#fbi reader

            The first day he talked to you, you’d been bouncing some marbles on the carpeted floor to stay quiet, staring at them intently and trying to devise a new game in your head. Danny sat cross-legged and asked if he could play. Abandoning your half-baked game, you reached up to your desk and grabbed a piece of paper from your class folder, quickly drew the circles to represent a mancala board, and divided the marbles. Danny beat you on his first try. That was when you knew you liked him. You gave him a bag of your marbles so he could make new games, too.

            From then on, you played together whenever you could, but scarcely stuck with one game for very long. You were both easily bored by the simple games that marbles allowed, so you fiddled with the rules, tampering with the game play to see what would happen. Sometimes you created entirely new games, sometimes incorporating other tools that were easy to carry in school or to the park, like a set of dice or an origami fortune teller.

            By Christmas that same year, you’d started to exhaust your options and branched out into other ways of entertaining yourselves. Cards were good for quick games, and the randomness of a good shuffle kept games interesting for longer. Puzzles were great for you both, but they took too long to do at school and you could only play them when you had a playdate or sleepover. Eventually, you settled on codes and ciphers as your mutual favorite activity. You could create them when you were together and have secret communications, or you could create them separately and challenge each other to solve them. You liked to base yours on symbols and books. Danny liked incorporating math. By the end of the school year, you had a collection of codes of varying complexity.

St. Louis, 1986

            After nearly two years of friendship, you and Danny snuck downstairs to his aunt Ellen’s TV to watch a new movie. It was called The Color of Money. With a shelf of adult movies in front of you, you were way more interested in the popular titles you recognized, like Ferris Bueller and Top Gun, but Danny convinced you to give Scorsese a try and you never regretted it. That movie introduced you two to the world of gambling. As cynical nine-year-olds, you weren’t really interested in the idea of gambling so much as the behavior of people who did it – and the methods behind milking out the most rewards for the least risks.

            It took some needling and permission from your parents, but Ellen finally agreed to teach you both how to play poker. One Friday, she picked you both up from school, took you to the store to pick out a box of your favorite candies, and used the chocolates in place of money. With bowls of candy at stake, you learned what cards you wanted, when to fold, and how to count the multicolored plastic poker chips. Initially, Ellen hadn’t wanted to teach you to bluff on principle of not encouraging children to lie, but they had bluffed in all the movies, so you and Danny both tried it without her suggestion. She was exasperated, but amused by your complete failure. Danny had much better results, and when Ellen went to bed and left you to either play cards or watch a movie, he told you that when you lied, you always lifted your chin, like you were daring someone to call you on it.

            You both had detention the next week for trying to use poker to win your classmates’ brownies at lunch.

St. Louis, 1989

            When you were twelve, Nintendo came out with the Game Boy. Neither of your families had the kind of money to spend on a game system like that, so you and Danny decided you could team up to buy one for yourselves to trade back and forth. It was better to have the hot new thing sooner than later, even if it meant taking turns. You took out a sheet of paper to figure out how long it would take if you pooled your money together; even with the little bit of spare allowances you had socked away, you both still needed to save over thirty dollars each.

            In hindsight, what happened next was probably your parents’ first red flag.

            Sixty-four bucks, for a couple of kids in the late eighties, was a lot of money, and you were both too young to legally get jobs. Divide and conquer, however, had already demonstrated merit when it came to convincing your parents of letting you go to the fair or the movies, so why not divide and conquer to raise cash? All you needed was enough people contributing. But then came the problem that if they contributed, they’d feel entitled to your Game Boy. It was for the two of you, not anyone else. So they would need to be paid back by money you got from somewhere else.

            To summarize a long story, and explain many angry phone calls from your peers’ parents, you and Danny essentially ran a pyramid scheme to raise the money for a Game Boy, enticing kids in your old elementary school to pay forward their allowance to your first- and second-round financiers in your middle school. When you were caught, you were grounded for months – but by this point, you were both well-practiced at sneaking between each other’s houses and hiding things in your rooms, and you had a Game Boy.

