisoning people. And you're a juvenile, the main objective for us is rehabilitation, not punishment." She went on. "If you mess up, make a mistake or get a few bad grades, it's not the same as committing a crime, Neal. No one expects you to be perfect. We all make mistakes. What matters is how you handle them—and from what I’ve seen, you’re handling things very well.”

Neal blinked, his posture relaxing slightly as her words sank in.

“You’ve been given this opportunity because people believe in you,” she continued. “The FBI, your teachers, Peter and El—they all want you to succeed. And so do I.”

Peter smiled, giving Neal’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “See, Trouble? You’re doing everything right.”

Ms. Carter nodded. “As long as you keep going the way you are—focusing on school, helping the bureau, following the rules—you have nothing to worry about.”

Neal’s lips pressed together as he absorbed her reassurance. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice steadier now.

As they left the office, Peter guided Neal with a hand on his back, his voice quiet but firm. “You're not going anywhere, Trouble.”

For the first time that day, Neal’s face softened into a small, genuine smile. It wasn’t much, but to Peter, it was everything.

---------

That evening, Peter and El sat together on the couch. Neal was in the living room with Satchmo, the two of them sprawled on the floor as Neal read aloud from a book. His voice was soft, but there was a contentment to it that hadn’t been there before.

After Neal had gone to bed, Peter sat at the dining table, his laptop glowing faintly in the dim light of the kitchen. He leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand absently scrolling through the spreadsheet he’d been working on for hours.

El walked in quietly, her socked feet making no sound against the floor. She placed a mug of tea beside him before sitting down across from him. “It’s late, Peter,” she said softly. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

Peter glanced up at her, his expression tired but resolute. “It’s Neal,” he said simply.

El didn’t say anything, just folded her hands on the table and waited for him to continue.

“I’ve been talking to CPS,” Peter admitted after a pause. “About the possibility of... adopting him.”

El's face softened, and she reached for his hand. They had been told that adoption was very rare right when they had applied to be foster parents. And with Neal, the caseworker had told her to keep in mind that Neal was not a foster child, he was a convicted felon. Now Peter was talking about adoption again.

“His mother hasn’t relinquished custody,” Peter said, his tone darkening. “She’s still listed as his legal guardian, but... she hasn’t been involved in his life for years. CPS hinted at serious issues—alcoholism, health problems. The caseworker said she’s never been able to provide for him. Neal’s essentially been on his own.”

El tightened her grip on Peter’s hand, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That poor boy,” she murmured. “No wonder he’s so guarded.”

Peter nodded, his voice quiet but firm. “As bad as that is, it does open up the possibility of adoption. I’m not saying anything to Neal yet. Not until I know what’s possible. He's old enough to refuse too.”

El nodded, her gaze steady.
Peter smiled back faintly, holding her hand.

“We’re doing the best we can,” El said, her voice steady but laced with emotion. “But I want to make sure we’re doing everything *right*.”

Peter nodded, leaning back with a sigh. “We are. But he’s been through so much... it’s going to take time. We just have to be patient.”

Finally, they decided to call it a night. As they went upstairs, El glanced at Peter, and they wordlessly agreed to check on Neal.

El opened the door slowly, careful not to wake Neal if he was asleep. Neal’s small form was curled under the blankets, his face turned toward the wall. Just as she was about to step back, a loud growl from his stomach broke the silence.

Neal coughed immediately, a clear attempt to mask the sound.

El smiled and stepped into the room. “Neal, sweetie, are you hungry?”

Peter appeared behind her, his eyebrows raised. “Trouble, why didn’t you come down and get something to eat?”

Neal sat up hesitantly, his cheeks tinged pink. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he muttered. In reality, he was so hungry he couldn't sleep.

“You’re never a bother,” El said gently, reaching out to smooth his hair. “Come on, let’s get you something.”

---

A few minutes later, Neal sat at the kitchen table, biting into a warm sandwich, a glass of milk by his side. He glanced between them, noticing the soft smiles on their faces. “What?” he asked, his voice cautious.

Peter exchanged a look with El before answering. “The doctor mentioned this,” he said. “She said your appetite would improve as you settled into a stable home.”

El added, her tone warm, “And seeing you hungry is a *very* good sign.”

Neal blinked, chewing slowly as he processed their words. “It is?”

“It is,” Peter confirmed, resting a hand lightly on Neal’s shoulder.

Neal didn’t respond, but his posture relaxed as he returned to his sandwich. When they tucked him back in sometime later, he was asleep in minutes.

---

Peter and El stood with Neal in front of the fridge. El opened the door to reveal several neatly wrapped foil packages inside.

“Okay, sweetie,” El began, pulling one out. “These are all snacks we’ve prepared for you. Anytime you’re hungry, you can grab one and put it in the microwave for a minute. Easy as that.”

Neal tilted his head, staring at the packages. “Anytime?”

“Anytime,” Peter confirmed. “Even if it’s late. You don’t have to ask.”

Neal blinked, the weight of their words sinking in slowly. “Thanks,” he said softly, his gaze still on the fridge.

El leaned down to kiss his temple. “You’re welcome, sweetie. We’ll make more when these run out.”

As Neal closed the fridge door, a small smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything more, but the quiet warmth in his expression said everything Peter and El needed to know.

Chapter Text

Peter was sitting at his desk in the quiet of his home office when his phone buzzed on the table. Glancing at the screen, he saw the name of Neal’s CPS worker, Ms. Adams. He had been expecting this call - he had sent off a meticulously prepared spreadsheet to her, Neal's parole officer, the DA's office and the judge who sentenced Neal. He answered immediately, his voice steady.

“Adams, hi. Is everything okay?”

“Good evening, Agent Burke,” Ms. Adams began, her tone polite but tinged with something hesitant. “I’ve been speaking with Neal’s parole officer and, through her, the judge and the DA.”

Peter’s stomach tightened. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause before she continued. “It’s about Neal’s status. Right now, he’s under state custody. Technically, you’re not his foster father—you’re his warden. That distinction means any attempt at adoption would effectively end his sentence. Because of this, they won’t allow the adoption process to move forward until his sentence is complete.”

Peter leaned forward in his chair, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk. “That’s absurd!” he said, frustration sharp in his voice.

“I agree,” Ms. Adams said with a sigh. “And for what it’s worth, so does Neal’s parole officer. But we can’t override the terms of his sentence. It’s up to the courts, and they’re not budging.”

Peter rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath. “So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit here with my hands tied?”

“Well,” Ms. Adams said, her tone brightening slightly, “there is some good news. The judge was impressed by the spreadsheet you submitted. He couldn’t believe the amount Neal has saved the bureau, and he’s started the process for Neal to receive a proper salary.”

Peter’s frustration eased slightly, replaced by a flicker of relief. “That’s a start,” he said. “But Neal’s still not allowed to handle money, right?”

“Correct,” Ms. Adams said. “But there are a couple of developments - the DA transferred Neal's case to a new lawyer - a new kid in one of the top firms who's good in pro bono work. He found a loophole - you can set up a bank account in Neal’s name, and as his legal guardian, you can deposit his earnings into it. Keep a detailed record of every transaction and the lawyer will tell you what to do. Neal can’t touch the money until he’s out of custody, though."

Peter leaned back, considering this. “So, I can’t give him an allowance or let him spend it directly, but I can make sure it’s there when he’s ready?”

“Exactly,” Ms. Adams said. “It’s not ideal, but it’s something.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Okay, I’ll do it. And thank you, Adams. I know your hands are tied on the adoption, but I appreciate you looking out for Neal.”

“You’re welcome,” she said warmly. “He’s lucky to have you, Agent Burke. And if anything changes on the adoption front, I’ll let you know right away.”

As Peter ended the call, he sat back in his chair, his mind already spinning with plans. It wasn’t the outcome he’d hoped for, but it was progress.

*You’ll get everything you deserve, Neal,* Peter thought. *Even if it takes time.*

--------

Neal walked into the FBI office, his bag slung over one shoulder and his usual cautious demeanor in place. Peter greeted him with a smile, then turned to his desk, sliding Neal's file into his drawer and locking it. Neal gave the movement a curious glance but didn’t comment. Peter patted Neal’s shoulder.

“Come on, Trouble, let’s head to the conference room. Big case today.”

Inside the room, the team gathered around the projector as Peter started the briefing. Neal sat quietly at first, listening as Diana and Jones discussed the suspect’s financial activities. Peter flipped through slides, each showing spreadsheets, bank statements, and snippets of correspondence.

“Now,” Peter said, clicking to a new slide, “this balance sheet—”

“Dad, go back to the previous slide,” Neal said, leaning forward.

The room froze for a beat, the casual “Dad” hanging in the air. Neal’s cheeks flushed as the agents exchanged grins.

Peter chuckled, breaking the silence. “Sure thing, Neal.” He clicked back to the previous slide. “What do you see?”

Neal pointed to a section of the balance sheet. “Here. That expense is listed twice, but it’s under two different codes. It’s subtle, but it looks like they’re hiding something.”

Peter leaned in, scrutinizing the detail Neal had pointed out. A slow grin spread across his face. “Well spotted, Neal.”

The team murmured their agreement, and Diana gave Neal a thumbs-up.

Peter clicked the projector off, his mind already working through a new plan. “That’s good work, Trouble. And it gives me another idea.”

---

Peter knocked on Neal’s bedroom door, then poked his head in. Neal was still asleep, tangled in blankets with Satchmo sprawled across his legs. The dog’s ears twitched, and Neal stirred as Peter stepped closer.

“Good morning,” Peter said with a grin. “Time to get up, Trouble. Breakfast is ready.”

Neal stretched, pushing Satchmo gently off his legs. The puppy hopped to the floor and shook himself before following Neal downstairs.

At the table, El set down a plate of pancakes while Peter slid a small ledger book across to Neal.

“What’s this?” Neal asked, picking it up.

Peter smiled. “Your accounts book. It’s for the money you earned from the cake decorating job.”

Neal blinked, surprised. “You kept track?”

“Of course,” Peter said. “And anytime you earn more—whether it’s from helping El or something else—we’ll add to it. You can ask us for anything within the balance, as long as it’s safe and legal.”

El leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “One thing, sweetie. This money is for your *wants*, not your needs. No food, clothes, or school supplies. We’ve got those covered.”

Neal looked between them, his throat tight with a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Peter reached over to ruffle Neal’s hair. “You earned it, Trouble."

Neal looked at them, a small smile tugging at his lips as he carefully closed the accounts book. He had handled millions, but had never been handed money with so much love. He let his smile broaden into a grin.

Chapter Text

Neal was nestled comfortably on El’s lap, her hand gently combing through his hair, when Satchmo wandered over. The puppy nudged Neal’s side with his nose, soft at first, then more insistent.

“Hey! What’s this about?” Neal asked, laughing.

“He wants his spot,” El said, smirking.

Neal groaned dramatically. “Fine, you win,” he said, sliding off her lap. But instead of staying there, he darted across the room to Peter, flopping down with his head on Peter’s lap.

Peter raised an eyebrow, his hand instinctively going to Neal’s hair. “What are you running from now?”

“Satchmo,” Neal said with a grin, just as the puppy trotted over, barking and nudging his side.

“Seriously?” Neal said, dissolving into giggles as he got up again. This time, he ran back to El on all fours.

El burst out laughing. “Oh, sweetie, you’re asking for trouble!”

Neal crawled onto her lap, snuggling in as if nothing had happened. Satchmo was having none of it. The puppy barked furiously, pushing Neal with his nose until he tumbled off again.

“Okay, okay!” Neal gasped, laughter bubbling out of him as he darted back toward Peter.

Peter had left his chair and knelt on the floor, waiting with open arms. Neal launched himself into Peter’s lap, both of them laughing as Satchmo bounded after him, landing on Neal and Peter like a golden blur of energy. Neal shook him off and scuttled across the floor towards El.

This time, El knelt on the floor, holding out her arms. Neal ran to her, giggling uncontrollably as he flopped back into her lap.

Satchmo paused, confused. He looked from El to Peter, then back to Neal, his head tilting in outrage. He sat down, glared at Neal, and let out a long, dramatic howl.

Neal froze for a second, then burst into hysterical laughter. He went to Satchmo and hugged the puppy tightly, collapsing into giggles as Satchmo wriggled and licked his face, jealousy forgotten.

Peter and El joined them on the floor, laughing until their sides hurt. The chaos finally settled as Satchmo flopped onto Neal’s chest, his tail wagging lazily. El caught her breath and glanced at Neal. His eyes were sparkling—bright, brilliant blue, wet with tears of laughter. It was a sight she hadn’t seen before and it took her breath away.

Later that night, after Neal had been tucked in, Peter and El sat together in the living room, holding each other in the quiet stillness of the house.

“Did you see his eyes?” El whispered, her voice soft but full of emotion. “They were sparkling. Like blue diamonds. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh like that.”

Peter nodded, resting his chin on the top of her head. “He’s healing,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Little by little. That sparkle... it’s coming back.”

-----------

That weekend, Peter got a call from the DA's office. He finished the call, was lost in thought for some time, then went to find Neal.

He found Neal in the living room, hunched over a history textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. Satchmo was sprawled at his feet, tail wagging lazily every time Neal absentmindedly nudged him with a socked foot.

“Hey, Trouble,” Peter said, stepping into the room.

Neal looked up, immediately wary. Peter’s tone was calm, but Neal could tell when something was coming. “What?” Neal asked, straightening in his seat.

Peter sat down across from him, resting his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to talk to you about your lawyer.”

Neal’s shoulders tensed. “What about her?”

“You’re getting a new one,” Peter said gently.

Neal frowned, leaning back. “Why? I don’t need a new lawyer. She’s fine.”

Peter sighed. “She’s fine, but this new one has experience with... more complicated cases. Your case isn’t typical, Neal. It needs someone who can really focus on your best interests.”

Neal crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “I don’t trust some new guy messing with my case.”

Peter leaned forward, his voice steady. “I get it. Change is hard. But you have my word—I’m not letting anyone file motions or make decisions without me knowing first. If this new lawyer suggests something, you and I will talk about it before anything happens. Okay?”

Neal hesitated, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Peter said firmly.

Neal exhaled, nodding slowly. “Okay. What’s his name?”

“Mike Ross,” Peter said. “From Pearson Hardman. We’re meeting him tomorrow. You’ll like him, Neal—he’s sharp, and from what I’ve heard, he really cares about his clients.”

Neal didn’t respond immediately, his mind clearly working through his anxiety. Finally, he nodded again. “I guess we’ll see.”

Peter smiled. “We will. And remember, I’ve got your back. Always.”

Neal gave a small, hesitant smile in return, and Peter felt a flicker of relief. It wasn’t trust yet, but it was a start.

Chapter Text

Mike practically bounced into Harvey’s office, clutching a pro bono folder. His excitement was palpable, his grin wide as he slapped the file onto Harvey’s desk.

Harvey raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease. Donna stepped in, shutting the door with a knowing smile as usual. Mike paused. "What? It's a good case - it's good for the kid, good for the firm." he said, looking at Harvey and Donna. “It’s about making sure Neal Caffrey gets treated fairly. The system failed him, Harvey. I’m not letting that happen again.”

Harvey sighed, steepling his fingers as he glanced at the file. “Do you even know who his guardian is?”

Mike blinked. “Peter Burke, Special Agent, FBI White Collar. Why?”

Donna stepped forward, crossing her arms. “Peter Burke doesn't really cross our paths that often, but there have been times when our clients have been in trouble with the FBI. Harvey hasn't worked on cases where Burke was the investigator, but others have.”

Mike shrugged. “Okay, and?”

Harvey answered. “Every single time, it’s ended badly. I looked at the cases, Jessica did - we could find nothing. Burke is a bloodhound when it comes to the truth. He’s thorough, relentless, and worst of all—he’s honest. He doesn’t bend, and he doesn’t miss a thing. The one time we did win was due to an anonymous tip in the middle of the night.”

Donna leaned back on Harvey's desk, crossing her arms. "This guy isn’t some clueless guardian you can outmaneuver. He’s FBI. And not just any FBI—he’s *the* FBI agent who caught Neal Caffrey. The only one who ever could.”

