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Somewhere along the way, it turned into a kidnapping.
The kidnappers wanted some uppity modern art statue thing. Neal, being the chaotic shit he was, outright suggested just giving the statue over to the kidnappers (and, frankly, Peter kind of agreed with him). But that was nixed pretty quick. (Too quick, actually.)
Peter already knew they wouldn’t give the kidnappers what they wanted. That was stupid. If a kidnapper had what they wanted, they had no more use for a hostage. It was, nine out of ten times, the worst way to go about a hostage situation of any kind, let alone one where a poor kid was being held hostage because her dad one some stupid charity auction for an even stupider statue.
But the idea, as mentioned, was nixed quickly. Too quickly. And by the girl’s father.
That, in and of itself, left Peter with a sour taste in his mouth. It smacked of a father not really trying to do his utmost to get his little girl back. And, yes, Peter knew better than to judge. But... yeah. It was hard not to, sometimes.
All things considered, the case had gone remarkably smoothly. They were able to track the culprits with relative ease, the girl hadn’t been hurt (beyond minor scrapes), and they didn’t have to trade gunshots.
I mean. Then they found the bomb? But. That was fine, too.
Neal had the bomb disarmed before anyone could tell him not to mess with it, actually. Peter was begrudgingly impressed, too, but he tried to keep up a front of chastising the CI for needlessly putting himself in danger (again).
Peter’s attempts at disapproval flooded out of him pretty quick, though.
They were in the middle of the musty old warehouse they’d tracked the culprits too. It was crawling with FBI collecting evidence and taking notes and all that. But it still felt remarkably empty and hollow, as many warehouses seemed to feel. Even a full warehouse tended to feel empty and hollow to Peter, like the feeling was completely separate from the actuality of the warehouse’s fill.
And the bomb.
It was a really simple thing, which Neal had mumbled about while he sat next to hi.
The bomb, sickeningly enough, had been under the chair that the kidnapped girl had been sitting on. Like a final “fuck you” from the kidnappers, if everything went sideways.
Peter shuddered to think of what might have happened if the FBI hadn’t caught them so thoroughly off-guard.
Neal sat next to the bomb, in spite of Peter’s attempts to get him to stand. To move away from the potentially dangerous materials that the bomb was made of.
Neal ran his hand back and forth against the side of the chair’s seat, eyes distant. That was what really got Peter to drop the disappointment. “Neal” was nowhere to be seen in that expression. “Neal” was a stranger in that face, a distantly familiar figure that had nothing to do with the person sitting next to the bomb in that old, dusty warehouse.
Peter squatted next to Neal, still waiting on the bomb squad to show up.
“Hey, Neal,” Peter said.
Neal didn’t respond in the slightest. His breathing was shaky. His fingers, on the edge of the chair, were shaky, too. He hiccupped quietly and bowed his head close to his chest.
As Peter watched, it seemed that Neal shook more, not less. A tremor wracked up and down Neal’s spine, through his shoulders, and right into his fingers. His eyes had been distant, before, but now they were closed tight as his brow creased in pain.
His breath shuddered.
Peter’s frown slowly contorted into something more worried. “Hey!” he called over his shoulder. “Someone bring me a shock blanket!”
Neal flinched away from Peter’s shout, but didn’t focus in at all. He swallowed hard and continued to breath shakily. Slowly, Neal made himself very, very small, curling up into a ball that made him look pathetic and wounded and painfully young. “Ja...son,” Neal just barely managed the two syllables, shaky as his breathing. He sounded pained.
“Neal, hey, snap out of it,” Peter accepted a shock blanket from an EMT and placed it around Neal’s shoulders.
It was.
Peter didn’t know what it was.
Neal had been determined only minutes before. He’d been bright and personable a bit before that.
Neal had never reacted to a case this way. He’d never dissociated like this, never gotten lost in his own head. Peter honestly didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what he could do. So he adjusted and readjusted the shock blanket around Neal’s shoulders and hoped Neal would snap out of it.
If Neal didn’t snap out of it soon, Peter was ready and willing to have him taken to a hospital.
“C’mon Neal, what’s going on?” Peter huffed. He tried to cover his worry with gruffness, but he couldn’t even convince himself, really. “Snap out of it.”
Neal’s breath hitched, and then he sobbed, loud in the echoing emptiness of the warehouse. Several agents, including Diana and Jones, stopped what they were doing to look over at Peter and Neal. Neal buried his face more into his knees and sobbed again, this time more muffled. “Jason,” he muttered. “Jay, I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. Don’t—no. Not again. Not again. I won’t let him hurt you again—”
Peter sat back on his heels and ran a hand over his mouth.
Neal continued to shake, sob, and mutter, a crinkled version of himself – small and young and so, so sad – under the shock blanket. He continued to mutter apologies and promises to an invisible “Jason.” “I’ll be there”s and “I’m sorry”s and every platitude under the sun.
“I won’t leave you alone again.”
“Don’t die.”
“Jason, please.”