            Your parents’ anger and the way your little sister’s friends’ parents treated you made you realize you’d done something morally wrong. It was humiliating and shameful to be looked at that way. Danny didn’t take it as hard as you did. It rolled off his back once Ellen was back to treating him the way she always had. Danny needed to be liked, and he was liked a lot, because he was cute, and smart, and didn’t bully girls at school, and now he had a Game Boy, so he didn’t mind that kids in a different school and their parents he never saw thought badly of him. It didn’t affect him day to day the way that the guilt started to carve into your self-esteem.

            In hindsight, that was your first red flag that there was something a little bit off about Danny. When you brought it up to him, he genuinely didn’t see why you felt so bad. You hadn’t lied to those little kids, and after all, each one only sacrified a couple of dollars. You couldn’t articulate just why, but you needed to make it right. In the end, Danny helped you make it up to the kids by handing back out a portion of your allowances for a few weeks and helping out with their homework, but you knew he’d only done it because he was sad to see you so upset.

            You couldn’t deny how great it had felt to accomplish something so quickly, and Danny had boasted for weeks about how persuasive he’d been, but you made an agreement that from then on you wouldn’t hustle kids anymore. Danny pouted about it a little because they were such easy marks, but he agreed to keep you happy. When your wrongs were righted, you felt restored, and you got back to your regular mischief – but you were much more cautious of whether you were being clever or just unethical.

St. Louis, 1992

            High school was an entirely different beast from middle school. You and Danny kept sending each other coded letters and hanging out on the weekends, but he was the one who got caught up in how girls looked twice at him and how guys wanted to be his friend. Danny joined the cross-country team, partly to spend more time with those friends and partly to keep in shape to apply for the police academy after high school, and started to pursue girls. He had a new girlfriend every other month. And it meant, altogether, that there was less time for you – so you followed his lead and joined your own clubs, made your own friends.

            In freshman year, there had been a rumor that you were dating. You’d loudly opposed it. You had eyes and could see that he was hot, and you didn’t think you’d ever be happy with anyone less smart, or less kind to you, but the idea of kissing Danny just made your stomach turn. There was one time when he started dating a cheerleader who made the mistake of threatening to “ruin” you if you didn’t back off of “her” Danny – he dumped her as soon as you told him what happened. So, although you didn’t have as much time to spend with each other, there was never any doubt that you were still best friends.

            You still liked friendly competitions, and found ways to work together to make quick money or convince your parents that what you wanted to do or see was a good idea. But something about high school flipped a switch in Danny. Maybe it was all the teachers saying now was the time to shape up. Suddenly, everything he did was in light of being like his father. Danny had always idolized his dead dad, and you couldn’t bring yourself to criticize him for that, even when it made him sort of a buzzkill. Did he really think that none of the city cops had ever snuck some liquor from their mom’s freezer? And goodbye to any manipulative schemes – even if your conscience hadn’t stopped you, Danny’s ambitions would have. He still had no moral compunctions about taking from people who didn’t need what they had, but for the fact that it was illegal and could jeopardize his future as a cop.

            “Cop this, cop that,” you complained once, playfully shoving at his arm. “Am I gonna have to become a criminal to force you to loosen up?”

            “You wouldn’t dare,” Danny responded with absolute confidence. “You wouldn’t like prison.”

            You’d scoffed. “You’d turn in your best friend?!”

            He gave you a cheeky grin. “If my best friend’s not smart enough to get away with crimes, she shouldn’t be committing them.”

St. Louis, 1995

            You weren’t sure what you wanted to do after high school. Your parents were supportive of whatever you wanted to do, but they hoped you’d at least give college a try; but without any idea what you wanted to actually do, you couldn’t justify spending that much money on it to yourself. The more you thought about what you really loved to do, you kept coming back to games and puzzles. It had been years since anyone called you Marbles, but the passion that bonded you and Danny had persisted.

            It was when you were watching the new Will Smith detective movie that you realized maybe you and Danny had this in common, too. He wasn’t just going to be a great cop because of his father; it was because he had a knack for solving puzzles. Maybe investigating was your great calling in life. How cool would it be to be detectives together??

            You sat on it for a few weeks, thinking it over before telling Danny you were going to apply, too. That way he wouldn’t know to be disappointed if you changed your mind. In the end, you never did get to tell him. You were still thinking about in by his eighteenth birthday.