Mike faltered for a moment, but his determination returned. “So what? That just means he’s good at his job. I'm on his side, aren't I?”

Harvey leaned forward, his tone turning serious. “Did you actually look at what Neal Caffrey has been suspected of? Forget the charges—look at the *suspicions.* Forgery, art theft, fraud, breaking into places no one else could. I talked to the DA. Most of it's true. They just don’t have the evidence. Burke caught the kid by setting a trap, figuring out how his brain works.”

Donna added, her voice softer now, “And if he could figure Neal Caffrey out, Mike... don’t you think he’ll see through you?”

Mike swallowed hard, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “I’m not going to lie to him, Harvey,” he said, his voice quieter but still resolute. “I just want to help Neal. That’s it.”

Harvey sighed, picking up the file and flipping through it. “You’d better be. Because if Peter Burke smells even a whiff of something off about you, he won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of it. And trust me, Mike—you don’t want to be standing there when he does.”

Donna gave Mike a small smile as he left the office, but her eyes were filled with concern. “Harvey,” she said softly, watching him go, “do you really think this is a good idea?”

Harvey didn’t answer right away, staring at the closed door before shaking his head. “No,” he admitted. “But Mike’s already in it. Let’s just hope he’s as good at handling Burke as he thinks he is.”

-------------------

The elevator ride to Pearson Hardman was quiet, Neal standing close to Peter, his eyes darting around nervously. When the doors opened, Neal blinked, momentarily frozen at the sight of the lavish, modern decor.

“Wow,” Neal muttered, taking in the gleaming floors and expansive glass walls.

Peter, however, seemed unimpressed. He glanced at the towering artwork in the lobby and the polished wood accents with a skeptical eye. “A bit much, don’t you think?”

Neal shrugged, still looking around. “I think it’s... stylish.” But there was a tightness to his voice that Peter caught.

“Hey,” Peter said, placing a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “It’s just a law firm, Trouble. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Peter and Neal stepped into a pristine conference room, Peter’s gaze briefly scanning the space before settling on the young man standing by the table. Neal, on the other hand, lingered near the door, his wide eyes drinking in the city view through the towering windows.

The man in the suit stepped forward, extending his hand. “Agent Burke, Neal,” he said with an easy smile. “Mike Ross. I’m a first-year associate here at Pearson Hardman, and I’ve been assigned to Neal’s case.”

Peter shook Mike’s hand, his grip firm but assessing. “Thanks for meeting us, Mr. Ross.”

Mike shifted slightly, looking to Neal, who hesitated before stepping forward and shaking his hand quickly. “Nice to meet you,” Neal said softly, his eyes darting between Peter and Mike.

“Please, have a seat,” Mike said, gesturing to the table.

As they sat down, Peter leaned back, his practiced eyes fixed on the young lawyer. There was something... off. Not overtly suspicious, but subtle—a hesitation in the way Mike carried himself, a hint of nerves behind his polished demeanor. Peter had met enough liars to recognize one, but there was something else too: a genuine eagerness in Mike’s tone. He wasn’t just going through the motions; he really wanted to help.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Mike said, opening a folder. “I’ve reviewed Neal’s case, and I think we have a strong foundation to work from. The primary goals, as I understand them, are to secure fair compensation for Neal’s work with the FBI, explore options for reducing or commuting his sentence, and ensure the Burkes remain his guardians beyond his sentence.”

“That’s correct,” Peter said, his tone even.

Mike nodded. “For the compensation part, the numbers speak for themselves. I’ll use the spreadsheet you provided to show the court how Neal’s contributions have saved the bureau significant time and resources. It’s a strong argument, and one that should resonate well with the judge.”

Neal glanced at Peter, then back at Mike. “And my sentence?” he asked quietly, his voice guarded.

Mike leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. “That’s where it gets more complicated. Reducing or commuting a sentence takes more than just good behavior—it requires a compelling narrative. Luckily, you’ve got one. You’re not just meeting expectations; you’re exceeding them. If we frame your work as evidence of rehabilitation and present testimonials from people like Agent Burke, your teachers, and your parole officer, we have a real shot at convincing the court.”

Neal blinked, a flicker of hope crossing his face. “You really think it could work?”

Mike smiled gently. “I do. But it’s going to take time, and it’ll mean continuing to do what you’re doing—working hard and staying out of trouble.”

Peter watched Neal closely, noting the way he sat up a little straighter, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“What about the guardianship?” Peter asked, keeping his tone steady.

“That’s more straightforward,” Mike replied. “You’ve already proven that Neal thrives under your care. We’ll need to gather evidence—school records, letters from his parole officer, anything that shows how much progress he’s made since being placed with you. It’s not an unusual request, and the court will prioritize Neal’s best interests.”

Peter nodded, his suspicion about Mike’s smooth exterior lingering, but tempered by his apparent sincerity.

Mike looked at Neal again, his tone soft. “I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m here to help. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s my job to make sure the system works for you this time, not against you.”

Neal hesitated, glancing at Peter before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Peter stood, extending his hand once more. “We’ll hold you to that, Mr. Ross.”

Mike shook his hand, meeting Peter’s gaze directly. “You can count on it, Agent Burke.”

As they left the room, Neal looked back at the sleek conference table, his voice quiet. “He seems... okay.”

Peter smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. But there’s something he’s not telling us.”

Neal glanced up at him. “He's lying, isn't he, Dad?" He asked. Peter was taken aback for a second, but of course Neal would spot a liar!. "Do you think he’s lying about the case?” Neal asked hesitantly.

Peter shook his head. “No. I think he really wants to help. But there’s more to Mike Ross than what’s on the surface.”

As Peter and Neal exited the conference room, heading toward the elevator, they stopped short when they saw a striking pair walking toward them. Jessica Pearson and Harvey Specter were striding towards them, side by side. Neal moved closer to Peter.

“Agent Burke,” Jessica said, her voice a cool blend of authority and respect.

“Ms. Pearson,” Peter replied, his tone measured but warm as he extended his hand. "You're on my side for the first time."

Jessica shook it firmly, and turned to Neal. “And you must be Neal Caffrey.”

Neal hesitated, his back straightening. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly.

“This is Harvey Specter,” Jessica added, gesturing to the man at her side. “Senior Partner and Mike Ross’s mentor.”

Harvey stepped forward, his grin the picture of confidence. “Agent Burke, it’s a pleasure.”

Peter shook his hand. “Mr. Specter.”

“We’ll let you get back to your day. Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey,” Jessica said with a nod, then walked off, Harvey falling into step beside her.

Neal exhaled once they stepped into the elevator. Peter glanced at him. “Are you okay, Neal?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Neal said, though his tone suggested otherwise.

---------------

Harvey raised an eyebrow at Jessica. "You like Peter Burke." It was a statement, not a question. "And that boy."

Jessica’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. “Neal Caffrey has made a lot of bad choices but has potential." she said, smirking at Harvey, who acknowledged it. "Burke is... different." Jessica went on. "In every case, the fraud was serious. The kind of serious where I had to step in personally. We managed to get probation, and three months in a country club prison - only because Burke advised the DA not to push for the maximum sentence. He wasn’t out for blood, even though he had every right to be. He wanted justice, not punishment.”

“And?” Harvey prompted.

"That one case where we won? I'm damn sure the anonymous tip came from him. Indirectly of course. It was an airtight case, but the defendant was innocent."

Harvey leaned against her desk, processing this with a smirk. “So, you respect him.”

Jessica smiled faintly. “I do. There aren’t many men who are not intimidated by me. Peter Burke is one of them.”

---------------

That evening, after recounting their meeting to El, Neal slumped onto the couch.

“She looked right through me,” Neal said suddenly, shaking his head. “Jessica Pearson. It’s like... she saw everything.”

Peter chuckled softly. “She did, Trouble. She’s good at that.”

Neal looked thoughtful. “I even gave her my cutest look,” he admitted, glancing up at Peter and El. “She didn’t even budge.”

“Your what?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

Neal shrugged, then demonstrated. Tilting his head just slightly, his blue eyes widened, and he smiled, showing his dimples. He looked angelic.

El’s hands flew to her chest. “Oh, Neal, that is too cute.” She leaned down and kissed his cheeks.

Peter shook his head, groaning. “Don’t encourage him.”

“It’s impossible not to!” El teased, beaming.

Neal’s cheeks turned pink, but he couldn’t hide a small, pleased smile. “Little scamp,” Peter said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. Without thinking, he gave Neal’s bottom a light, playful smack.

Neal froze immediately, his body going rigid, and his eyes fluttered shut. Peter’s smile vanished, replaced with a look of horror as the realization of what he’d just done hit him.

“Neal,” Peter began, his voice trembling, “I’m so sorry—”

But before he could finish, Neal’s tension dissolved, replaced by something unexpected: a grin of pure relief. “That didn’t hurt!” he said, his voice almost incredulous. He turned and buried himself in El’s arms, his small frame shaking with what sounded like... laughter.

Peter was still pale, watching Neal closely. “I—are you sure? I didn’t mean—”

Neal pulled back from El just enough to throw his arms around Peter’s neck, hugging him tightly. “It doesn’t hurt even when you hit,” Neal said happily, his words muffled against Peter’s shoulder.

Peter’s breath hitched, and El reached out to rub Neal’s back, her own eyes glistening. “Oh, sweetie,” she said softly.

Peter stroked Neal’s hair, his heart aching as he held the boy close. “I’ll never hurt you, Neal. Never,” he whispered, his voice firm but tender.

“I know,” Neal said, clinging to him. His grin widened as he leaned back slightly, looking at both of them with shining eyes. For the first time, Peter and El saw something new in that smile: trust.

They exchanged a glance over Neal’s head, a shared sigh of relief passing between them. Whatever fears Peter had felt in that moment, Neal’s response made it clear—this wasn’t a step back. It was a step forward.

Chapter Text

The auditorium buzzed with excitement as the play began, but Peter and El only had eyes for one person. Neal stepped onto the stage in a striking red suit, horns perched on his head, a cape swirling behind him. His tail flicked dramatically as he grinned at the audience, terrifyingly charming.

From the very first scene, he commanded attention. He was chilling as the Devil—his voice smooth, his movements effortless. One moment, he was a classic, fiery demon reveling in the torment of lost souls; the next, he was sleek and polished in a crisp (Harvey Specter wouldn't agree, Peter snickered to himself) business suit, sliding contracts across a desk, his victims signing their souls over as he smiled reassuringly at them. Peter exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he leaned toward El. “This is what he used to do in reality,” he whispered. “See how good he is?” El looked back, a little shaken. That smile looked impossible to resist.

The play went on. Peter and El looked on proudly as Neal delivered a particularly chilling monologue, the audience hanging on his every word.

After the play, the cast was surrounded by buzzing audience members eager to congratulate them. Neal, still brimming with stage energy, was in the middle of a conversation with an older woman who had been particularly enthusiastic about his performance. Peter and El watched from across the room, waiting for Neal to make his way to them. Suddenly, the woman fell to the ground. Peter ran across, El at his heels. Ms. Thompson rushed over, checking the woman’s pulse. The woman sat up, and a few parents helped her into a chair. Peter watched Neal slink away into a corner and followed him.

"What happened, Trouble?" Peter growled at Neal. Neal blinked innocently at him.

Peter and El watched as Ms. Thompson approached, a resigned look on her face. She stopped in front of them, gestured at Neal, and snapped “He convinced her that he’s actually the devil.”

Neal shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to. I was just staying in character.”

Peter exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Neal,” he said slowly, “give me one reason why I shouldn’t twist your ear right now.”

Neal tilted his head slightly, presenting his ear. His blue eyes shone with perfect innocence. “You won't twist it." he said, "and I didn’t lie,” he continued, making puppy eyes. “I just went along with what she was saying.”

There was a long silence. Peter clenched his jaw. El pressed her lips together. Neither of them could quite keep a straight face. Ms. Thompson shook her head again, muttered something about every teen being a monster under her breath, and stormed off. Peter and El saw her duck into a corridor and silently laugh. Now it was hard for them to keep a straight face. Neal grinned, completely unrepentant.

They drove home. Neal was tired. After dinner, he went up to bed. Satchmo followed, and Neal fell asleep, cuddled up with the little golden retriever.
_________________________

Neal’s eyes fluttered open, and the harsh fluorescent light above burned into them, even though it was barely 5 AM. The cold, sterile room of the Hudson juvenile detention center surrounded him. The metal bedframe creaked as he shifted, and he felt the hard, thin mattress beneath him. His legs ached from the beatings.

What a dream, he thought bitterly. Peter Burke and his wife taking him in, a warm house, a puppy who adored him—none of it real. Just a cruel trick his mind had played. This hellhole was his life. He got up from his furry pillow. Furry pillow? He turned around - there was no fur, just the thin cotton rectangle. Maybe he was actually going crazy.

He exhaled slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against his feet. He glanced down—and froze.

A tuft of golden fur.

Neal frowned. That didn’t make sense. His brows furrowed as he reached for it, but as soon as his fingers brushed the strands, it was gone. He shook his head and stood, deciding to shower before the other boys woke up. He took a step toward the door and something wet brushed against his ear.

Neal jolted violently, his heart hammering. There was another wet swipe. And a soft whine. Neal tripped backwards and fell.

Neal’s breath hitched as he jolted awake, the sterile walls of Hudson flickering and fading. The fluorescent light above dimmed, morphing into the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The sharp scent of industrial cleaner disappeared, replaced by something warm, familiar.

A golden blur filled his vision, and then a wet nose nudged his cheek. Neal exhaled shakily. “Satchmo?”

The puppy let out a happy little huff, his tail thumping against the mattress as he licked Neal’s face again.

It was real.

Hudson was the nightmare. *This*—the soft bed, the quiet house, the warmth of a beloved dog waking him up—*this* was real.

Neal let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His fingers curled into Satchmo’s fur, grounding himself. “Good boy,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still thick with sleep. Satchmo licked him again, as if to say "of course I am."

"Thanks for waking me, buddy." Neal said, petting Satchmo. "But I'm tired of the nightmares, you know? The therapist said that they're going to be there for a while. At least I didn't wake Mom and Dad. But I want Mom and Dad. Pity we can't go wake them up...." Neal glanced at the clock. It was only 10:30. He had been asleep only for a little more than an hour. Pouting, he got up to go down the stairs. He wanted his Dad and Mom. And why did his legs ache so much even in reality?

Peter and El were cuddled on the couch, watching TV when soft footsteps echoed on the stairs. Peter turned to see Neal standing there, rubbing his eyes. His hair was tousled, and his face looked pale under the soft glow of the living room light.

“Neal?” El asked gently, sitting up straighter.

“I had a nightmare,” Neal said in a small voice as he walked over to the couch. Without hesitation, he curled up beside El, resting his head on her lap. “I’m tired of having nightmares,” he whispered, his voice tinged with frustration. “And my legs ache.”

El’s fingers found their way into Neal’s hair, stroking softly. “Oh, sweetie,” she said.

Peter set down his tea and leaned forward, pulling down Neal's t-shirt to cover his back. Hmm, it didn't reach. He tugged on the edge of his pajamas - no use, the hem was halfway up his shin. Peter smiled. “Your clothes are getting shorter, Trouble. The leg pain is probably a result of that. You're having a growth spurt.”

Neal blinked up at him, his brow furrowed. “A growth spurt?”

“Yep,” Peter said rubbing Neal's back. “Your bones are growing quickly, and your body is working hard. The doctor said you would grow rapidly once we address the deficiencies and you feel safe enough. Those pains - they're growing pains. I've had them too.”

Neal didn’t respond, but his body seemed to relax slightly at the explanation. Peter reached out, gently taking one of Neal’s legs into his lap. He started massaging Neal’s calf, his hands firm but careful. Neal sighed softly, closing his eyes as the tension in his muscles began to melt away.

"We'll have to go clothes shopping, love," El said. "You're going to grow out of everything soon."

Peter grinned. “We’ll head out on Saturday. I’ve got my quarterly report debriefing at the bureau tomorrow and might be home late.”

Neal looked up at Peter. “Quarterly report? That’s the one with all your numbers, right?”