“Oh god. Jason.”
“I’ll kill him, I swear, just come back.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around.”
“I failed you.”
“Don’t leave, please.”
Peter felt the sadness rolling off Neal in waves, unignorable and painful. Heart-shattering, really. And... and Peter didn’t know what part of the evening triggered this in Neal, but he could see, now that he’d heard a bit, that Neal had lost someone very dear to him.
(A tiny, distant part of Peter noted that there was nothing about Kate in there.)
(The part of Peter that identified itself as Neal’s friend pushed down that suspicious, FBI persona – it wasn’t the time or place. And what did Kate have to do with anything, right? If Neal had trauma, Neal had trauma. Whether it involve Kate – losing Kate – or someone else, like this Jason he was muttering to, like a prayer.)
(Peter had a horrible suspicion that Jason was dead, speaking of the prayer-like quality of Neal’s words)
“Neal,” Peter tried again. He hesitated, then put a hand on Neal’s shoulder.
Neal had Peter by the wrist in a flash. In barely a breath, he had Peter’s hand curled painfully behind his back. Peter made a surprised noise of pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Diana and Jones moving a few steps closer, hands near but not quite on their weapons and expressions caught between surprise and concern.
“Peter?” Neal dropped Peter’s arm quickly. “Oh, god, sorry.” Neal turned away and started to try and wipe the tears and snot from his face. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Peter straightened himself out and cleared his throat. “Well. That was. Different,” he said.
Neal scoffed wetly. His eyes fixed back on the bomb.
The bomb.
The last thing Neal had done. The last thing he’d seen before going off into his head like that.
Peter picked up the dropped shock blanket and put it back around Neal’s shoulders, then tugged Neal – by the blanket – until Neal was obligated to follow him. Neal stumbled to his feet and followed. His face was still slack and emotional. Haunted.
Peter bit back the “what happened,” even though he desperately wanted to know what broke Neal down like that.
Neal looked so haunted. Ghosts in his eyes and trembling between his lips. He also looked painfully young. He was devastated thoroughly, body language and mask and tone all dropped. Everything that made up “Neal” practically dropped. And young! This version of Neal looked so young. Peter couldn’t get over it.
The Neal Peter tugged around by the shock blanket was a Neal that was barely more than a kid. Maybe Peter, being in his forties, just felt that way about people younger than him. Or maybe it was something about reaching into and past the mid-forties that turned all the thirty-somethings and younger into “kids.”
Or maybe Neal really was a kid. Really was younger than they thought.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal said.
Peter managed to get Neal over to the car he and Neal’d taken to the scene. He didn’t force Neal to get in, though. He figured the fresh air might be helpful. He hoped it would be, anyway.
“What are you talking about?” Peter scoffed. It sounded fake and put-upon, even to Peter’s own ears, but he crossed his arms and attempted to affect an unbothered air. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Hell, I should be thanking you for a job well done. Ya did good.”
Neal sniffled.
Peter side-eyed him.
Silence stretched between them.
Neal closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Just breathe,” he muttere, then he forced himself to take measured breaths.
Peter raised his eyebrows, but didn’t interrupt. He’d never seen Neal do anything remotely meditative before. At least, not anything stereotypically meditative. Neal doodled, sure. Played with the damn rubber-band ball, built houses out of playing cards, performed minor illusions with coins or playing cards. He did little things that, when brought to a repetitive cant, could be considered meditative. But Peter hadn’t seen Neal do breathing exercises, or sit down to meditate, or do anything remotely like yoga.
“I—” Neal cleared his throat. “My brother. Died.”
Peter sucked in a quiet breath. Sometimes he hated to be right.
“In-in an explosion,” Neal’s voice became a whisper. “And. A warehouse.” Neal glanced up, briefly, at the warehouse they’d just been inside. “One not... not that different from this one, actually.” He offered Peter a strained smile, tear tracks already reasserting themselves on his face, after his attempts to scrub them all away in the palms of his hands a minute before.
“I’m so sorry, Neal,” Peter said.
Neal laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “Thanks.”
They stood in silence for a long few minutes.
Unexpectedly, the next interruption came from the smooth hum of a motorcycle drawing up beside them. Black and red and dangerous looking. And fast, besides. The driver let the engine hum under him and sat back in the seat, helmet visor turned toward Peter and Neal.
“Can I help you?” Peter bit out. He couldn’t help but feel annoyed. If nothing else, then he was annoyed on Neal’s behalf. Heaven knew Neal wouldn’t want a bunch of random people to see him like that.
The guy on the bike pulled off his helmet. “Yo, Dick,” he said.
Peter felt ready to snap. “Excuse me, I asked—” Peter started.
Neal’s breath hitched again, though, and Peter whipped around to look at him, worried that Neal was going to slip back into the past and relive all that all over again.
“O heard you,” the guy said. He glanced away uncomfortably. “Don’t think it was me on purpose, Dickfuck! I was just the closest.” He sent a poisonous glare to Neal, then a warier one over to Peter. “Anyway. Heard you. Keyword filter caught your blubbering. Thought you could use a friendly face.”