            You’d already agreed to go to the mall together so you could buy him dinner, but he never came to get you like he’d said he would. You called his home, but no one picked up, so you called his aunt’s neighboring house instead. Ellen had answered and tiredly said that it wasn’t a good time. Assuming they’d had a fight, you let it be and minded your business, changing your plans when it became clear that the mall was off.

            The next morning, you left to go get him before walking to school, just to make sure he was feeling okay. He and Ellen rarely fought; Danny tried so hard to be on his best behavior for her, even before he’d straightened up to make sure he got into the police force. You noticed the post on your mailbox was up and detoured, and took out a piece of folded paper. No envelope and no stamp – just your name on one of the trifolds.

            Assuming it was another coded letter, you eagerly unfolded it to see what kind of patterns you were working with and mull it over on the way to school. To your disappointment, it was plain English. And, to your horror, it was an apologetic goodbye note.

            You sprinted several streets away to the Brooks house and pounded on the door. No one answered. You were almost panicking, considering grabbing the extra key Danny had told you about, before Ellen next door caught your eye, waving for you to come over. You jumped off the porch and ran in, dumping your backpack by the doorway to show her the note. The blonde woman barely glanced at it before saying, “I know. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

            It was surprising how clearly you could remember that moment all these years later, especially when what came next felt like a blur of colors and motions melting together. You think Ellen sat you on her couch and poured you some tea. She made you sit and breathe before she explained to you that she’d caught Danny – Neal – signing an application for the police. He was so eager to do it the moment he’d turned eighteen, that Ellen hadn’t had a choice. She’d had to tell him he couldn’t, because Danny Brooks wasn’t his real name; and even if it were, he needed to know that his motivation, the story he’d been telling himself for years, was a lie.

            Ellen told you that the Brooks family were actually in Wit-Sec. That Danny’s real name was Neal Bennett, and that his father had been a cop, but a dirty one. That Ellen wasn’t really his aunt, but his corrupt dad’s police partner, who had testified against him and asked to be relocated near Neal, just to make sure the little boy grew up safely. That Neal had been too young to remember. That he had run away, and she didn’t think he was coming back.

            Ellen – you still didn’t know if that was even her real name – let you sit on her couch for hours, staring at the floor, drinking the tea she poured mindlessly after it had gone cold, and crying with grief. It was the one and only time she’d ever condoned playing hooky from school. She rubbed your back for a little while, and then let you sit in silent shock while she went about cleaning. It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that she wasn’t just cleaning, she was packing. Packing to leave. Because people were going to wonder why Neal had disappeared, and maybe the cops would get involved, and maybe her and Neal’s mother would both be in jeopardy.

            Ellen gave you a small box of Neal’s belongings that she thought you’d want. In the bottom was the bag of marbles you’d given him in second grade.

            Life was never the same after Neal left. Your best friend was gone. You figured, hey, he’d always been street-smart, the odds were pretty good that he was still alive; but the way he disappeared, the odds were also pretty good that you would never see him again, so to you, he may as well be dead. You thought of him sometimes (often) and hoped he was okay, when you weren’t wishing he would come home or cursing his fake name for making you care and then abandoning you without the decency to say goodbye to your face.

            You had so many questions in the coming weeks, but the day after Neal had vanished, so had Neal’s not-aunt, along with any opportunities for closure. Once, a few days later, you scraped up the guts to use that hidden key he’d showed you and let yourself into his and his mom’s house. It was completely empty, but left in disarray, with scraped paint, peeling wallpaper, dust settled deep in the rug corners. It had been a long time since you’d spent time together there, rather than in Ellen’s, and now you knew why. With hindsight, and a psychology degree, you were reasonably sure that Neal’s mother had been fighting depression his whole life, and most of the house felt the same.

            To make it worse, Danny had been such a beloved part of the school community that in the two months between his disappearance and your graduation, everything under the sun passed under the rumor mill. At first the cops investigated. They talked to you, interrogated you. One of them made you cry by insinuating you were secretly in love with him, and killed him because he’d been dating some chick on the track team. Another rubbed your shoulder and offered you cocoa because he “couldn’t possibly imagine how cofused you’re feeling”. And the whole time, you felt compelled to lie, choking on your tongue and stumbling through how he missed your plans on his birthday and left a note the next morning. You left out the part where you’d talked to Ellen, because what the hell were you supposed to do? Out her as a witness? Admit that Danny Brooks was such a deep lie that even he hadn’t known about it?