Peter nodded, still massaging Neal's calves. “Yep. Arrest rates, case resolutions, resource savings—it all gets added up. They’ll probably be good.” He glanced at Neal and smiled warmly. “You’ve done a lot to help this quarter, Trouble.” Neal relaxed even more, and within minutes, his breathing slowed and Peter realized he had fallen asleep.

----------------------------------------------------

The next day at school, Neal got an even bigger surprise. Ms. Thompson handed the class their report cards. Neal opened it and stared, his heart skipping a beat. Straight A+s. Every subject. His breath hitched as he read the grades again, hardly believing what he was seeing.

“Well done, Neal!” Ms. Thompson said, her pride evident as she ruffled his hair affectionately. “You’ve worked so hard for this.” Neal clutched the report card to his chest, his face lit up with a mixture of pride and joy. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that someone had praised him for schoolwork—and meant it.

-------------------------------------------

Peter was typing up notes for a case when Hughes walked into his office, a folder in hand. “Burke,” Hughes said with a small smile, setting the folder down on Peter’s desk. “I had the probies double-check everything.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, curious as he opened the folder and scanned the top sheet. His eyes widened. “94%?” he said, looking up at Hughes in disbelief. “That’s unheard of!”

Hughes chuckled. “Your gamble with Caffrey paid off. It’s a damn impressive number, Peter. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Peter shook his head, still processing the figure. “It’s not going to my head, but—94%!”

The news spread quickly throughout the bureau. As Peter walked down the hall to grab a coffee, he was met with congratulations and a few claps on the back. “Way to go, Burke!” someone called, and others nodded in agreement. It was in the middle of this commotion that Neal walked in, looking curious. He paused in the doorway, tilting his head at the gathered agents. Did they know about his straight A+ already?

Peter spotted him and grinned. “There’s the man of the hour!” he said, striding over and picking Neal up effortlessly. He spun him around, drawing a mix of applause and laughter from the team.

“How did you know?” Neal asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

Peter blinked. “How did I know? It’s right here,” he said, holding up the report Hughes had brought.

Neal’s jaw dropped. “Ninety-four percent?” he gasped, stunned.

Laughter rippled through the room at his expression, and Peter laughed too—until Neal pulled out the report card from his bag. “Well, I have this!” Neal said, holding it up triumphantly.

Peter took the report card, his brow furrowing as he unfolded it. His face lit up when he saw the straight A+s. “Well, Trouble, looks like we’re both on a roll!” he said, lifting Neal up and spinning him around again as the room erupted into cheers and applause.

“Way to go, Neal!” Jones called, clapping.

Peter carried Neal to his office after the excitement died down. He set the boy on the couch and grabbed the phone. “El,” he said when she picked up. “You’ll never guess—no, scratch that. Meet us at that Italian place you love, with Satch. We’re celebrating.”

El’s laugh was warm through the receiver. “Both my boys did something amazing, didn’t they?”

Peter smiled. “You could say that.”

That evening, the three of them sat at a cozy corner table, Neal happily devouring his favorite pasta. Peter and El toasted with wine while Neal, sipping soda, grinned ear to ear. Neal blushed when Peter told the waiter about his report card, and El giggled. Satchmo happily wagged his tail.

Neal twirled his spaghetti lazily, savoring the meal but keeping a watchful eye on Peter. Peter's phone buzzed - Mike Ross. He picked up the phone. who had just picked up his buzzing phone.

“Yes, Mike,” Peter answered, leaning back slightly.

A pause.

"Thank you, I didn't realize news travelled that fast." Peter said. A moment later, his eyes went wide. "Harvey Specter said that?"

Neal’s fork paused mid-twist. He glanced at El, but she was already staring at Peter, eyes widening.

“You’re serious?” Peter asked, shaking his head slightly. Then, to Neal’s horror, a slow grin spread across his face. Peter texted El something.

El gasped. “No way.” she said to Peter.

Neal dropped his fork. “Okay,” he said, eyes darting between them. “What is going on?”

Peter ignored him. “That’s unexpected,” he said into the phone, still smirking. “But I can’t say no to that.”

El pressed a hand to her mouth, clearly delighted.

Neal groaned, and glared at Peter. “Dad.”

Peter glanced up, the picture of innocence. “Yes, Trouble?”

“What *is* it??”

Peter’s smirk deepened. “Finish your dinner, Trouble!”

Chapter Text

Peter walked into the living room, dressed casually. Once El was done with the garden, they would go clothes-shopping for Neal. He thought back on what had happened a few days back, and the call the previous evening. Neal was going to love this.

--------------
Three days back...

Peter was buried in paperwork when Agent Jones knocked on his office door. “You have a visitor,” Jones said, sounding mildly entertained.

Peter looked up. “Who?”

“Harvey Specter.”

Peter frowned. There was no reason for Specter to come to the FBI in person. The legal work for Neal’s case was progressing smoothly, and if Specter needed anything, a phone call would have sufficed.

A minute later, Harvey strolled in, dressed in a pristine suit that probably cost more than Peter’s monthly mortgage. He carried a folder in one hand, casual confidence in the other.

“Agent Burke,” Harvey said, shutting the door behind him. “I figured I’d drop by.”

Peter gestured for him to sit, watching him carefully. “You didn’t have to come in person.”

Harvey smirked. “True. But I like to look people in the eye when I have something interesting to say.”

He slid the folder across the desk. Peter took it, flipping it open. His expression didn’t change, but Harvey caught the subtle way his lips pressed together.

“My associate is very good,” Harvey said smoothly.

Peter looked up. Inside the folder was evidence—not undeniable, but convincing—that he had been the one to start off the anonymous tip to Pearson Hardman that had saved an innocent man from conviction.

Peter closed the folder with deliberate calm and met Harvey’s gaze evenly.

“I don’t know what your intention is, Mr. Specter,” Peter said, voice steady. “This will make my life a little difficult if it gets out, yes—but the man was innocent.”

Harvey’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by a small but warm smile. “I think your purpose was to judge how I would be as an opponent,” Peter continued. “Although I don’t know why, I hope you’re satisfied.”

Harvey chuckled now, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right. I wanted to know why Jessica was happy when Mike was assigned to Neal’s case.” He tilted his head. “Now I do.”

Peter didn’t react. He simply waited.

Harvey nodded toward the folder. “Look at the next page.”

Peter flipped it over, his brow furrowing slightly as he scanned the document. It was a legal statement—flawless, airtight—giving Harvey the means to transfer one million dollars to the person responsible for the anonymous tip. The funds were allocated through stock options and private accounts—perfectly legal, entirely untraceable.

Peter exhaled sharply and closed the folder again.

“I can’t take it,” he said, handing it back. “It’s a bribe, whatever you call it.”

Harvey studied him for a moment, and for the first time since stepping into the room, his demeanor softened. “I thought you’d say that,” he admitted. He paused, then added, “But you have a kid now. And this money isn’t going anywhere.”

Something flickered in Peter’s eyes—an acknowledgment of the weight behind those words.
"I'm still not taking it." Peter said, looked at Harvey for a long beat, then—just slightly—he smiled and extended his hand.

A moment’s pause. Then Harvey shook it.

A liaison with Harvey Specter could be useful. And, Peter admitted to himself, it was always good to know who respected the lines he wouldn’t cross.
‐‐-----------------------
The previous day:

"Apparently Harvey caught wind of your insane arrest rate this quarter,” Mike had said over the phone. “And considering that the Mayor might be handing out a commendation soon, he figured Neal’s gonna need a real suit for the occasion. He says it's not a bribe, it's just they have offers for clients' kids that he's never used, and wants to use one for Neal."

Peter and El had agreed. Neal loved to be nicely dressed.
-------------------------

Back to the present

Peter frowned at Neal. “Neal, sit properly.”

Neal, currently sprawled across the couch in a way that defied both gravity and logic, barely looked up from his book. “I am sitting,” he muttered.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s against the laws of Biology and Physics. Sit like a person.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Neal shifted until both feet were on the floor. Peter nodded approvingly and sat beside him with a cup of coffee. Neal immediately leaned on Peter, and Peter smiled.

“What are you reading?”

Neal held up the book. "Little Men, for school.”

Peter tilted his head. “And?”

Neal hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s actually kinda good.” He flipped a page. “The people who run the school remind me of you and Mom.”

Peter leaned back. "Oh, do they?”

Neal twirled a corner of the page between his fingers. “Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer—they’ve got rules, but they make sense. Like the kids aren’t allowed to have pillow fights during the week, but on Saturdays, they can go wild. Professor Bhaer talks to each of them on Sunday, when a boy has warts, he doesn't force treatment but waits till the boy agrees...”

Peter ruffled Neal's hair. ”That sounds nice."

Neal nodded. “Yeah. And they love their kids. A lot. Even the ones that make trouble.”

Peter kissed Neal's forehead. "That's not like Mom and me. You're no trouble, Trouble.”

Neal ducked his head, biting back a smile—then suddenly frowned at the book. “But the language is weird.”

Peter smirked. “Oh?”

Neal pointed at a sentence. “Listen to this: ‘Mr. Bhaer had just set down on the straw settee to enjoy 'his frolic' with Teddy.’” He wrinkled his nose. “Frolic is a verb, not a noun, right? What’s 'his frolic'?”

Peter set his coffee down. “Oh, I know what a frolic is.”

Neal barely had time to react before Peter lunged.

“DAD—NO—” Neal shrieked as Peter’s fingers found his sides, sending him into a breathless fit of giggles.

Peter grinned. “A frolic is a—tickle attack!”

Neal flailed, gasping between laughter. “MOM! HELP!”

El ran in, startled, and smiled when she saw Neal giggling helplessly on the couch.

Peter finally let up, pulling Neal upright as he caught his breath. Neal, still grinning, flopped against Peter’s side.

El chuckled.”Ready to head out?" She asked. Neal was. He had never really gone on a shopping trip before.

By the time they arrived at the first store, Neal could barely contain his excitement. He loved being well-dressed, and if anyone could put together a perfect wardrobe, it was Mom.

“Okay, sweetie,” El said, leading him straight to the racks. “You need a full wardrobe. Clothes that fit now but also leave room to grow.”

Neal grinned. “I like the sound of that.” And the whirlwind began.

El had a fantastic eye. Within minutes, Neal had a pile of shirts, t-shirts and sweaters draped over one arm. Jeans, slacks and pajamas followed. Each time he stepped out of the fitting room, she either nodded approvingly or handed him something else to try.

Peter, meanwhile, leaned against a nearby rack, looking increasingly unimpressed as time passed.

“Are we done yet?” he asked after the tenth outfit.

Neal smirked. “I could do this all day.”

Peter sighed. “Of course you could.”

Neal, thoroughly entertained, turned back to his own selections. Soon enough, they had several bags—plenty to set him up for the next few months.

So, when Peter started driving again, Neal assumed they were heading home.

That’s why, when Peter said, “One more stop,” Neal blinked in confusion.

“Wait—seriously? What’s left?”

El just smiled, and before Neal could press further, Peter pulled into the parking lot of a very high-end clothing store.

Neal’s heart jumped.

The moment they stepped inside, a sharply dressed man greeted Peter with a respectful nod. “Agent Burke?”

Peter nodded back. “You have everything ready?”

“Of course. Right this way.”

Neal looked between them, confused but very intrigued. El nudged him forward, and he followed, still trying to figure out what was going on.

Inside, he was ushered onto a fitting platform. Within moments, attendants were draping a gorgeous suit over him. The fabric was luxurious, the fit flawless as they pinned it in place. Neal turned to the mirror, stunned.

El beamed. “Oh, sweetheart, you look amazing.”

Neal adjusted the cuffs, still in disbelief. He glanced at Peter. “Wait—why am I getting this?”

Peter smirked. “It’s a gift. From Harvey Specter.”

Neal’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“For your excellent work at the FBI,” Peter said, adjusting Neal’s collar.

Neal was speechless. But then he smoothed his hands over the fabric and smiled.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Harvey Specter might be my new favorite person.”

Peter sighed, shaking his head. “Of course he would be.”

‐-------------

Neal swaggered around the house in the new suit, till El pointed out that it would be time for dinner soon. "This isn't Downton Abbey, precious. You have to help with dinner and wash up, remember?"

Neal grinned and ran upstairs, coming down in a pair of his new pajamas and a robe.

"Hello, Dumbledore." Peter rolled his eyes at Neal.

"It has a drop-seat. Would be undignified without the robe." Neal said, gracefully moving up next to Peter to b help with dinner.

Peter chuckled. "I would have never worn a drop-seat in the living room at your age, especially in front of my dad." He said, passing some vegetables to Neal.

"Should I take it off?" Neal looked up, a little confused.

"No, no, Trouble. My dad was old-fashioned." Peter smiled at Neal. "This is your home. You wear whatever you want."

After dinner, Neal stretched and yawned theatrically before making his way upstairs. “Goodnight, Mom, Dad,” he called over his shoulder, Satchmo trotting after him.

“Goodnight, sweetie,” El answered.

Peter ruffled Neal’s hair as he passed. “Sleep well, Trouble.”

Once Neal was gone, El turned to Peter, leaning against the counter as she dried her hands. “What did you mean earlier?” she asked, voice gentle. “About your dad being old-fashioned?”

Peter exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "My dad believed in 'tough love',” he admitted. “A hairbrush when I was younger. Then a belt when I was Neal’s age. A drop-seat would have been too convenient.”

El frowned, stepping closer. “Oh, Peter.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t unusual for the time. And I never questioned it much growing up. Just how things were.”

El studied his face. “Did you ever believe in spanking?”

Peter hesitated for a second before answering honestly. “Yeah. I always figured, if I ever had kids, I’d put them over my knee when they misbehaved.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “Thought it was just part of parenting.”

El’s expression was unreadable. “And now?”

Peter sighed, his eyes towards the stairs Neal had just walked up. “Now I know I could never do it.”

El reached for his hand. “Because of Neal?”

Peter nodded. “Because of Neal.” He looked at her, expression soft but sure.

El wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. “You’re a good dad, Peter.”

Peter let himself relax into the embrace, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I hope so.” His phone rang, and Peter picked it up. It was Ms.Adams. Peter spoke for a few minutes, hung up and looked at El.

"Neal's mom wants to visit." Peter told El, his face grim. "She didn't visit at all when Neal was on trial or at Hudson. Ms.Adams says this might not be good for Neal, but we don't have a choice."

El grimaced. "He's finally doing better - he's laughing, Peter. What if she wants him back??"

"He's still in FBI custody, remember? She can't take him back." Peter said, though the way he slumped into his chair showed his frustration. "And it'll be a supervised visit."

"We'll tell him tomorrow" El said and Peter agreed.

Chapter Text

On Sundays, Neal was awakened just long enough to eat something before being allowed to go back to sleep. Peter had made it a routine—part necessity, part indulgence. The kid needed rest, but he also needed food.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, running a gentle hand through Neal’s curls. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Neal made a small, unintelligible sound and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Satchmo, never one to be left out, took matters into his own paws. He bounded onto the bed and licked a wet stripe up Neal’s ear.

Neal groaned but turned over, squinting blearily at Peter—then at the tray of food. Bacon, eggs, cereal, juice. He grinned and stretched before rolling out of bed, padding toward the bathroom.

Peter watched him go, smirking. “No robe, Neal? Isn’t a drop-seat undignified?”

Neal paused in the doorway and shot him an unamused look. “From my bed to the bathroom?” He folded his arms. “And Dad—even if that thing was open, it wouldn’t be undignified when it’s just you and Satchmo.”

Peter laughed as Neal walked off.

A minute later, Neal returned and immediately started devouring his breakfast. Peter sipped his coffee, watching him fondly.

Neal scooped up a big spoonful of eggs. “Why wouldn’t you wear a drop-seat in front of your dad?” he asked casually.

Peter sipped his coffee. “Too convenient.”

He almost laughed out loud as Neal looked up in confusion—then froze as the meaning sank in. Neal’s eyes widened, the spoon hovering halfway to his mouth.

“I’m still in one piece, Trouble,” Peter said, reaching out to pet Neal’s hair.

“But—but—he couldn’t—” Neal stammered, voice rising. He set his spoon down with a clatter. “He hit you???”