Peter looked between the motorcycle’s driver and Neal.
Neal looked awed.
“Not that I’m a friendly face. Don’t get it twisted, Dickwad. I’m using that ‘friendly face’ shit colloquially, do not fucking read into it, okay?” the guy glared down at the gas tank cap on his bike, briefly side-eyeing Neal.
“Could you stop insulting my CI?” Peter finally said.
This mystery guy turned to look Peter full in the eye. And damn was this guy intense. From the scars through his eyebrow and into his top lip to the chiselled profile of his jaw, from the aggressive stubble to the angry set to his eyebrows, from the glint of green in the teal of his eyes to the snarl his lips were caught in. “Bite me, Fed,” he spat.
“Jay!” Neal breathed, horrified. “Be nice to Peter!”
“Bite me!” ‘Jay’ repeated.
Neal shucked off the shock blanket and wiped the tears from his face. “You were worried ‘bout me, Lil Wing?”
“No. O was,” Jay deadpanned.
And Jay... Jay... hadn’t Neal said that in the middle of his episode? I mean, there was no way it was the same Jay as the Jason he was mourning, obviously, but it seemed pretty coincidental that Neal would be mourning a Jay one minute, then talking to a Jay the next.
Wait.
“How did you know what happened, again?” Peter asked, strained.
“O heard,” Jay turned to glare at Peter again.
“Heard.”
“Yeah, heard. It’s what she does. Watches, listens, all that shit.” Jay rolled his eyes.
“So. What. This ‘O’ was piggybacking on FBI frequencies?”
“You guys use basically fucking radios. It’s not like you make it hard, is it?” Jay scoffed. “Little tweaking, little searching, and boom! FBI radio station. Frankly, I’d rather that Top 40s bullshit, but O knows her work and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell her she’s doing something wrong, even as a joke. Ever had your foot run over by a wheelchair’s back wheel? Because it sucks. Especially hers. The frame is goddamn heavy, ow.”
Peter blinked very slowly. That was a bit more to take in than Peter was expecting. “This O just... what? Happened to be listening in on this kidnapping case?”
“Uh. Oracle’s eyes and ears are everywhere,” Jay gave Peter a judging look. Which wasn’t really fair. O could have been anyone, after all. Oracle, though, was a name that most people had heard, at least in passing. “Especially when it comes to family.” Jay jerked his head to indicate Neal, who was a bit quieter than usual – and still a bit snuffly – but was beginning to look better.
Peter, though, felt the blood draining from his face. “Family?”
Jay grinned slow and shark-like. “I love when Feds have heart attacks over info that’s above their pay grades,” he said.
“Jason! Leave Peter alone,” Neal reached over and whacked Jay in the shoulder.
Jay – Jason?! – flinched a little, then reached over to punch Neal in the bicep. “Bitch, you watch it! I drove all this way because of you, don’t tempt me to just drive off, now.”
“You do care,” Neal cooed. Contrary to the teasing tone, though, his eyes started to fill up with tears again. “Y-you know, Jay, I am.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m sorry,” Neal said anyway. “I’m so sorry, Jason.”
“Dude, you weren’t even there—”
“That’s why I’m sorry!” Neal broke in.
Jason leaned back in his seat and tilted his head to the side. “No, stupid. You weren’t there. It wasn’t your fault. It’s not on you. Stop beating yourself up over that, you dumb fuck. You’re such a disaster, I swear to god.”
“Jason,” Peter breathed. Question marks filled his head, albeit question marks separated from their questions as Peter tried to grip onto at least one relevant question but, instead, only felt more confusion. “You said Jason—your brother, right?” Peter glanced at Neal.
Neal nodded.
“But you said Jason...” Peter looked at Jay.
“Died?” Jason raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Peter managed.
“What can I say? I got better.” Jay slapped his helmet back onto his head, then reached into the bag hanging off his shoulder – Peter hadn’t noticed it, before – and pulled out another helmet (blue), which he slapped into Neal’s hands. “Dick-for-Brains, we riding or what?”
Neal looked down at the helmet for a long moment, then glanced at Peter.
“We’ll keep to the radius,” Jason said, though he said it like it was some kind of stupid joke that he was tired of hearing. And that he immediately regretted saying.
“Neal,” Peter tried.
Neal shrugged and put the helmet on. “I... guess I’ll see you. Tomorrow. Same time as always?”
“Neal, wait—” Peter tried.
Neal, though, climbed on the back of the motorcycle, behind his dead brother, apparently.
“Ready, Dickhead?” Jason asked.
Peter was getting real tired of the insults, on Neal’s behalf. But then—
“Jason, you have to stop using my name in front of FBI agents.”
“Whatever you say, Dickface.”
“No, really, it puts my cover at risk—”
Peter.exe forced a shutdown as Jason and Neal (Dick?!) zipped out of the warehouse lot.