            Whatever the correct procedure was, no one had bothered to tell you about it. But you were reasonably certain that whoever was in charge of securing the Bennetts, and Ellen, they had caught wind of the investigation, because rather suddenly, all the police activity stopped. You were left alone, and so was his girlfriend, and the guys he played soccer with. The only way they would drop a missing persons case that hard and that quick was if the feds stepped in and told them to back off.

            Your parents, and even your little sister, knew that something was off about you. You’re reasonably sure that your entire family knew you knew something you weren’t sharing. But after weeks of trying to comfort you and get you to open up, they started to let go, trusting that if you knew anything actionable, you would have shared to protect your friend.

            The police letting it go didn’t end the nightmare for you, though, because the talk at school continued. The US Marshals couldn’t tell everyone to shut up and mind their business. Some people thought Danny had run away from his mother, others thought he’d been kidnapped and trafficked. Some thought he’d knocked up a girl and they ran away, but that one ended when the girl came back to school, and it turned out she’d had the flu. Some people thought you must have had something to do with it, because you’d been so close for so many years. Those people really got to you, because in truth, you could hardly believe you’d known the boy for most of your lives and never suspected he was anything else.

            March trudged into April and April slipped into May, and your graduation crawled closer. You were announced as valedictorian. When you went to get the honors sash to wear over your gown, the administrator compassionately told you that Neal would have been valedictorian, had he been there, so though they knew it must be hard, you should keep your head up and be proud enough for the both of you. That just made it even harder to get through. What was supposed to be one of the best days of your life was one of the darkest. A huge shared milestone was lonely. Neal had run away, left you picking up the pieces in a shattered social circle, and now you were taking his place, and somehow someone else had figured out he had that tiny edge over your GPA, and a picture of you in your cap and gown giving your speech was put on a blog along with an accusation that you killed him or threatened him away so you could be valedictorian.

            You had to get the hell away. Every unnecessary second you spent in your neighborhood, in your school, in the city you used to share felt like it was scratching at your skin. The application cycle for colleges was long closed, but you took your savings, promised to call your parents every day, and moved to California, as far away as you could get. There, you got a job, found a shitty apartment to share with a girl who minded her own business, and scraped by until you could apply to college.

Palo Alto, 1999

             High school valedictorian had felt like a hollow and bitter loss more than anything, rubbing salt in the wound that Neal was gone. In the four years of college since, you’d made plenty of friendly acquaintances, and even some good friends, but none as good as Neal.

            You’d visited the school counselor a few times. Told her, minus what you knew about Neal and Wit-Sec, what had happened to drive you all the way from St. Louis to Palo Alto for school. She’d been incredibly sympathetic, even as she suggested that perhaps there had been some trauma mixed in with the grief. Looking back, you could accept it for what it was. You lost your best friend, on multiple levels, and then members of your community turned on you, accusing you of the worst. And, though you were still the only one who knew, the whole time you’d been holding onto a secret boring through your soul that you couldn’t share with anyone.

            College graduation felt… much different. Like a success. You were proud of yourself. Sad to see it go but happy you’d made it out the other side, not just of a program but of the grief that had clenched you so tightly. This was what graduation was supposed to feel like. You weren’t valedictorian – or whatever the university equivalent was – this time, but you were graduating with honors, and had an acceptance to a graduate program in hand, so there was that.

            Your whole family made the trip to see you graduate. As you walked across that stage, receiving a piece of paper bound in ribbon, you wished once again that Neal would’ve been there to celebrate with you, and hoped that he was okay, then found your family in the crowd and beamed at them brightly, tears pricking in your eyes with joy. Your sister was doing her best to be both supportive and embarrassing by wearing an obnoxiously neon shirt with your name on it.

            You faltered in your steps across the stage, just for a second, when you saw the face in the crowd grinning from behind your father. They were so far away, it was kind of hard to see, but for just a second, you could’ve sworn…

            You got nudged from behind and had to look down to safely get off of the stage steps. When you were out of the way of the procession, you looked for your family again and stood on your toes to see around your parents. The face you thought you’d seen was gone. You looked down to the rolled paper in your hand, proclaiming you’d earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology, and shook your head; you, of all people, should know the power of wishful thinking.