"Not hit, Neal. Spanked," Peter corrected gently. "He would put me over his lap. It's funny - I felt better after, it took away the guilt. It was common then, but I would never do it."  

Neal still looked stunned, staring at Peter like he had just admitted to being from another planet.  

Satchmo, sensing the seriousness of the moment, sat up and blinked at Peter too, as if waiting for further explanation.  

Neal crossed his arms. "Dads don't hit."  

Satchmo gave a decisive little nod, as if to back him up.  

Peter huffed a quiet laugh, reaching out to pet Satchmo. “No, buddy. They don’t.”

Neal finished the last bite of his breakfast and set the tray aside with a contented sigh. He stretched once, then flopped back down onto the pillows.  

Peter chuckled, shifting closer to rub slow, steady circles on Neal’s back. “Go on, Trouble. Sleep a little more.”  

Neal hummed in response, already halfway there.  

Satchmo curled up right against Neal’s side, pressing close in a warm, protective bundle. He stayed there until Neal’s breathing evened out, then—with one last glance at his boy—he hopped off the bed and trotted after Peter.  

Peter walked downstairs, thoughtful.  

They had to tell Neal about his mother’s visit. And that was going to be difficult.

After lunch, Peter and El sat Neal down on the couch, between them. 

Peter took a steady breath, bracing himself. “Neal,” he said gently, “your mom wants to see you.”

Neal blinked, his entire body going still. “My mom?” he echoed, his voice sharp with disbelief. His fingers curled against his knees. “WHY?”

“She just wants to see you, sweetie,” El said softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

“It’ll be at Ms. Adams’ office, and I’ll be there,” Peter added, keeping his voice calm, steady.

For a second, Neal didn’t move. His expression was locked down, unreadable, but Peter could feel the tension radiating off him. The air in the room seemed to tighten.

Then, suddenly, Neal exploded.

“NO! NO, NO, NO!!!” His voice cracked as he shouted, raw with emotion. His face twisted, eyes wild. Before Peter or El could react, he grabbed a cushion and threw it to the ground with all his strength. “SHE DIDN’T CARE! SHE NEVER CARED! SHE JUST WANTS TO TAKE ME BACK WITH HER!!”

“Neal—” Peter started, reaching out.

“YOU’RE TIRED OF ME!” Neal’s breath was coming fast and uneven now, his whole body shaking with fury and panic. “YOU DON’T LIKE HOW MUCH I COST, AND HOW I DON’T LET YOU SLEEP! I’M TOO MUCH OF A BOTHER! VERY WELL, SEND ME BACK!!!”

The words cut like a knife.

Before Peter or El could move, Neal ran, bolting up the stairs so fast it was like he was afraid they’d grab him. His door slammed so hard the sound echoed through the house.

Silence.

Peter and El sat frozen, stunned.

Satchmo barked sharply, his head snapping toward the stairs. The little puppy scrambled forward, paws thumping against the floor as he raced to follow Neal.

Peter caught him mid-leap, scooping him up before he could take off. The puppy whined, wiggling, ears flattened in distress.

“Let your brother have some alone time, hmm?” Peter murmured, stroking Satchmo’s soft fur. His own hands were trembling slightly.

Satchmo huffed, his body still tense, but after a moment, he stilled against Peter’s chest.

El pressed a hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening. She swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Hon…”

Peter exhaled slowly, rubbing Satchmo’s back, grounding himself. His chest was tight. 

‐-------

Neal sat in a corner of his room, knees pulled up to his chest, head hidden in arms, sobbing. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories flooded in anyway.  

His mother, passed out on the couch, the sour smell of alcohol thick in the air. Empty bottles lined up on the kitchen counter, the fridge barely stocked. The nights she forgot to come home, leaving him alone with nothing but silence.  

The morning she woke up, looked right at him, and didn’t even remember he had been there the whole time.  

Then Hudson.  

Visiting day. He had sat on his cot, waiting, hands gripping the rough fabric of his pants, heart pounding at the possibility that maybe—maybe—she would come.  

She never did.  

But the others? The cruelest boys, the ones who broke ribs and stole food and made his life hell? They got visitors. He had watched through the small, reinforced window as their mothers hugged them, ran hands through their hair, whispered things Neal would never hear.  

And when they came back?  

"Where's your mom, Caffrey?"  

"Oh, that's right. She doesn't want you."  

Laughter. Taunts. A hand clamping down on the back of his neck, shoving him forward as he clenched his teeth and refused to react.  

And now?  

Now she wanted to see him?  

Neal curled tighter, his stomach churning.  

She just wants to take me back because she feels guilty. She doesn’t actually want me. She never did. Not like Mom and Dad do...

Another thought came, choking him with guilt.

I yelled at them.

He had screamed at Mom and Dad. Accused them of things they hadn’t even said. They had just told him about the visit, and he had lost it.  

Dad had looked so stunned. Mom had flinched when he shouted.  

They’ve been nothing but good to me. And I—

Neal’s breath hitched, and he buried his face deeper.  

They made sure he got to school on time. Helped with homework. Smoothed his hair when he was tired. Held him through nightmares, celebrated his successes, let him cry in their hugs and made sure his favorite foods were always in the fridge.  

They were kind. They cared. Made a convicted felon feel safe.

And he had accused them of wanting to throw him away.  

I’m such an idiot. Why did I say all that?? They probably hate me now.

But maybe they were done with him.  

Maybe they were tired of him waking them up with nightmares. Maybe they were sick of how much time they gave him. Of his crying, of the therapy, the doctor visits...

Dad had always told him he wasn’t a burden. That they wanted him there.  

But maybe he was just being nice.  

A fresh wave of tears came, hot and fast.  

What if he had ruined everything?

What if Dad was talking to Ms. Adams right now, telling her they’d changed their minds?  

Neal curled in tighter, wrapping his arms around himself.  

I don’t want to go back. Please, don’t send me back.

But after what he’d said—after how he acted—why would they want him to stay?

"Neal?" Neal heard Peter's voice, then a creak as the door opened. Footsteps came closer, and he felt Peter kneel next to him and put a warm hand gently on his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to smother the guilt still tearing at his chest.  

“You know,” Peter’s voice was quiet, steady, “kids yell at their parents sometimes.” His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles against Neal’s back. “And the parents don’t send them back.”  

Neal swallowed hard. He wanted to believe Peter, but the guilt was too heavy, too suffocating.  

Peter’s hand never stopped its steady motion, warm and grounding.  

After a long moment, Neal finally raised his head, peering up at Peter with red-rimmed, exhausted eyes. His voice came out hoarse, thick with emotion. “Why are you doing this?” His hands clenched. “I’M A CRIMINAL! I JUST SCREAMED AT YOU! WHY ARE YOU KIND TO ME? I DON’T DESERVE IT!!”  

His voice cracked on the last word, the self-loathing bubbling up like something poisonous, something that burned.  

In an instant, strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a firm, unwavering embrace. Neal stiffened for half a second—then collapsed against Peter’s chest, the fight draining out of him in a single, shuddering breath.  

“I’m kind to you because I love you,” Peter murmured into his hair, holding him tight. “And you deserve it.”  

Neal’s breath hitched, and then—  

He broke.  

A sob tore from his throat, and suddenly El was there too, sitting beside them, one hand rubbing Neal’s back as Peter held him.  

Neal didn’t have words anymore. He just clung to Peter, tears spilling over, shaking as the weight of everything—his mother, Hudson, the fear of losing this home—crashed over him all at once. "Sorry, I'm sorry" he muttered over and over. 

And Peter and El held him through all of it.

Neal's sobs eventually quieted, the shudders running through his body fading into slow, hiccupping breaths. Peter didn’t loosen his hold, letting Neal take all the time he needed. El stroked his back gently, grounding him with each pass of her hand.  

When Neal finally pulled back, his face was blotchy, his eyelashes still wet, but he didn’t look quite as lost. Peter gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.  

“Come on, Trouble,” he said softly. “Let’s go sit in the living room.”  

Neal nodded, wiping at his eyes as Peter and El guided him back downstairs.  

They settled onto the couch again, Neal tucked close between them. His head drooped slightly, exhaustion creeping in after the emotional storm.  

Peter glanced at him, then said, “You know, I’m actually glad you yelled at us.”  

Neal’s head snapped up in disbelief. “What?”  

Peter smiled. “That tells me you’re finally comfortable enough to express yourself.”  

Neal blinked at him, confused, like the idea had never even occurred to him.  

El picked up a glass of juice from the coffee table and held it to Neal’s lips. “Drink, sweetie.”  

Neal obeyed without thinking, taking a few sips before she set the glass back down.  

Peter leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle but firm. “Neal, a visit from your mom can’t be avoided. She’s still your legal guardian.”  

Neal tensed slightly but didn’t pull away.  

Peter reached out, squeezing Neal’s knee. “But nothing is going to happen. I’ll be there—right there with you. Not outside the room. Not in a corner. I’ll be sitting right beside you.”  

Neal swallowed hard, eyes flickering with uncertainty. Slowly, Neal nodded, and Peter let out a small sigh of relief.

Neal shifted slightly, staring at his hands as they twisted together in his lap. His face was still blotchy from crying, his voice small when he finally spoke.  

“…Dad?”  

Peter turned to him, eyebrows raised at the hesitant tone. “Yeah, Trouble?”  

Neal swallowed, then looked up at him, nervous but determined. “Can you… spank me?”  

Peter blinked. Then blinked again.  El gasped.

“No, Neal,” Peter said, shaking his head fondly. "I won't." He looked at El. "I told him that it made me feel less guilty." She glared back 

Neal scowled. “But I yelled at you! And Mom! I deserve to be punished!"

“You did,” Peter agreed, placing a firm hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Yelling is not okay, and you do deserve to be disciplined. And that’s why you’re grounded for the rest of the day.”  

Neal gaped at him. “What?!”  

“No running around the block with Satchmo,” Peter said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.  

Neal looked deeply offended. “That’s it?!”  

Peter smirked. “The punishment should fit the crime, and half a day of grounding is plenty for an outburst at your parents about something you can't control.”  

Neal stared at him, then looked over at El for support. She just smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "Dad is right, love. What you did wasn't right, but we do understand why."

Neal snuggled into her lap. Did he really deserve this?

"You know, Neal? If you're so curious about spankings, I can demonstrate." Peter said with a grin.

"Peter Burke!!" El snapped, tightening her hold on Neal.

"Just what comes after," Peter said and reached out for Neal. He settled Neal on his lap. Neal looked surprised and a little embarrassed but El crossed her arms with a smile. Peter hugged Neal and rocked him gently, saying "All forgiven and forgotten, Trouble. Clean slate now." Neal melted into Peter's arms, safe and secure.

Chapter Text

Peter opened the door to the visitation room at CPS. The room was comfortable, well lit, with armchairs, a couch, a vending machine and a playmat with toys in a corner. It was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Neal stood stiffly behind Peter, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting. Ms. Caffrey—a woman with pale skin, slightly red-rimmed eyes, and an unreadable expression, was sitting in one of the armchairs.

Peter observed her closely. She was sober, but there was a sharpness to her demeanor that suggested it wouldn’t last. He ushered Neal in.

“Hi, Mom,” Neal said softly, his voice guarded as he walked to her awkwardly to give her a hug.

She got up returned the hug briefly, patting his back before stepping away and sitting down. “You’ve gotten taller,” she said, her tone neutral.

Neal sat down on the couch, his body angled slightly toward Peter. “Yeah,” he replied, staring at the coffee table between them. Peter sat down beside him.

Peter placed a reassuring hand on Neal’s back. “Neal’s doing well,” he said lightly.

She smiled faintly. “That’s... good to hear.”

---

The conversation was stilted. Neal answered her questions with monosyllables, his tone flat. He told her he liked his teachers and that Peter and El treated him well. Neal's mom nodded along but never asked for more detail.

Peter couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between her indifference and the pride he felt whenever Neal shared a good grade or a solved case. He leaned in slightly.

“Neal’s been excelling,” Peter said, pulling a folder from his bag. He opened it to show Neal’s latest report card. “Straight A’s. And at the bureau, he’s been instrumental in solving cold cases.”

She glanced at the grades, her expression softening slightly. “Well, that’s good,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Peter could see that her interest was fleeting. He looked at Neal, who was staring at his mother with a conflicted expression.

“Why didn’t you come see me at Hudson?” Neal asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

This finally got a reaction. She stiffened, her smile vanishing. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t want to see you like that,” she said flatly. “Your teachers were saying you'll do well in life, Neal! Then you ran away, and I got a call saying you’d been arrested. Do you think any mother wants to hear that?"

Neal’s lips parted slightly, his face falling. Peter felt furious. Didn't she know what Neal had gone through? Did she not care at all?

Before Ms. Caffrey could continue, Peter cut in. “He might have made a few bad choices, Ms.Caffrey, but he's back on track now. Neal’s achievements aren’t in the past—they’re happening right now.”

Ms. Caffrey gave another faint smile.

Neal hesitated before asking, “Where’s Ellen? Why wasn’t she at the trial? Why didn’t she come to Hudson?”

Ms. Caffrey blinked, taken aback by the question. “I didn’t tell her,” she said after a pause. “You're a juvenile. The details are confidential.”

Peter glanced sharply at Neal, surprised. He’d never heard of this Ellen before, but Neal’s face was crumpling, his hands twisting tightly in his lap.

Peter wrapped an arm around Neal’s shoulders and pulled him close. “It’s okay, Trouble,” he murmured softly.

Neal pressed his face into Peter’s chest, his shoulders shaking slightly. Ms. Caffrey glanced away, fiddling with her purse.

---

When the visit ended, Neal stayed seated as Ms. Caffrey stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It was nice seeing you,” she said, her tone awkward. She leaned down and gave Neal a quick hug, which he barely returned.

As soon as she was gone, Neal’s composure crumbled. He clung to Peter and whispered, “She doesn't like me.”

Peter pressed a kiss to Neal’s hair. “You are loved,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “And I’ll find Ellen, Trouble. You have my word.” Whoever this Ellen was, Peter added mentally..

Neal didn’t reply, but his grip on Peter’s shirt tightened, a silent plea for the security Peter always gave him.

Peter could feel the exhaustion radiating off the boy. The entire encounter had been draining. As they walked out of the office, Peter placed a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “You want to come to the bureau for the rest of the day?” he asked gently.

Neal hesitated for only a second before shaking his head. The bureau would be nice, but he didn't want to skip school. “I want to go to school.”

Peter studied him carefully, searching for any sign that he was just saying what he thought Peter wanted to. Neal had a smile on his face - but that meant nothing for his little conman.

“Alright,” Peter said finally, nodding. If Neal wanted normalcy, Peter wouldn’t take that from him.

He dropped Neal off at school, watching as he disappeared into the building. There was still that stiffness in his posture, but he had made a choice, and Peter had to respect that.

That afternoon, Peter’s phone rang.

“Agent Burke?” The voice on the other end was sharp, urgent. “You need to go to the hospital immediately. Neal Caffrey has been taken there.”

Peter’s breath caught. “What happened?”

“Ms.Thompson has gone with him. Please come now.”

Peter didn’t wait for another word. He grabbed his coat and ran.

-----------

Peter stormed through the hospital hallways, his heart still hammering from the call.

“He’s fine,” the nurse met him at the ER desk and reassured him as soon as he arrived. “He felt dizzy in class, and his teacher—first year on the job—panicked and called an ambulance. But he’s completely stable now.”

Peter had barely exhaled in relief before the nurse hesitated.

“There’s… one issue,” she admitted. “The ER doctor ‘followed protocol’ and called the police.”

Peter’s relief curdled into fury.

Now, as he pushed open the door to Neal’s room, his jaw clenched at the sight before him.

Neal was on the hospital bed, no IVs, no monitors—completely fine. But he was shackled. Shackled to the bed.

Beside him, Ms. Thompson sat holding the hand that wasn't cuffed with a tight expression, clearly furious but staying calm for Neal’s sake.

Standing near the bed, arms crossed, was a uniformed officer.

Neal’s eyes flicked up at Peter’s entrance. He was tense, but his face was carefully blank. A mask. A shield.

