Archive of Our Own ^beta

Neal drug the limp FBI agent, Peter Burke, into his temporary flat in London. They’d gotten into a nasty chase and somehow, Peter had been shot in the crossfire by one of Neal’s accomplices.

“No guns!” Neal had insisted, but he was met with slimy grins and cocky chuckles as his fellow thieves rubbed their hands together, just eager for the prize (a lovely diamond necklace from a private residence).

And now, Peter was hurt, Peter may not survive if Neal couldn’t get proper bandages or medical personnel here, fast.

Neal grunted as he pulled the rest of Peter into the tiny living room and laid him gently onto the carpet. Blood oozed from the bullet wound in Peter’s chest, making Neal’s head swim.

“Damn it,” Neal muttered, kneeling next to the agent, heart hammering.

He pressed his hands against the wound, attempting to slow the bleeding, unsure what else to do. Neal shouldn’t care whether Peter Burke lived or died, it honestly would be a blessing to not this hound dog of an agent on his tail….

Or would it?

Their game was brilliant. In fact, it was farse to call it a game when it moved more like a dance. Neal swept around the globe purposely leaving eloquent bread crumbs for Peter, who found them, cherished them, and set his eyes for Neal’s next heist. In New York City, Neal weaved amongst the buildings, melting pot of humanity, and criminal underworld–he avoided Peter’s arrests but not his eyes, nor his heart.

Before Neal was even aware, the one-way chase of Agent versus Thief became a circle—an elaborate, woven circle that glimmered with challenge and possibility. Peter thought he was pursuing Neal, eager to claim his prize, but Neal had eyes on Peter. What had started as a curiosity grew into an obsession as Neal discovered Peter’s home address, memorized his favorite coffee, pestered him with taunting phone calls, mailed hand-drawn postcards with clues of his past whereabouts.

It was tantalizing to be teasing—no flirting with— someone who had the power to lock him away.

And, even more thrilling, Peter responded.

Sure, Peter’s heart was resistant at first. He grumbled at Neal’s late-night calls, but Neal could hear a melody of intrigue singing through the phone lines. It was not long before Neal’s calls were answered with anticipation, something akin to talking long-distance with an old friend…or lover.

Neal’s gut twisted, the prospect of losing this chase, this circle, this person who now was knotted into heart. Here he was, Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire hovering over the agent who pursued him, whispering prayers for his life like some kind of priest.

Neal studied Peter’s face, relaxed in unconsciousness, the way his arm rested on his chest, his breathing becoming less regular as the seconds ticked by. Neal’s heart clenched uncomfortably, against his will, seeing Peter’s life flickering like a candle in the wind. Oh that he could stop the wind, shield the flame—

The door slammed open.

Neal jolted, jerking his head towards the intruder.

Mozzie entered, holding a black bag bearing a medical red cross. Neal exhaled, chest caving in with relief.

“Your savior has arriv—-” Mozzie proclaimed, but then stopped, aghast at the sight of Peter— “Is that a suit?!”

“I couldn’t just leave him there to—” Neal sputtered, pressing Peter’s chest harder, Peter blood staining his pale hands.

Mozzie gasped dramatically.

“It’s THE suit!” Mozzie turned to leave.

“Moz!” Neal pleaded, embarrassed at how his heart was becoming pliable in Peter’s hands.

Mozzie eyed Neal, then Peter, and then scowled at Neal. He tossed the bag over.

“You’ll find bandages in there and I called the London Ambulance Service---” Mozzie lifted a finger, "which I regret now seeing that we're helping the enemy!" 

Neal rolled his eyes and continued working on Peter's wound.

 “It's a shame, I liked London. We’ll have to return to New York now that the suit knows of our escapades abroad," Mozzie sighed and went to the table and picked up a bottle of wine they hadn't opened the night before, he rubbed a thumb over the label, "Not leaving this behind though."

Peter lives in New York.

Neal’s mind instantly fixated on this brilliant flame of hope despite the prospect of being on the run again. They could continue their dance in the concrete jungle, where their movements had been so lovingly choreographed by the exchange of a lollipop.

When Neal thought back on that moment, when he handed Peter the green sucker, there was part of him that felt he’d carved out part of his soul unknowingly and handed it over to Peter Burke. A glimmering gemstone hammered out of Neal’s heart, Peter twirling it, amused, between his fingers.

Neal kept one hand on Peter’s chest, and used the other to fish bandages out of the bag.

“Neal, you have to stop this dance with the suit. The cat and mouse game has gone too far. Since when does the mouse help the cat?” Mozzie shook his head in disapproval.

There was silence as Neal bandaged Peter’s wounds with precision and ease.

“Who says I’m the mouse?” Neal said quietly.

Mozzie’s face softened with almost-understanding before he began analyzing yet again:

“Well, you certainly are not the predatory cat in the situation—”

“Fox and the Hound,” Neal muttered softly, almost to himself.

“What?” Mozzie leaned in, lowering his glasses slightly in suspicion, “The 1980s Disney animated film?”

Neal didn’t respond, didn’t say that he loved that film, that in some strange way he related to it more than he’d like to admit. It had come out right after his dad left. Ellen had taken little Neal to see it in theaters and he’d idolized the relationship between the fox and the hound. An orphaned, sly fox who’s best friend was the hound dog trained to hunt him down.

The film gave Neal hope, even at the tender age of four years old, that against all odds—you could find family in unlikely places. He longed for that. He had nestled into Ellen’s arms, imagining that she was the Widow Tweed, hoping that one day he would find his own Big Mama, Dinky, Boomer, and especially his Copper. His Copper who would not rest until Neal was found. His Copper who despite Neal’s sly nature, would fight for him. His Copper, who’d show him a love very few get to experience on this earth.