            Your parents took you back by your apartment to change out of your regalia before going for a celebratory meal. You hurried up the steps in your dress heels, eager to get out of the heavy robe, but stopped cold just on entering the front door. Sitting on the cheap kitchen table was a bouquet of flowers and a little bag of marbles.

            Your gut response was to clear the apartment like they did in the cop movies, but you didn’t have a gun or a taser or even pepper spray, so if you searched and found someone, you were really just putting yourself in more danger. Cautiously, you inched towards the table, along the way recognizing the flowers as the kind that you used to admire while walking to school. When no one jumped, and you didn’t feel unsafe getting closer to the table, you slowly picked up the bag of marbles. The little beads clinked together. You held them up for inspection and realized that they were color tinted, but still mostly translucent, and inside each was a clay creature. Your favorite animal, sculpted and suspended in resin.

            No one had given you marbles, or called you by that name, in years. You hadn’t carried them anywhere since middle school. And you certainly couldn’t have told anyone what your favorite flowers were when you didn’t even remember what they were called.

            The marbles, the flowers, and the face you thought you’d seen at the ceremony all added up to mean one thing to you, and instead of changing your clothes, you sat at the table with the marbles in your hand and had a good, solid cry for a few minutes. Then you stored your new marbles with shaking hands in your so-called Neal Box and put the flowers in some water. You couldn’t decide if you were happy, sad, or furious, but it all boiled down to one thing: he was alive. And still thought about you, just like you still thought of him. And that was something to celebrate, even if your family didn’t know it wasn’t just your graduation that you were happily crying over.

Quantico, 2001

            Completing your Master’s degree was your new proudest achievement, but though there wasn’t anything bad about that graduation, when you walked the stage, you’d hoped to catch another glimpse of a familiar face. No such luck. You still weren’t too worried. Ever since getting those beautiful marbles, you’d gotten an anonymous postcard every once in a while. There was usually a little note on them in one of your oldest, simplest ciphers. Nothing complex, but enough to let you know that he was okay, and he was thinking of you.

            Sometimes you wondered why he didn’t ever just come say hello if he missed you. Yes, you were a part of Danny Brooks’ history. But if Neal Bennett had had to reinvent himself out of a lie, did that have to mean shunning everything about who he’d been?

            Still, a note once in a while was better than the four-plus years you spent with radio silence, hoping he was alive, knowing it was even probable, but with no proof and no way of verifying.

            Shortly out of your Master’s program, you were accepted into the FBI. A couple of internships during school had showed you that you weren’t interested in clinical practice, nor did you think you really had the drive to push through a doctorate program, so you looked for ways you could use your degrees to solve puzzles, returning to that lifelong passion for an intelligent challenge. You found the bureau, and other members of the alphabet soup, but especially the bureau. It was probationary, but you were in, and it was time to head to Quantico.

            The physical exercises were draining. You’d never been so active in your life. Still, the mental exercises were more entertaining than not, so long as they didn’t get so repetitive. Your very favorite instructor took the class of recruits through prolific cases that hadn’t quite become public knowledge, or cold cases that still had yet to be solved. Unlike a documentary, instead of telling you step-by-step what had happened, he prompted and prodded at the agents in training to work their way through themselves. You excelled at this exercise and it proved to you that, although you’d have to work hard to secure a role where you could choose to work on these types of cases, the opportunity was there. That was what you wanted to work towards.

            At least, it was your favorite class. Your emotions changed the day that you were shown pictures of inductees into the FBI’s Most Wanted ranks. Because, to your horror, you recognized one of those faces. He was six years older, but there was no chance you wouldn’t have recognized him. Not him.

            “Not him,” you nearly whispered out loud, barely catching yourself before your tongue moved in your mouth. You drank in all the information they had on him – suspected of bond forgery, along with a litany of other crimes, and dubbed James Bonds, because they had no clue what his real name was.

            You had a split second choice to make, and you felt the pressure beating down on you. Either betray your best friend and turn him in to the FBI, or betray the moral conscience you’d long since sworn to live by – along with the bureau you were about to swear to serve.

            It was an easier choice than it should have been. It would haunt you, but you couldn’t fathom for a second turning your back on him. For as long as you stared at the list of things he was wanted for, there was nothing in that list that could make you hate the man he’d become.