Peter took one look at him, then turned his glare onto the officer. He flashed his badge.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The officer didn’t so much as blink at Peter’s fury. “Hospital called me,” he said flatly.

Before Peter could respond, the door opened again, and a young man in a white coat strode in. He held himself with the smug arrogance of someone who thought they were the smartest person in the room.

“My first priority,” the doctor said smoothly, “is ensuring that this hospital isn’t sued.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Sued? For what?”

Ms. Thompson, still seated beside Neal, shot the doctor a look of pure disdain. “I told him I would stay with Neal,” she informed Peter. “But he called the police anyway.”

Neal, sitting stiffly on the bed, had his arms crossed, his expression sullen.

Peter exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before turning a cold glare on the doctor. “Let me get this straight,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “You didn’t even bother to read the protocols fully, did you?”

The doctor hesitated.

Peter’s tone sharpened. “If you had, you’d know that the security anklet shows that he's in supervised custody, not incarcerated. Shackles are not part of the protocol.”

"I told him, Agent Burke. He said it was for the safety of the other patients." The officer shrugged.

The doctor opened his mouth, but Peter didn’t let him speak. “Instead of taking two minutes to check, you called the cops. And why were you worried about a lawsuit?” Peter scoffed. “Maybe you should be. My ward has been treated without the respect he deserves and has been put through unnecessary mental trauma!”

The doctor paled slightly. Neal grinned.

Peter turned to the officer, his anger shifting into something more smug. “Alright,” he said, his voice light now. “You two watch this.” 

Neal looked at him. What was his Dad going to do now?

“Go ahead, Trouble,” Peter said, grinning. “Take the cuffs off.”

Neal smirked. He shifted slightly, twisting his hands and reaching down—and in a matter of seconds, the shackles clattered down and he handed the cuffs to the officer with a sweet smile.

Ms. Thompson burst into laughter. "You little scamp" she said, ruffling Neal's hair. 

Peter turned back to the doctor and the officer, spreading his hands. “Do you see how useless that was?” he asked, grinning.

The police officer shook his head. "Useless and a waste of time." He glared at the doctor who had gone quiet.

"Is he discharged?" Peter asked. The doctor nodded.

Peter turned to Ms. Thompson, his expression softening. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Ms. Thompson, still chuckling from Neal’s little stunt, shook her head. “Just make sure he actually rests. He looked exhausted even before all this nonsense.”

Peter clapped a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s not leaving my sight for the rest of the day.”

Neal groaned but didn’t argue.

“Come on, Trouble,” Peter said, steering Neal toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the hospital without another word to the officer or the doctor, Peter keeping a firm hand on Neal’s back the whole way.

By the time they reached the bureau, Neal was starting to droop.

Peter guided him straight to the rec room. “Nap. Now,” he said, pointing to the couch.

Neal rolled his eyes but didn’t resist. He curled up with a blanket, and before Peter even left the room, his eyes were already drifting shut.

Peter walked to his office. This had been a terrible day. 

Chapter Text

Peter sat at his desk, his jaw tight as he made a series of calls.

First, to Ms. Adams. She wasn’t happy about how the visit with Neal’s mother had gone, but there was a silver lining. “This actually strengthens your case for guardianship,” she told him. “Neal was clearly distressed, and the fact that she hasn’t been involved in his life until now will work against her.”

Peter exhaled. “That’s something, at least.”

Next, he called Mike.

“Oh, I wish I had been there,” Mike said after Peter explained. “That doctor needs a wake-up call.”

Peter smirked. “Give him a good scare, but don’t go overboard.”

“No promises,” Mike shot back, and Peter could practically hear the grin.

Finally, he called El.

She listened quietly as Peter went through everything—the visit, Neal’s reaction, the hospital mess. When he finished, there was a pause, then: “I’m coming over.”

Fifteen minutes later, she walked into the bureau, kissing Peter on the cheek before heading straight to the rec room.

Neal was curled up, half-buried under a blanket. He stirred when she sat down next to him. Soft, gentle fingers ran through his hair. 

“Mom?” he mumbled sleepily.

El smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. “Hey, sweetheart. Time to go home.”

Neal blinked up at her, still groggy. “M’okay,” he muttered, shifting to sit up.

El hummed, unconvinced. “I heard what happened. That doctor was awful.” She was not going to bring up the visit - Neal could process that as he saw fit.

Neal just shrugged.

El sighed and shifted, pulling Neal into a quick hug. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Peter walked in as Neal slowly got to his feet. “You’ll be back tomorrow,” Peter said, ruffling Neal’s hair. “But you’re off duty for the night, Trouble.”

Neal gave a tired but amused huff, and El wrapped an arm around his shoulders as she led him out.

At home, Neal was unusually quiet. The question 'Why doesn't she like me?' kept coming up, no matter how much he tried to think of work, school or playing with Satchmo.

He curled up on the couch, watching TV. If El sat, he curled up beside her. Satchmo seemed to sense his mood, pressing himself against Neal’s side. Neal buried his fingers in the puppy’s fur, clinging just as much to him as he did to El.  

El couldn't bear to see his pain, but she knew that she couldn't say anything to ease it. She didn’t push him to talk. Instead, she settled him comfortably on the couch and, when dinner was ready, she sat beside him with a plate, gently feeding him bites of food with a fork.  

Neal accepted it without protest, leaning into her warmth.  

He stayed awake, waiting for Peter. As soon as Peter walked through the door, Neal let out a breath and moved toward him, allowing Peter to pull him into a hug.  

Peter kissed the top of Neal’s head. “Bedtime, Trouble.”  

Neal didn’t argue. Peter and El tucked him in, both kissing his forehead. "We love you, Neal." El said and Peter smiled warmly at him. Satchmo curled up beside him, and Neal finally closed his eyes, feeling safe again.

After tucking Neal in, Peter walked downstairs, running a tired hand through his hair. El was already waiting for him in the living room, arms crossed.  

“He needs a fantastic day tomorrow,” Peter said, sitting beside her. “Something to make up for today.”  

El nodded immediately. “Agreed. We could take him out for breakfast, maybe go to the art museum? Or—oh! What about that new escape room downtown? He’d love figuring out the puzzles.”  

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. “Hughes,” he said, answering. “Burke.”  

A few seconds into the conversation, a slow grin spread across his face.  

El raised an eyebrow. “What?”  

Peter ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “That should do it,” he said, smirking.

--------

Neal sat up, blinking groggily as Peter walked into his room, balancing a tray.  

“Morning, Trouble,” Peter said with a smile, setting the tray down in front of him.  

Neal frowned. “It’s not Sunday.”  

“Nope,” Peter said cheerfully. “Eat up.”  

Suspicious but hungry, Neal dug in. It was all his favorites—fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and a steaming cup of caramel coffee.  

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. When Neal had finished, Peter leaned in. “Go shower. It'll take you some time to get dressed,” he said.  

Neal gave him a side-eye. "It'll take me time to pull on a T-shirt?”  

“Just go,” Peter said, ruffling his hair.  

Neal sighed but got up, heading for the bathroom. When he came back, towel-drying his hair, he stopped short.  

Laid out neatly on his bed was his brand-new suit.  

Neal’s jaw dropped.  

“Dad??” he yelled down the corridor, picking up the jacket like it might disappear. “Should I wear my suit to school?”  

Peter stepped out of the master bedroom, dressed in an exceptionally sharp suit himself. He grinned. “Yes.”  

Neal blinked at him. “You’re messing with me.”  

“Nope.”  

Still eyeing him suspiciously, Neal got dressed. As he fumbled with his tie, there was a knock on the door. Peter stepped in, cuff links in hand.  

“Hold still,” Peter said, expertly fastening them before fixing Neal’s tie.  

Neal watched him, trying to figure out what was going on.  

Then El walked in. Neal’s jaw actually dropped this time. “Mom!”  

El looked stunning in a fitted dress, her hair elegantly styled, a strand of pearls resting at her throat.  

“What is going on?” Neal demanded, looking between them.  

Peter just smirked and ushered him toward the door. “Come on, kid. We’ve got places to be.”  

Neal let himself be guided to the car, still utterly bewildered. “Where are we going?”  

Peter just chuckled and started the engine. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

The car ride was quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional exchange between Peter and El. They didn’t seem to want to spoil the surprise. Finally, the car pulled up to a grand building.

“City Hall?” Neal muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Peter to hear. He had been inside - a few times - but, well, those times were different. His eyes darted around as they stepped out of the car and approached the entrance, his heart beginning to race. It was hard to break old habits!

El looked over at him with a warm smile, offering a gentle pat on the back. “Let's go in, precious.”

----------

Mike was practically bouncing in place, his excitement barely contained.

"Calm down," Harvey smirked.

"But this will make everything easier!" Mike burst out, unable to sit still. "The guardianship, the fair pay, the commutation—and can you imagine the doctor’s face when he realizes how bad it'll be if Peter decides to sue?"

"Mike…" Donna warned from her desk, not even looking up.

Mike deflated slightly.

Harvey smirked. "You're a lawyer, not a puppy. Try to act like it."

Mike rolled his eyes but forced himself to take a deep breath.

Harvey leaned back in his chair. "And don’t go jumping around City Hall like that. Calmly call off the press—if any of them get hold of Neal’s background, it'll be a mess."

Mike quieted down and straightened up, schooling his face into a solemn, dignified expression. Harvey knew why - Jessica was striding down the corridor. He loved watching Mike react to Jessica—his puppy trying to impress the Big Dog. 'That means I'm a puppy too,' a little voice said in his head. 'No I'm not,' he thought, and caught Donna smirking. Was she reading his mind? But then, Jessica strode in.

"You’re going to City Hall," Jessica said, arms crossed. "The firm needs the optics."

Harvey frowned. "Me? Why? Mike is raring to go."

Jessica gave him a pointed look. "You're going. It's not a request"

Harvey sighed dramatically. He glanced at Mike, who was trying to contain his excitement but failing miserably. "Call Ray." He told Donna.

"He's waiting." Donna said, and she and Jessica exchanged a look. Harvey glared at the room in general, then walked out.

----------

They entered the building, passing through a grand hall with polished marble floors that gleamed beneath the light from ornate chandeliers. Neal couldn’t help but feel out of place, his nerves jangling with every step. Peter guided him toward a large auditorium. The room was filling up with people in suits and uniforms, mostly law enforcement officers. There were marshals. Marshals always took him away. He clutched Peter's arm, and was rewarded with a strong arm around his shoulders.

There were a lot of familiar faces too, Neal realised. Practically everyone from the bureau were there, and as they came in, Peter pointed out Ms.Carter and Ms.Adams.

They took their seats, and Neal couldn’t help but fidget, his fingers tugging nervously at the edges of his jacket. What was going on? Why were they here?

The event started with the sound of the mayor’s voice filling the room. He spoke with authority, commending the law enforcement agencies in the area for their dedication and hard work. Neal’s eyes drifted across the room, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. Peter’s hand was still resting on his shoulder, and El was sitting beside him, her eyes sparkling as she watched the proceedings. Why was Mom smiling like that?? Neal wondered.

The mayor stepped forward to the podium, a broad smile on his face, and motioned toward a table nearby. "It is time to recognize the men and women who keep this city safe," he said, and began a long list of awards and recognitions - some federal, some state. Neal suppressed a yawn, but listened. "The New York White Collar division of the FBI has performed better than any other branch in the country." The mayor started, and Neal sat up. So that's why! Diana was called, and then Jones, and Neal clapped till his hands were sore. Surely Peter must be getting an award. Right on cue, the mayor said "Special Agent Peter Burke," Neal clapped harder than ever. But the mayor wasn't done. "And his foster son and youngest ever consultant in the FBI, Neal Caffrey." Neal's world stopped.

------------

Neal felt like his whole body had turned to jelly. His legs trembled, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. To be recognized alongside Peter —it felt too surreal. He barely heard the applause.

Peter’s hand was warm on the small of Neal’s back, guiding him toward the stage, and Neal’s breath hitched in his chest. He couldn’t quite believe it. Foster son? The words echoed in his mind, almost too much to process. His knees shook even more as they walked up to the stage together.

The mayor smiled at them both, giving Peter a hearty handshake before turning to Neal. He shook Neal's hand with a warm smile.
.
The room exploded in applause again, and Neal’s heart raced. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, suddenly aware of the weight of the award in his hands. It wasn’t just Peter’s achievement. It was their achievement.

"Smile, Trouble." Peter whispered, pulling him close. Neal flashed a brilliant smile, like he had done many, many times, but this was not to con, but to accept recognition. Not recognition in a dark alley by a bunch of criminals, under a fake name. This was real.

When they made their way off the stage, Neal’s legs were shaky, but he managed to keep his balance, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Then, he saw his Mom, clapping with tears running down her eyes.

Neal didn’t think. He just bolted toward her, like the rest of the crowd didn't exist. El caught him as he reached her, and Neal buried his face in her shoulder, his body trembling with the force of emotions he didn’t know how to name.

“My son, the prodigy!” El whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She kissed the top of his head as she held him tight. The world outside, the bright lights, the applause—it all faded away. He had received an award with his Dad. His Mom was proud of him.

Peter stepped up behind them, watching the scene with a soft, proud smile. The sound of cameras clicking filled the air. The reporters, there for a "routine" award ceremony, had a story that they could tell. "You deserve this, Trouble." Peter whispered in Neal's ear.

After the ceremony, the family was surrounded by reporters. Peter spoke, his voice clear and decisive. "As announced, Neal has been my foster son for the last few months. Any questions on anything prior to that will not be answered. Also, any attempts to find information that you can use as a 'scoop' will result in us taking legal action."

Neal grinned. He loved it when Dad put people in their place. But then, Mom spoke in the same decisive voice. "Pearson Hardman is representing Neal, pro bono. They have been very nice. Isn't that right, Mr.Specter?"

Neal's eyes widened as Harvey and Mike stepped up to stand next to him. Mike stood next to Neal. Without conscious thought, Neal mimicked Harvey's posture. Peter watched, hands on hips and a 'Dad look' on his face. The cameras went off again.

----------

Peter pulled the car into Neal’s school parking lot. "Daaaaaad," Neal groaned dramatically. "I don’t want to go to school now!"

Peter grinned. Yesterday, Neal had insisted on going to school even after that draining visit with his mom. Now, when he was buzzing with excitement, he wanted to skip.

"Come on, Trouble," Peter said, ruffling Neal’s hair as they got out. "This won’t take long."

Inside, the principal greeted them warmly, shaking Peter’s hand before turning to Neal with genuine admiration. "This will set a precedent, won’t it?" she mused. "More children like Neal might be able to return to normal schooling instead of being locked away."

Neal blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. But she had. She had wanted the best for him all along.

Ms. Thompson, on the other hand, had no such restraint. She pulled Neal into a tight hug, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I’m not supposed to do that," she admitted to Peter and El. "But I just couldn’t help it."

Peter grinned. "I won’t report you."

She sniffed, brushing at her eyes. "Take him home, please," she told Peter and El. "It’s already late, and there’s no way he’s going to sit still."

She was absolutely right.

As soon as they got home, Neal exploded out of the car, tearing around the house in a burst of energy. Satchmo chased after him, ears flapping wildly, both of them making the kind of joyful noise that only a kid and his dog could.

Peter and El leaned against the doorframe, watching with amused smiles.

Then Peter’s phone pinged.

He frowned and pulled it out, scanning the notification. His expression shifted into something thoughtful.

El noticed immediately. "What is it, love?"

Peter hesitated. He had received access to some documents—classified ones. But when he logged into the portal, there was nothing.

He searched again, more carefully.

Still nothing.

His jaw tightened. This needed very careful handling.

El’s voice pulled him back. "What is it, love?"

He exhaled, looking up at her. "Nothing," he said at first, then softened. "Just a case… Hon."

"Hon," she murmured back, and leaned down to kiss him.

Chapter Text

Neal stirred awake, blinking against the early morning light streaming through his window. Something was different. There was singing—soft, warm, and happy. He sat up, listening. It was Mom.

Curious, he hopped out of bed and padded downstairs, the familiar scent of coffee and breakfast pulling him toward the kitchen. Mom was moving around with an easy, joyful energy, humming a tune as she worked. Her face was flushed with happiness, her smile radiant.