Peter. Neal breathed Peter’s name in his thoughts, each syllable echoing down the grooves of his mind where Peter had already imprinted his being.

“Are you aware that in the original novel both the fox and the hound die in the end? The fox dies from exhaustion and the hound is shot out of his misery…” Mozzie looked at Peter.

“Moz!!” Neal scolded, tempted to drape himself over Peter in defense.

Mozzie waved him off, “Well, if he was on his way out anyway—”

Neal knew Mozzie was teasing—hopefully—but it Peter’s life already was hanging by a thread and Neal didn’t want to think of—

“He’s not gonna die!” Neal said too forcefully, the quiet apartment flashing with his voice.

As if on cue, Peter let out a weak groan, which resulted in Mozzie scurrying to the door. He exited out door and then poked his head back in.

“Neal.”

Neal met Mozzie’s stare.

“Be careful,” he said cautiously, “Even the best hounds fall back on their instincts when it comes to hunting a fox.”

Mozzie disappeared through the door, closing it with a click.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open and his face instantly winced in pain. He registered Neal in one glance and his brown eyes widened.

“Caffrey–”

“Shh, you’re bleeding all over my carpet and it’s an Ardabil from 1540,” Neal said hurriedly, masking his relief at Peter’s consciousness with an attempt at humor and art history.

Peter’s lips twitched, half smiling.

“You’d never put a wounded man on an Ardabil,” Peter narrowed his eyes, “And if you did…then…that’s one more—” Peter grunted in pain as Neal tied the bandage off— “crime I’ll bring you in for. There’s only one left and it’s in—”

Neal sat back on his heels, grinning at Peter, dark hair messily falling into his face.

“I just saved your life and you still want to arrest me?” Neal’s eyes glittered as he pressed a hand to his chest in faux hurt, “ Peter, now I’m the one wounded.”

Peter propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Neal.

“One good deed doesn’t undo the crimes you've committed,” he said, one eyebrow raised.

Neal flipped his hair out of his eyes and offered Peter a smirk.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Neal sang.

Peter groaned and laid back down on the floor, “Please don’t quote Wicked to me…my wife made me see it last summer and it took weeks to get the songs out of my head!”

“I was actually quoting Oscar Wilde.”

Peter let out a single, “Huh,” then turned his head to meet Neal’s eyes, “Smart ass.”

This brought forth a fountain of bubbly laughter from Neal, beginning in his heart and erupting around him like an aura. Perhaps it was their banter or perhaps it was the fact that Peter was alive and talking to him, but Neal allowed his nervous energy to escape and fill the room

Peter then met Neal’s eyes, grinning like a fool before his face crumpled in pain again as one of his hands shot to his bandaged chest. Neal scooted a little bit closer.

“Easy there, Peter,” Neal said gently, finding himself again under Peter’s curious gaze, those brown eyes studying him earnestly.

“I guess I’m not arresting you today,” Peter said, glancing down at his bandaged chest.

Neal’s eyes glimmered as he stood.

“Not today,” he echoed, “Medical assistance has already been called and will be here soon. It’s time I go. It’s been fun, Agent Burke.”

Neal grabbed his fedora off of the coat rack in the corner and plopped it on his head, to which Peter shook his head and pursed his lips.

“You can’t run forever, Neal,” Peter said, propping himself up on his elbows again.

For some reason, Neal felt like Peter wasn’t talking about their chase, but Neal couldn’t go there right now. He couldn’t pry open his heart and tell Peter that he ran because that’s all he knew. He ran because he was addicted to the con, the heist, the acquisition of precious art and knowledge. He ran because no one cared enough to chase and find him and bring him home.

Except Peter. (And yes, Peter was trying to put him in prison but...it still felt good to have someone care enough to find you)

A silent sparkling light passed between the two men, as if Peter could indeed see straight into Neal’s heart without either of them saying a word. Neal blinked and pulled up his charming mask, amping up it’s power to the max.

“If anyone can run forever, it’s me,” Neal said, turning to the door to shut off this conversation when—

“Forever is a long, long, time, and time has a way of changing things,” Peter said.

Neal’s heart pounded in his ears as he started at the door.

The Fox and the Hound.

Peter had just quoted it word for word.

Had Peter been conscious?

Neal's cheeks flamed and he was grateful he was facing the doorway. He tried to shove his thoughts away, his mind swirling, his heart feeling magnetically pulled toward Peter.

He had to get out now or he’d stay.

“See you around, Peter,” Neal said hurriedly and opened the door, not daring to look back.

“Caffrey—” Peter called, then more quietly, “Neal.”

Neal turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes boring into Peter.

“Thank you," Peter said softly.

Neal shrugged, shaking off the true sentiment that welled in his soul to hear Peter appreciate him and plastering on the appearance of confidence and charm.

“You’d do the same for me,” Neal said confidently, flashing him a mega-watt smile.

Neal’s smile infected Peter, causing him to grant Neal his own lop-sided grin.

“Till next time, Peter,” Neal said and dashed out the door, knowing that if he let conversation go on any further, Neal would have stayed just to bask in Peter’s light, his goodness a little longer.
And Neal simply couldn’t have that.

Because Neal Caffrey wasn’t one who stayed put.

Neal Caffrey always ran.

But if he decided not to run…

Peter Burke would be the only person on earth who could convince Neal to stay.

Forever was a long time, but time was already changing the hearts of Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke, entangling them together for...

Well,

 Forever.