Neal grinned and skipped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist in a quick hug. "Mom!" he said, beaming.

El turned, surprised but pleased, and hugged him back. "Well, good morning, precious. You're up early!"

Neal tilted his head. "You look chipper today."

She chuckled, smoothing a hand over his hair before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Just a good morning, sweetie."

Neal was about to ask more when he heard rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Peter’s voice rang out, full of energy.

"El, you're a tigress! I know—"

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Neal standing there, hugging El.

Peter blinked. Neal blinked back.

"You’re up early, Trouble," Peter recovered quickly, walking over and scooping Neal up like he weighed nothing. He twirled him around once before setting him back down on his feet, and opened the fridge.

Neal was still curious. "Why is Mom a tigress?"

Peter coughed, and El’s face went deep red. "Oh, uh, well…" Peter hedged, closing the fridge door and straightening up.

Neal frowned, looking between them. "Why are you like this?"

El bit her lip, clearly holding back laughter.

"Did you do something that I don't know about?" Neal asked. Peter snorted. El giggled and turned away.

"Hon, he's 13. Old enough!" Peter said. El just nodded.

"Old enough for what??" Neal asked, crossing his arms.

Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Neal, surely you know—we’re a married couple, aren’t we?"

"Yeah?" Neal nodded, still waiting for an actual answer.

Peter hesitated.

El squinted slightly. "Sweetie… you know where babies come from, don’t you?"

Neal’s reply was clear and confident. "Of course. From the hospital."

Silence.

El blinked. Peter just stared. He wondered for a moment if Neal was pranking them, but he could see through Neal. The boy didn't know!

Neal, sensing something was off, looked back and forth between them. "Right?"

El and Peter exchanged a look—one of mutual, stunned realization.

El opened her mouth, closed it, then said, "Neal, sweetheart, why don’t you go set the table for breakfast?"

Neal narrowed his eyes slightly, like he knew they were up to something, but eventually shrugged and left to do as he was told.

The second he was out of sight, Peter ran both hands down his face. "Oh my God." He whispered.

"He actually doesn’t know," El whispered back, looking shaken.

"He’s thirteen, El!" Peter mouthed, exasperated. "How?"

El sank into a chair, staring at the counter like it held the answers. "I don’t know, Hon. But we have to handle this carefully." The trauma that Neal had gone through hung in the air. They didn't have to speak of it. Peter started to pack Neal's lunch. They would talk about this later.
---------
Peter looked through a dozen different databases, continuing his pursuit of nothing. He was called the archaeologist after all - he never stopped digging.

The nothings were adding up to a dangerous game. But why? And for what??

Neal skipped into his office then, fresh from school. Peter happily took a break, hugging the boy and asking about his day.

-----------

The TV played softly in the background as Peter, El, and sat in the living room after dinner. Neal was on his tummy next to Peter, idly petting Satchmo's fur. A news anchor detailed a series of home burglaries, showing footage of broken windows and ransacked rooms.

Neal frowned. "How do people just break into houses and take stuff? Don’t they feel bad?"

Peter and El exchanged a glance. They didn’t answer immediately, waiting for Neal to reach the next step on his own.

Neal looked thoughtful for a moment before he raised himself up on his elbows and looked at Peter and El. "I never hurt anyone." He turned to Peter. "Right?"

Peter gave a small nod. "That’s true. You wouldn’t hurt a fly."

Neal relaxed slightly. "Exactly. And I only—allegedly—stole art and antiques worth millions." El snorted, Neal pouted at her. "I'm innocent unless proven guilty." He declared, grinning when Peter gave him a light smack on the bottom, as expected. "And for the bonds - I forged high-priced bonds. The people who buy those things won’t even miss the money!" He gestured toward the screen. "It’s not like I ever messed with people like Ms. Thompson or our neighbors. It's a victimless crime."

Peter sighed and reached out, pulling Neal up to sit. He and El exchanged a glance. It was time for a difficult conversation, and it was best that Peter talked to Neal alone.

She stood, scooping up Satchmo, and pressed a light kiss to Neal’s head before heading outside.

Peter kept his arm around Neal. "Trouble - there's no such thing as a victimless crime. What do you think happens after those high-priced bonds go into circulation?"

Neal shrugged. "Someone buys them. They think they have something valuable."

"And then?"

Neal hesitated. "They find out it’s fake?"

"Right. And sometimes that ‘someone’ isn’t a billionaire. Sometimes it’s a retirement fund. A hospital. A university trying to stay open. And when they lose money, they cut jobs, raise fees, or close down programs."

Neal’s jaw dropped.

Peter’s voice was gentle. "Theft affects banks, Neal. They have to get the money back somehow, so they will cut jobs and increase the interest on loans, and they'll make it harder for people to get loans by making the rules stricter. So, if I'm living paycheck to paycheck, but can't get a loan for something important, what would I do?"

"Go to one of those payday loan places." Neal muttered, looking at his hands. "And the bigger the theft, the more the people who are affected?"

Peter took a breath. He pulled Neal into his lap. "I'm afraid so, buddy." He said, cuddling Neal.

"Dad..." Neal said into his shoulder. Neal's self-image of being a good boy who robbed the rich was shattering. Peter could feel the pain. This was what 'This hurts me more than it hurts you,' meant, Peter thought.

Neal looked up. "The art, though. That’s different, isn't it? It just sits in someone’s house or a gallery. And they're always insured!"

Peter ruffled Neal's hair and spoke. It felt like he was squeezing each word painfully out of his chest. "A stolen piece means lost revenue, Trouble. A gallery uses their revenue for lots of things. And the lesser known artists find it difficult to sell paintings. The security people get into trouble, they get fired, and when a gallery loses money - lost jobs." Peter rocked Neal gently and continued. "When they get their money back through insurance, the insurance people raise their premiums, Trouble."

Peter tightened his hold and let Neal process. The room was quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV. Neal’s breathing hitched. He pressed his face into Peter’s shoulder. "I didn’t know," he mumbled, voice small. His voice caught. "I've hurt people"

Peter kissed the top of his head. "You did hurt people, Trouble. You made some bad decisions, but you didn't know better." Peter tilted Neal's face up to look right into his eyes. The hurt in those blue eyes was heartbreaking. "You’re paying for it, aren't you?" Peter asked. "You're doing time. You've closed so many cold cases, and we've broken down so many networks - when you do that, the reverse happens. Revenue goes up, theft comes down because of the chances of getting caught, and it helps everyone. And Trouble - we've stopped many violent criminals too."

Neal curled closer, letting out a shaky breath. Peter held him, a steady presence. El came back inside and sat next to them.

------------------

El got into bed. Peter came in and stretched. Neal was in bed after a long, quiet cry. Not the sobs that were a result of trauma. This was guilt. No less painful, for him or Neal. That had been a difficult talk.

"Now, what do we do about the other talk?" Peter asked as he got under the covers.

El bit her lip.

Peter exhaled through his nose, thinking. "Okay. We tell him, gently. Right?"

El’s expression turned instantly wary. "And risk triggering a really bad memory? No."

Peter grimaced. She had a point.

El rubbed her temples. "How the hell did this happen? He’s so sharp about everything else."

Peter shook his head. "He was probably too busy being a criminal genius to talk to the kids about it and crack silly jokes. Didn't go to school when he was 11 or 12 - health classes tackle that particular topic very early nowadays, and I guess no one thought to tell him about it. His mom—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. "Never mind."

El nodded, her face softening. "Okay. A book, then?"

Peter considered it. "But that would be written for children who know nothing. Neal knows, and probably fears it!"

El groaned. "This is a disaster."

Peter snapped his fingers. "A movie! We choose a romantic one with a slightly explicit scene, and .."

El gave him a look so scathing he almost stepped back. "...lose our foster parent license."

Peter winced. She was right. That was literally what groomers did.

Peter turned pale. "Okay. No movie." Then he grinned. "I know, let's ask his therapist. She's the expert."

El nodded. "We'll go together, without Neal. Then we'll see what to do." She snuggled up to Peter. "Raising that child is such a roller-coaster," she said, and Peter kissed her head.

"I love riding it with you, Hon." He gazed into her eyes. She was beautiful. And raising Neal was an adventure indeed. Talking to CPS, his parole officer, reading medical records, digging through files, the piles of "nothing"... Peter smiled suddenly - a lot of "nothings" had just fit together.

"Hon?" El asked. She loved it when Peter smiled like that. His eyes were bright - it meant that he had solved a case, and it made him gorgeous - at least in her eyes.

Peter smiled. "I've actually uncovered a victimless crime, thanks to Neal." He grinned. "You know how you get a victimless crime? When a victim of a lot of crimes decides to make amends, and can't find a legal way to do it."

"Like a vigilante?" El asked.

"Sort of. But now I know what to do." Peter answered. "I'm going to find a way to make his crime legal." He kissed her, but not before checking whether the door was locked.

Chapter Text

Mike knotted his tie. He was already running late, and Harvey was going to kill him. He grabbed his bike and went out and took a step back. There was an envelope on the ground outside his apartment door. No address, no return address, no markings—just his name, printed neatly. He picked it up warily, stepping back inside and locking the door behind him.

He opened it to see a few sheets of paper. They were instructions. Was he being blackmailed? Who knew his secret? Mike's hands shook. It was a sequence. Step A. Call this person, Step B. Arrange to meet at this place, Step C. Write this examination - write an examination? Mike wondered for a second, and went on. Write examinations, meet another person. Mike did a double take. Get degree certified. And then the last step. Take the last bar exam.

The last sheet had a warning. If you touch a case or step into a courtroom before you finish all the steps, you're going to prison.

Mike’s hands shook as he flipped through the papers again. His stomach tightened. This had to be a joke. A trap. Or—maybe—his only way out.

Across town, Harvey Specter stood in his apartment, staring at an identical envelope. His phone buzzed. Unknown Caller.

Harvey answered. "Harvey Specter. Who is this?"

A smooth, professional voice replied. "I believe you received an envelope, Mr. Specter. I’m calling to confirm that everything is in place. If your associate is willing to comply, we can proceed immediately."

Harvey’s jaw tightened. "And if I tell you to go to hell?"

A pause. "Then we both know how this ends, don’t we?"

The line went dead.

---

Harvey tossed the envelope onto his desk as Mike stormed in, holding his own.

"You got one too?" Mike asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

Harvey gestured toward the envelope in front of him. "Looks that way." Donna actually looked pale.

Mike dropped into the chair opposite Harvey’s desk. "This is insane," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Who just hands someone a law degree?"

Donna shrugged. "You ever see The Godfather? ‘One day, and that day may never come, I’ll call upon you to do a service for me’? Yeah. This feels like that."

Mike let out a dry laugh. "Great. So I either become a real lawyer, or I wake up to find a horse head in my bed."

Harvey leaned back, studying him. "You don’t have a choice."

Mike blinked. "Excuse me?"

Harvey gestured toward the papers. "If this is legit, you have a shot at making this right. If not - well, either way, someone knows. If you don't do this, you're going to prison."

Mike went still.

"Mike, I'll fight for you. I'm not saying I won't. But the way this is written - someone has enough to put you away." Mike looked at him, searching his face. For doubt. For reassurance. For something.

Nothing.

Harvey wasn’t bluffing.

Donna patted his shoulder. "Call the first number, Mike."

________________

Peter was just about to turn in for the night when something tugged at his instincts. He had learned to trust that feeling, especially when it came to Neal. And for the past week, Neal had been a mess. Quietly, he pushed open Neal’s door. The nightlight cast a soft glow over the room, enough for Peter to see the small figure curled up under the blankets, shoulders shaking.

Peter’s heart clenched. He stepped inside, sitting down on the edge of the bed and placing a gentle hand on Neal’s back. "Neal," he murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles.

Neal stiffened for a moment, then turned, pressing his face against Peter’s side. He was still so small, Peter thought, despite the growth spurt. Peter didn’t speak. He just held Neal, letting him settle, letting him cry if he needed to. After a while, Neal’s voice came, quiet and hesitant. “You love me because I’m good now, right?”

Peter frowned, pulling back just enough to look at him. "No, Trouble," he said firmly. "I’ve loved you from the moment I arrested you."

Neal blinked at him, caught off guard.

"It’s good that you’ve changed,” Peter continued, running a hand through Neal’s hair. “But I love you as you are. No ifs, no buts.”

Neal looked down, processing that. Then, slowly, he curled back into Peter’s embrace. Neal’s fingers twisted into Peter’s shirt. Peter smiled. Neal did this every time. Clutching the fabric of his shirt and crying into his chest.

“I was stupid,” Neal whispered. “I should have known…”

Peter tightened his arms around him. “You didn’t know,” he said gently but firmly. “You didn’t know the consequences of your actions, and you’ve paid the price. You’re still paying the price.”

Neal stayed quiet, his grip on Peter’s shirt tightening.

“Neal, all of us make mistakes as children, and we all do what we think is best with what we know. That is all you did.” Peter murmured, pressing a kiss to Neal’s hair. “You don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

Neal let out a shaky breath, nodding slightly against Peter’s chest. But Peter knew it would take time—probably a long time—before Neal truly believed it. So he just held him, letting the quiet assurance sink in, letting Neal rest in the safety of his arms.

"Dad? We're meeting Ms. Carter tomorrow, aren't we?" Neal asked.

"Yes, Trouble," Peter answered. He waited for the next question.

"She always asks if I feel remorse. I always answered yes, because I hated Hudson? But now, I really do." Neal's voice was shaky, but Peter held him tight. This was taking an incredible amount of strength.

"So just tell her, Trouble," he said, settling Neal back in bed.

--------------------------------------

Neal sat across from Ms. Carter, his posture straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He had been quiet throughout the meeting, listening as Peter and his parole officer discussed his progress, the changes in his life, and the possibility of a reduced sentence.

"Neal," Ms.Carter asked, "Do you feel remorse for your actions? If we take you off your anklet, can we be sure that you won't reoffend?"

“I feel remorse, Ma'am." Neal said in a soft voice. "I am sorry for what I did, and how much trouble I caused, for a lot of people. I did not know." Ms.Carter smiled at him and then at Peter. He was telling the truth. Plain and simple. This was rare in her line of work.

"But I don’t deserve a commutation,” Neal said softly but firmly.

Peter’s head turned sharply. “Neal—”

“I’m sure,” Neal interrupted, his voice steady. “I did what I did. And I got a short sentence, and now I'm with Mom and Dad instead of a prison. I don’t deserve to have my sentence cut short.”

Ms. Carter studied him carefully, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Then she nodded.

“I rarely see actual repentance, Neal,” she said. “But I believe you. And I am sure you won’t commit another crime.”

Neal swallowed, nodding slightly.

“Wait outside for a moment, Neal,” Ms. Carter said gently. “I need to speak with your Dad.”

Neal hesitated but obeyed, stepping out of the office.

Once the door closed, Ms. Carter sighed and turned to Peter. “I have everything I need to push for commutation,” she admitted. “He was a harmless child in maximum security, he's been punished more than what anyone could want. He's proved himself several times over, and that was actual remorse. Juveniles who show remorse do not reoffend.”

Peter frowned. “But?”

“But not until he’s in permanent foster care with you and Elizabeth. I've already had a meeting with Ms. Adams. Ms.Caffrey - there's not much on her to declare her unfit for parenting. They did a house inspection - nothing to find. The requirements aren't much when its a teenager. If we commute the sentence now, Neal goes to her.” she shook her head. “Removing Neal from your home at this point would be a disaster.”

Peter exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. The CPS didn't require that a parent show interest or pride when its a teenager? Ms. Carter was right. Sending Neal back to his mother, after all the progress he’d made, would undo everything.

“I understand,” Peter said.

Ms. Carter nodded. “Good.” They sat in silence for a moment before she stood. “Let’s bring him back in.”

Peter opened the door, and Neal stepped in, still looking uncertain. Peter met his eyes and gave him a reassuring smile. "You're staying with us, buddy.” Peter said. Neal smiled, and sat back down.

"We're not done yet." Ms. Carter pulled a worn picture album from a drawer and set it gently on the desk between them. "Neal," she said in a kind voice. "You're smart. Let's see if you know the people in here, hmm?" She flipped open the cover, revealing a black-and-white photograph of a man in an old-fashioned suit, his eyes sharp, his posture confident.

Neal frowned. "That's Eugène Vidocq."

Ms. Carter nodded. "That's right. And he was?"

Neal hesitated, then shrugged. "He was a criminal. A thief, a conman… escaped from prison more than once, and then he started working for the police."

"That's right.: She turned the page, revealing another photograph—this time, of the same man in uniform, surrounded by early law enforcement officers. "He also became the father of modern criminology," she said gently. "He founded the first detective agency in France and pioneered forensic techniques still in use today."

Peter smiled. This was good. Neal looked down.

Ms. Carter flipped to another page. "And this is?"

Neal's brow furrowed. The man in the next photograph looked familiar, but it took him a moment. Then it clicked. "That's Malcolm X. He's very young, though!"

"Yes," Ms. Carter said. "See, before he was Malcolm X, he was Malcolm Little—a teenage criminal, a thief, a hustler. He was arrested for burglary at twenty and spent years in prison." She turned the page, showing another photograph of Malcolm X addressing a massive crowd, his hand raised mid-speech. "But he didn’t, and became the man all of us know."

Neal bit his lip.

Ms. Carter flipped to another page, showing a young boy in a mugshot, his expression defiant. This time, Neal didn't say anything. Then she turned to the next image—a well-dressed man shaking hands with a U.S. president.

"Stanley 'Tookie' Williams." Neal said. "Nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize."

Ms. Carter smiled. "He spent years as a criminal, Neal. He changed in prison." She leaned forward, voice soft. "Do you think they all should have spent their whole lives wallowing in guilt?"

Neal’s hands clenched in his lap. "No." he murmured. "They changed."

"Yes," she agreed. "And so have you." She closed the book and rested a hand on it. "It’s time to let yourself move forward, Neal." Neal smiled, a little broader this time. Peter put an arm around his shoulders.

--------------------------

"Dad?" Neal asked once they were back in the car. "How do judges know how to sentence people and then commute their sentences?"

"That's their job, Neal." Peter answered. "They have to follow the law."

"Then why do they say some judges are good and some are bad?"

Peter took a deep breath. It was good that Neal was out of the dark pit he had been in, but that also meant that his incessant questions were back. "It's how they interpret the law, Trouble. If the law says 5 to 10 years, some judges always give 10."

"That's not right." Neal said. "It might be legal, but its not right."

"Just because something is legal need not mean that its always ethical, Neal." Peter said, his voice very gentle. "That's just true for the majority of cases. There are always outliers."

"And they suffer?"

"Not always."

"What happens then?" Neal asked, now getting fidgety.

"Well, when you're in law enforcement, you soon see that what's legal isn't always right. Some people follow the letter of the law, even if it's against their conscience. Some people ignore the law, and some people find ways to make the law work so that good people aren't treated unfairly." Peter told Neal, bracing himself.

"Like you took me in?" Neal asked.

"Yes." Peter smiled. That had been easy.

"But you're just one person." Neal shot back.

"Well, the thing is, the people who know how to make the law work the way they need it to aren’t exactly common, so we sort of end up knowing about each other, and each of us knows other people who know how to make other things work the way people who need them to work need them to work—if that makes sense? And, well—most of the time, we can help people end up with what they probably should’ve ended up with."

"Dad!" Neal stared at Peter. "That made no sense."

Peter grinned. "You'll know better once you're older."

Neal tilted his head. "Mom was telling Satchmo that you keep talking a lot about finding nothing everywhere and victimless crimes over the last few days and it makes no sense to her."

Peter bit his lip. His Trouble was truly recovering. "It's not polite to eavesdrop, Neal!" He said, glancibg at the boy.

"I couldn't help it!" Neal said, but looked at Peter again. "But you're not making sense to Mom, and you're not making sense to me!"

"Very well." Peter's smile turned smug. "Maybe, I don't have to."

Chapter Text

El watched Peter and Neal come in. Peter always looked a little softer when he was with Neal, which she loved. And Neal—he just looked lighter today, his usual sullen expression over the last few days replaced with something more open.

"Come here, love," she said, holding out her arms. Neal didn’t hesitate, stepping into her embrace and settling against her. She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling the tension he still carried, but also the relief.

"The meeting went well," Peter said, pressing a kiss to her head as he sat down.

Neal pulled back just enough to look at El. "Mom? On the way back, Dad said—" He cleared his throat and did his best impression of the way Peter spoke while driving, looking straight ahead.

"Well, the thing is, the people who know how to make the law work the way they need it to aren’t exactly common, so we sort of end up knowing about each other, and each of us knows other people who know how to make other things work the way people who need them to work need them to work—if that makes sense? And, well—most of the time, people end up with what they probably should’ve ended up with."

"Do you remember every word you hear?" Peter asked. El, though, stared at Peter, then back at Neal. "Huh?" She frowned at Peter.

Neal shook his head. "I have no idea what he was trying to say."

El turned fully toward Peter, one eyebrow raised. "Honey. Is this more of the "nothing" business?" Peter just grinned at them both.

Before El could say anything more, Peter’s phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then said, "All right, thank you," before hanging up.

"Harvey Specter is going to be your lawyer for a bit, Neal," Peter said, watching Neal’s reaction. "Mike is out of the office for a few weeks."

Neal blinked. "Harvey Specter? He's a senior partner! Why would he...?"

Peter smiled. "Well, it's good for us, Trouble. He almost never loses." Neal looked back thoughfully.

Peter loosened his tie as he stepped into the bedroom, exhaling as he shrugged off his suit jacket. Neal followed him in. More questions, Peter thought, waiting for him to speak.

"Dad?" Neal said, voice low.

Peter smiled to himself, then looked over his shoulder. "Yes,Trouble?" He asked gently.

"You know what Mike Ross was hiding, don’t you?"

Peter blinked. He had not expected that.

Neal looked at him, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "All those 'nothings' were about him." Neal paused. "It’s not something he did, it’s something he should have but didn't."

Peter sighed. The boy was just too smart.

"Don’t think about it, Trouble," Peter said, turning around and reaching out to ruffle Neal's hair.

Neal grinned impishly. Peter sighed. Neal was absolutely going to think about it.

Peter twirled him around and delivered a light smack. "Out," he said, pushing Neal towards the door and closing it.

Neal laughed as he trotted out of the room, but a second later, Peter heard him stop in the hallway.

"Whoa!"

Peter closed his eyes. That had been....fast!

"What is it, precious?" El called from the kitchen.

There was a beat of silence before Neal answered, far too quickly, "It’s nothing, Mom."

"Don’t you start now!" El warned. "Come eat, you're coming with me to decorate a cake!"

Peter chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

----------

Peter stirred the sauce on the stove, glancing up as the front door opened. Neal and El stepped inside, carrying a large cooler between them. Neal was grinning ear to ear, clearly excited about something.

Peter wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and walked over. "What’s this?" he asked, lifting the cooler’s lid.

Inside, nestled in ice, were small, delicate swans—ice swans. Peter raised an eyebrow. "You made these?"

"I was decorating the cake, the ice sculptor was at work, and he showed me how!" Neal said happily, bouncing on his heels.

El chuckled, setting down her bag. "Apparently, he’s a natural."

Peter crossed his arms. "Let me guess. He wants Neal to help, and he’ll be paid?"

"And I’ll learn too," Neal added, scooping up Satchmo and rubbing his ears. "I’ll make an 'Ice-Satchmo' next."

Peter rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smile. "Of course you will."

Later that night, Peter held Neal close as they watched the game, the boy curled comfortably against him. Peter found himself absently rubbing Neal’s back, his thoughts drifting. El was on her laptop.

So much talent packed into one scrawny little body, Peter thought. So much hurt still lurking beneath the surface. And yet, Neal kept going, throwing himself into everything—whether it was art, work, or ice sculpting, of all things.

Peter tightened his arm around him slightly. Neal grinned. El continued typing, Satchmo cuddling up to her, when the landline rang.

"Voicemail, Hon?" Peter asked. El nodded. The phone rang and went to voicemail. Neal snuggled into Peter's arms.

“Hey Burke, Strickland here,” came the voice.

Neal froze, his face draining of color. El got up to go to the phone as Peter held Neal tight.

“That kid has to testify in San Francisco. Bring him to Hudson on Wednesday to put on prisoner transport,” Strickland said. The line went dead.

Neal trembled violently.

Peter tightened his hold. “You’re not going anywhere, Trouble.”

Chapter Text

Elizabeth moved close to Neal, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t respond either. He sat frozen, his breath shallow, his eyes wide and unfocused.

Peter grabbed his phone and stepped into the backyard, his voice low but firm as he made call after call.

Neal barely registered it. His mind was elsewhere—his world had stopped.

Shackles. Cuffs. Chains rattling as he shuffled in line.

The stories whispered in the dark at Hudson played like a film reel in his head.

Boys who had been taken to testify.

The biggest, meanest bullies coming back broken.

Escape attempts ending in punishment cells.

Shivs. Hunger. Freezing cold. Sweltering heat.

No control. No help.

His fingers twitched as though they could already feel metal clamping around his wrists again. His stomach twisted violently.

"Mom…” His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t…”

She pulled him closer, kissing his hair. “You won’t, sweetie. You’re here, with us.”

Neal barely heard her. His pulse roared in his ears.

Peter walked back into the living room, his expression dark but controlled. He sat beside them, his hand immediately finding Neal’s back, rubbing slow, grounding circles.

“They’re all angry,” he said, voice steady but filled with conviction. “Ms. Adams, Ms. Carter—Harvey is mad. We won’t let anything happen, Trouble.”

Neal barely reacted. His mind was still locked in that cold, sterile transport van, shackled and powerless.

Then Peter’s phone pinged. He glanced down, reading the message aloud.

“Found a judge. It's done. He'll testify on a video call to court with you present. Tell the kid and call me back once he's asleep."

Harvey.

The words barely sank in before Neal’s body gave out. His muscles loosened all at once, the tension draining, and he collapsed into Elizabeth’s lap. She caught him easily, her arms coming around him, rocking him gently.

Peter squeezed his shoulder. “See? You’re not going anywhere.”

Neal pressed his face into El’s sweater, gripping onto her sleeve. He didn’t say anything, but for the first time since the call, he could breathe.

-----------

"Big bed tonight, Trouble." Peter said to Neal. "Mom and I will stay here till you're awake, and then go clean up downstairs."

Neal nodded. The color had returned to his cheeks, but the boy was too shaken. He climbed into bed, and when El tucked him in, looked at both of him. 

"Did Mr.Specter get a court order?"

"Not yet, buddy." Peter said in a soft voice. "The courts have to open. Tomorrow, we'll go to the courthouse and get it done."

"We?" Neal asked in a trembling voice. 

"Yes, we. Mom and I will be there the whole time, but you need to appear before the judge. Harvey said it'll make things a lot easier." 

Neal still looked worried, but he fell asleep. Peter and El got up, leaving Satchmo with Neal.

---------------

Peter sat at the kitchen table, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. El had seen him angry before—frustrated, exasperated, even furious at criminals who thought they were untouchable.

But this? This was different. This wasn’t about justice. This was personal.

El sat next to him, her hand resting over his. He was burning up inside, and she knew because she felt the same. Strickland had called and demanded they bring her son—told them to put Neal in shackles like an animal, throw him onto a prison transport plane, send him back into hell.

She had never wanted to kill a man before tonight.

Peter dialed.

Harvey picked up immediately. “Burke.”

“That man had the nerve to tell me to bring my boy to be chained up." Peter’s voice was low, steady—but it crackled with restrained fury. “You know as well as I know that he has committed crimes, Harvey. I don't care what you do, I want Strickland rotting in prison. Take him down!!"

There was silence on the other end. Then, Harvey spoke, his voice stripped of its usual smirk. “I’m already on it.”

El let out a slow breath. That voice—cold, lethal—sent a shiver down her spine. She had been told that Harvey Specter was one of the most ruthless men in the game, and now she heard it. 

Peter leaned forward, gripping the phone like it was the only thing holding him together. “No kid should be in a prison transport plane, Harvey. No reason. None.”

“I know,” Harvey said, determined. “And I promise you—once I'm done, he won't be allowed anywhere near children. He'll be with a lot of men. Men stronger and meaner than him, in orange."

Peter hung up and El clung to him. They didn't have to speak. They went up and settled on either side of their son.

----------------

Peter woke Neal the next morning with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hey buddy, time to get up."

Neal stirred, blinking groggily, but the moment consciousness settled in, his whole body tensed. His breath hitched, and he curled in on himself, his fingers gripping the blanket tight. He had slept fitfully, although Peter and El's presence had warded off nightmares.

Peter immediately softened his voice. "Neal, look at me."

Neal shook his head, burying his face in the pillow. "I don’t want to go," he mumbled, muffled but thick with fear.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his movements slow. "I know, buddy. But we have to."

A tiny whimper escaped from beneath the blanket, and before Peter could say anything else, the door opened. Elizabeth was already moving before she even spoke, drawn in by the sound.

"Sweetheart?" she murmured, kneeling beside the bed. She brushed a hand over Neal’s curls, her fingers light but grounding. "What’s wrong?"

Neal finally lifted his head, his blue eyes wide, filled with fear. "What if they take me to Hudson from there?" His voice cracked at the edges, barely more than a whisper. His fingers clenched tighter in the blanket. "What if they just—what if they put me in cuffs and take me back?"

Peter’s jaw tightened, and he had to take a breath before speaking. "That’s not going to happen."

"You don’t know that," Neal whispered, his whole body trembling.

Elizabeth moved first, taking Neal’s hand and squeezing it. "Breathe, sweetheart," she murmured. "Slowly. In, then out. Just like we practiced."

Neal tried, sucking in an unsteady breath, but it hitched in his chest.

Peter reached out, resting a hand on the back of Neal’s head. "Breathe, Trouble," he said softly. "It’s me."

Neal shuddered, his chest rising and falling too fast. Peter pressed his palm more firmly against his curls, grounding him. "Listen to me. Harvey already filed to stop it, and your mom and I are not letting anyone take you anywhere. You are not going back to Hudson. Not today, not ever."

Neal swallowed hard, searching Peter’s face, his grip still tight on Elizabeth’s hand.

"You trust us?" Peter asked.

Neal hesitated. Then, finally, he gave a tiny nod.

Peter let out a quiet breath. "Okay. Then we go together. We walk in, we sit down, and we let Harvey do what he does best. And I’ll be right there the whole time. So will Mom."

Elizabeth squeezed Neal’s hand again. "We won’t let anything happen to you, sweetheart. I promise."

Neal exhaled shakily. He still looked terrified, but after a long moment, he nodded again.

Peter rubbed his back once more. "Let’s get you ready."

Neal swallowed again, then, hesitantly, let go of the blanket. "Yeah," he said, his voice small but steady.

Peter gave his shoulder a squeeze. "That’s my little Trouble."

Neal huffed a tiny, shaky laugh. Then he let them pull him to his feet.

Chapter Text

Harvey met them at the courthouse, his confidence on full display. Even in the busy corridor, he seemed to command the space.

"Ms. Carter’s here, Ms. Adams is on the way," he said without preamble. "They’ve been briefed. Judge Jefferson wants this in chambers, not open court."

Peter frowned. "Jefferson’s strict."

Harvey smirked, adjusting his cuffs. "That’s exactly what we need to take down Strickland."

Peter didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, placing a steadying hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal, who had barely spoken since leaving the car, kept glancing toward the exits, his whole body wound tight.

"Come on," Peter murmured. "We’ve got this."

Harvey led them through the hallway, his presence parting the crowd like the tide. Within minutes, a clerk ushered them into the judge’s chambers.

Judge Jefferson sat behind an imposing desk, her expression unreadable—until her eyes landed on Neal. Her jaw tightened, and her fingers curled into a fist atop her desk.

"This is the minor Strickland ordered transported in restraints?" she asked sharply.

Harvey gave a single nod. "Yes, Your Honor."

Jefferson’s expression darkened. She turned to Neal, her tone softening but still firm. "That isn’t happening," she told him, leaving no room for argument. She gestured to the chairs in front of her desk. "Sit."

Harvey smirked at Peter. "Told you," he muttered.

Peter exhaled slowly, keeping a steady grip on Neal as they sat. Harvey knew what he was doing.

The judge turned to Ms. Carter. "Were you informed of this transport order?"

Ms. Carter sat up straighter. "No, Your Honor."

"And what’s standard protocol when a felon on a tracking device is called to testify out of state?"

"Where possible, a video conference or recorded deposition is arranged. If travel is necessary, they are transported under normal conditions unless they have a history of violations. In Mr. Caffrey’s case, that would mean a commercial flight, accompanied by his guardian or a U.S. Marshal. Restraints are not standard and should not have been considered." She paused. "That said, it’s irrelevant—San Francisco courts have the infrastructure for video testimony. There was no reason to move him at all."

Jefferson’s jaw tightened. "So the order was not only against protocol, but unlawful."

Peter fought back a smirk. Yes, Jefferson was exactly who they needed.

Beside him, Neal exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction.

Jefferson turned to Harvey. "The order specifies that Mr. Caffrey is not to be separated from his handler or guardians, never housed with violent adult offenders, and never placed in restraints unless he commits another crime?"

"That’s correct, Your Honor," Harvey said, satisfaction evident.

The judge signed the order with a decisive stroke and handed it over.

She looked to Neal. "You’ll keep a copy of this with you at all times."

Neal nodded. His fingers twitched against his sleeve, but he was calmer now, his breathing steadier. Peter let out a slow breath, exchanging a glance with El.

It was done.

"Step up here, Mr. Caffrey," Judge Jefferson instructed.

Neal hesitated a second before rising and walking to the desk. The judge met his eyes. "I’ve reviewed your records—both your criminal history and your work with the FBI."

Neal swallowed and nodded.

"You understand the impact of your actions?"

Neal took a shaky breath. "I—I didn’t realize how many people I hurt," he admitted, voice quiet but steady. "I thought I was only taking from people who wouldn’t miss it. I didn’t think about the ones who lost their jobs or security. But I do now. I’ll never steal or forge anything again."

The judge studied him, her sharp gaze flicking to Peter and El, who were watching with quiet pride. She didn’t smile, but her expression softened slightly.

"And your guardians," she said. "Any complaints?"

Neal blinked, then shook his head, firm. "No, Your Honor."

Jefferson nodded once and gestured to the bailiff. "Is Mr. Caffrey’s CPS caseworker present?"

"Yes, Your Honor," the bailiff confirmed.

"Send her in." She said, and turned to Neal. "Will you be all right sitting in the courtroom for a few minutes?" 

Neal hesitated, then nodded.

"Good. Go on, then."

As Neal stepped outside, Ms. Adams entered. She smiled at him as they passed, ruffling his hair lightly.

The door closed behind him.

"Ms. Adams," Judge Jefferson said, already flipping through documents. "I’ve seen enough. Initiate TPR proceedings. That child stays with the Burkes until he’s eighteen, or he’s going to end up back in prison."

Ms. Adams nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Jefferson turned to Harvey. "Mr. Specter, you filed a motion against Warden Strickland for undue distress?"

Harvey’s grin turned predatory. "Yes, Your Honor. Motion for injunctive relief and compensatory damages."

Jefferson nodded, flipping through the documents. "The motion is granted. I expect the U.S. Attorney’s Office to cooperate fully with discovery."

Harvey inclined his head. "Thank you, Your Honor."

The judge shifted her gaze to Ms. Carter. "Initiate disciplinary proceedings against him for the protocol violations?"

Ms. Carter’s expression matched Harvey’s. "Already in progress, Your Honor."

Jefferson nodded in approval before turning to Peter and El. "Good work," she said, her voice lighter for the first time. "We’ll take care of your kid."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Peter replied, his grip on El’s hand tightening.

A few minutes later, they stepped into the hallway. Neal was waiting just outside the door, still looking nervous, but as soon as Peter and El reached him, they pulled him into a hug.

Neal let out a small, shaky breath, pressing close.

Harvey led Neal a few steps away, pointing out a portrait in the corridor while Peter and El spoke with Ms. Adams.

"What’s TPR?" Peter asked quietly.

"Termination of Parental Rights," Ms. Adams explained. "The last resort. And it’s never easy."

Peter and El exchanged a glance and held hands. They would find the strength for it.

Chapter Text

"Dad?" Neal asked once they were back in the car.

Peter glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Neal was visibly relieved, the tension in his shoulders finally easing, but his expression was still thoughtful.

"What did you talk about after I was sent out?"

Peter exhaled, gathering his thoughts. "Judge Jefferson wants to throw the book at Strickland," he said. "She has given permission for Harvey to sue, and Ms. Carter to report the breach of protocol."

Neal nodded slightly, absorbing that, but Peter could tell that wasn’t really what he was asking about.

"The other point was, well—how to make sure that you're with us until you're eighteen." Peter glanced at him, offering a small smile. "Once you're eighteen, you don't need anyone’s permission to be with us."

Neal let out a slow breath, then shifted, leaning into Elizabeth’s side.

"They said it will be difficult, love." El said, wrapping an arm around him and smoothing a hand over his curls. "We have to end the rights your mom has over you, and that's not easy. But you’re ours, sweetheart. No one’s taking you away."

Peter smiled sadly. They would address the term TPR later, but El had found a way to avoid keeping Neal in the dark.

Neal didn’t answer, but he curled in a little closer, his breathing steady. Safe.

------‐----------------

Mike practically burst into Harvey’s office, his excitement barely contained. His tie was crooked, his shirt slightly untucked, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His grin, however, was so wide it practically radiated light.

Harvey barely glanced up from his paperwork. “Get out. I don't care what it is. You don't show your face here till -"

"I'm done!!" Mike said and Harvey looked up, staring in disbelief. Donna, who had stepped away from her desk,
swept in, shutting the door behind her with a snap. “Well?” she asked, her sharp gaze flicking between them. "You can't be back. That was too fast.”

Mike flopped down into the chair across from him, bouncing his knee. “I didn’t eat or sleep much.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. “Funny what you can do when you work twenty-four hours a day.”

Harvey arched an eyebrow. “And by ‘funny,’ do you mean ‘concerning’?”

Mike threw his hands up. “Whatever! Didn’t you get the call?”

“What call?”

“The call!” Mike looked incredulous. “He said he’d call!”

Harvey leaned forward. “Who said they’d call?”

Mike hesitated, waving his hands vaguely. “The—uh—the guy. The one who didn’t tell me his name?”

Harvey stared at him for a long beat, completely unimpressed. “Oh, well, that clears it right up.”

Mike groaned and raked his fingers through his hair again. “I mean, the guy. The one who set it all up.”

“And you didn’t think to ask for a name?”

“Pretty sure he would’ve just laughed at me.”

Harvey rolled his eyes, but before he could get another word out, his office phone rang. He picked it up, his expression shifting the moment he heard the voice on the other end. His eyes flicked to Mike, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face.

A second later, both Harvey’s and Mike’s phones chimed with incoming messages.

Mike scrambled for his phone, nearly dropping it in his rush. He unlocked it with fumbling fingers, scanned the notification—then froze.

There, staring back at him, was a digital copy of his official Bar certificate.

His heart pounded. His breath caught. His brain, for the first time in days, completely blanked out.

Donna, peering over his shoulder, let out a delighted gasp. “Oh my God.”

Then, before he could react, she launched forward and hugged him tight. “You did it, Mike!”

Mike blinked a few times, barely processing the words. “I—yeah. I guess I did.”

Harvey smirked. “Welcome to legitimacy, Ross.”

Harvey barely had time to react before Mike launched himself across the desk, throwing his arms around him in a crushing hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mike mumbled into Harvey’s shoulder, gripping him like he’d just been saved from a sinking ship.

Harvey stiffened for a second, his arms awkwardly hovering in the air. Donna, standing off to the side, clamped a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh.

“Okay, okay,” Harvey muttered, patting Mike’s back with the enthusiasm of someone handling a particularly emotional Golden Retriever. “Jesus, Ross, get ahold of yourself.”

Mike just hugged him tighter.

“I mean it,” he said, voice muffled. “This—this is everything.”

Harvey gave Mike one last pat on the back before firmly prying him off.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” Harvey said, straightening his tie as if to restore some sense of dignity. “Let’s not make this a habit."

Mike grinned, eyes bright. “No promises.”

Harvey picked up a tissue. "It's dusty in here." He said, wiping a corner of his eye.

"And I have a cold." Donna reached for a tissue as well, then shook her head, smirking. “This might be my new favorite day.”

---------------------------

There was a knock at the door. Peter opened it, eyebrows lifting when he saw who stood on the porch.

"Mike?"

Before Peter could say more, Mike Ross stepped forward and threw his arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

Peter stiffened for a half-second, startled, before patting Mike’s back once.

When Mike pulled away, there were tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said simply.

Peter blinked. "I—"

"Mike?" Neal’s head popped through the door. "Come in??"

Peter looked at him, then at Mike, then grunted and grabbed Mike by the arm, yanking him inside with a rough tug.

Mike laughed and pulled Neal into a hug. Peter crossed his arms, watching with amusement.

"I have no idea why you're doing this," he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Neal scooped up Satchmo, who yipped with delight, and twirled him in a circle. "Dad’s awesome," he said grandly, then added to Mike, "I really don’t know why."

Mike laughed again, eyes still a little too shiny.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made them all look up. Elizabeth stood on the landing, her expression curious.

"You know nothing about why he’s thanking you, do you, Hon?" she asked, tilting her head.

Peter just grinned.

A little while later, Mike left with a quiet smile.

"Hon," Peter said, watching the door close.

"Hon," El replied, stepping into his arms and kissing him.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t press. She was content to let Peter keep his secrets—especially the kind that ended with bear hugs and tears of gratitude.

Chapter Text

Neal lay stretched across Peter’s lap, his head tucked under Peter’s arm, his legs dangling off the edge of the couch. After the hearing, the relief had hit him hard, and he needed a lot of comfort. Peter didn’t mind. His arm rested comfortably across Neal’s back, his other hand absently rubbing slow circles between Neal’s shoulder blades.

Outside, Satchmo barked once—sharp and excited—just before the sound of the doorbell rang through the house.

"I’ve got it," El called from the hall.

Peter barely looked up. Neal shifted slightly, but didn’t lift his head.

A few minutes later, El returned with a small padded envelope, already torn open. She pulled out a book, flipped it over once in her hands, and then—without fanfare—passed it to Peter.

"Just something I ordered," she said lightly.

Peter took it, glanced at the cover— 'Facts of Life for the Troubled Child - A Guide for Parents.' He jerked the book down against his chest, flushing. Neal's therapist had recommended the book, he had hesitated, but now El had taken the next step.

Neal twisted just enough to blink up at him, clearly confused.

Satchmo trotted over and sat at Peter’s feet, tail thumping against the floor in an eager rhythm.

Peter stared at the book in his hand. "Why me?" he asked, not quite to anyone in particular.

El crossed the room and leaned against the arm of the couch. "He’s a boy," she said simply, her tone calm and matter-of-fact.

Neal blinked between them, clearly still not understanding, but sensing enough to tuck himself a little closer.

Peter sighed and muttered, "You’re not helping."

El smiled. "I know."

--------------------

Neal was throwing a ball for Satchmo that Sunday when Peter finally took a deep breath and called out "Neal!"

Neal dutifully stuck his head in.

"Neal, let's go on up to your room for a bit?"

Neal blinked, confused. "Did I forget something?"

"Nope." Peter stood, stretching. "Just need to talk to you. Nothing bad."

Neal frowned, glancing at El. She gave him a soft nod and scooped Satchmo up into her arms, pressing the wiggly pup into a cuddle. "Go on," she said gently.

Peter followed Neal upstairs and stepped into the bedroom after him, closing the door quietly behind them.

"We’re going to have a little talk, Trouble," Peter said, his voice calm, measured. "Nothing bad," he repeated.

Neal sat down on the bed slowly, uncertain. Peter opened the book.

Ten minutes later, Neal was curled on his side, his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"That—that can’t be true," he said, his voice cracking. "That’s bad! Dad, it can’t be true!"

Peter didn’t move. His hands itched to reach for Neal, to pull him in and shield him from everything he’d just learned. But he didn’t. Not yet. His son wouldn’t want to be touched right now.

"Neal," he said gently, "it’s such a heinous crime exactly because of that. It’s supposed to be about trust, about choice. You let yourself be vulnerable with someone who loves you, who you feel safe with. That’s how it should be."

Neal’s breathing hitched.

"And when it’s violent, or forced, or not something you agreed to," Peter continued, "that’s a violation of the worst kind."

Neal’s voice was barely a whisper. "It felt really awful when the boys tried." His eyes shimmered. "Awful. Scary."

Peter’s voice dropped even lower. "But they didn’t succeed, remember?"

Neal’s breath caught. He blinked hard.

"They were stopped."

A beat passed. Then another. Neal sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes.

"Um, so… you’re saying… you and Mom…?"

Peter gave a quiet nod. "Yes. And probably every adult around you, with their spouse or partner."

Neal wrinkled his nose. "Eww."

Peter let out a short laugh, the sound soft in the quiet room. "That’s the reaction all of us have when it’s someone we know, Trouble."

Neal gave a small, watery laugh, the tension easing by just a fraction.

"So, Dad..." Neal finally spoke in a small voice, his face half-buried in the pillow. "I find it scary. So I don't want to....that...ever. That’s okay, right?"

Peter watched him for a moment. The way he curled in, the way his voice trembled but held steady at the end.

"That’s okay, yes," Peter said, still keeping his distance. "But you know what’s a lot more likely?"

Neal didn’t move.

Peter’s voice stayed even, calm. "You find someone you love. Someone you want to share this with. Could be a girl. Could be a boy." He shrugged gently. "And it becomes something normal. And joyful."

There was a long pause.

Then, slowly, Neal looked up from the pillow. His eyes were steady now. "You really think so?"

Peter smiled. That was the moment. He leaned in and pulled Neal gently into his arms.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I really think so."

Neal let himself be held, his forehead resting against Peter’s shoulder, the tremble finally leaving his hands.

"When a man and a woman do it... they have a baby?" he asked in a stronger voice, brows drawn.

Peter nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "But not always."

Neal tilted his head, still confused.

"Sometimes it happens right away," Peter continued. "That’s why you need protection every single time—so that pregnancy happens when you're ready. There’s more about that in here." He reached over to Neal’s nightstand and set down a slim booklet. It had come with the book.

"You can read it," Peter said gently. "And ask me whatever you want."

Neal glanced at it, then back at Peter.

"But you and Mom...?"

Peter’s smile was soft, a little sad. "Sometimes, couples don’t have babies, Neal. Your mom and I wanted one. We tried for a long time."

Neal stayed quiet, watching him.

"Then we decided to become foster parents," Peter said. "And while we were going through the procedures, we got a puppy. Mom said Satchmo is magical. He came into our lives, and we got our foster parent license."

He looked at Neal, and his voice dropped to something tender. "And then, miraculously, we got a son."

Peter pulled Neal into his arms and held him tight.

"The best son in the world."

Neal didn’t say anything right away. But he didn’t pull away either. He just leaned in, resting his head against Peter’s chest, holding on. Peter kissed Neal's hair. His precious boy. Till Neal jerked away and moved right across the bed, a look of abject horror on his face.

"When you said Mom's a tigress, you meant..."

Peter’s shoulders sagged in relief. He nodded.

Neal's face twisted, and without another word, he flopped face-down onto the bed, burying his head deep in the pillow.

"Ewwwwwwwwww!" came the muffled groan.

Peter burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the room. He stood up, still chuckling, and moved toward the door.

"I’ll leave you to it, Trouble," he said, shaking his head as he walked out, still grinning..

El looked up from the couch as Peter came down the stairs, still wiping laughter from his face.

"Well?" she asked, one brow raised, curiosity edged with amusement.

Peter gave her a look and sank into the couch beside her. "He thinks the idea of you as a tigress is gross—gross enough to scream into a pillow."

El smiled, satisfied. "So, mission accomplished?"

Peter leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Hon," he said with a grin, "absolutely."