            The instructor had noticed you stopped at Neal’s image. “Is there a problem?” He asked you expectantly.

            Shit. Every game of poker with Neal came to mind and you controlled all the tells he had ever warned you of, making your decision and committing to it. “No,” you said, looking up and putting on your best amused face. “Sorry, Sir. It’s just… James Bonds?”

            You sold it so well that you should’ve been ashamed. The senior agent chuckled and shook his head a bit. “I guess the opportunity felt too good to pass on,” he said, picking up the flyers from your row to share with the next group.

Quantico, 2003

            You weren’t capable of turning on Neal, but you also couldn’t bring yourself to follow his case. The conflict of interest was too strong in your gut, so you just turned a blind eye to any flyer you saw, or a deaf ear to any curious chatter about James Bonds and his globetrotting stunts.

            You kept an eye out for postcards and anonymous letters, but they’d become less frequent. Either Neal had been keeping tabs and learned you joined the bureau, or he’d realized sending mail was becoming more hazardous. In either case, you still got some once in a while, so if it were the former, he was trusting you.

            Over the years, the more you heard about him, the more impressed you were. But also the more… saddened you became. Neal had strayed so far from the man he had wanted to be when you’d spent so much time together. You had to wonder if he were truly happy. At this point, his face was plastered anywhere law enforcement could be assed to look, and you had to hope that he was, because you feared it was too late for him to change course, even if he wanted to.

            At some point, you’d begun to realize that you were technically aiding him just by keeping in touch. You didn’t have a way to send messages to him, but however he’d found your address repeatedly, he really was trusting you – it took over a year, but between bits you overheard and images on postcards, you realized that he was actively sending you clues as to where he was. Now, you doubted that he was doing so with that actual intention. More likely, he was just sending you the postcards because he knew you’d always liked their pictures and wanted to travel. But there was an additional professional boundary being crossed when you knew that the agent in charge of his case was searching for him in Germany or Iceland when you’d just gotten a card from Cape Town or Tehran.

            It also occurred to you that he wouldn’t be an anonymous James Bonds forever. Sooner or later they would figure out who he was. They’d trace him back to either Neal Bennett or Danny Brooks. Both names would flag with the Marshals, and the FBI would learn all about how he disappeared overnight from St. Louis. The FBI would also learn all about how the police had questioned his best friend, Y/N Y/L/N, for days. And then they would have a lot of uncomfortable questions for you that you still had no idea how you were going to answer.

            Then, one day, James Bonds had a name. Neal Caffrey. You didn’t recognize his last name, but it was instantly committed to your memory. Now you knew what he was going by. It was another hit to your heart. He didn’t keep either of his last names. But he had kept his birth name – which had been foreign to him when he learned what it was. It was hard to tell what was going on in his head. You hoped he knew what he was doing. And you hoped that whatever he was choosing, he was happy and safe.

            From the moment he’d been named, you kept waiting for the agents you worked with to turn on you, ask you those awkward questions, but the time never seemed to come. For a second, you had considered running, but you didn’t have the knowledge or connections to get very far or hide for very long. No, the best option for you would be to bow your head and accept the consequences. But those consequences didn’t come for you, and when you saw the updated flyer, you saw why. They had him listed as born in Texas during February. The bureau had a whole fake identity that they fully believed; they had no idea who he really was.

            “You astound me every time,” you’d muttered to yourself, closing the browser window.

Ossining, 2005

            If you ask someone where Sing Sing is, they’ll probably just say “New York”. If pressed, they might even say “New York City”. Very rarely do they actually realize it’s about thirty miles upstate in a little town called Ossining. You’d never been, and had no reason to go, but when you saw the email memo that Neal Caffrey had been apprehended and was awaiting arraignment, you didn’t think you had much of a choice in the matter. You filed for a transfer, ostensibly for a change in scenery, and fortunately, it was granted. Your new home was New York City.

            Your shoes and your conscience itched to guide you upstate straight away, but as much as it pained you, you forced yourself to stay away until after he was convicted. Neal was considered an extreme flight risk; any interactions he had were extremely closely monitored. No matter how loyal you were, you were still afraid of being in trouble for failing to give up his name and whereabouts. And while that made you feel quite selfish, there was also the detail that he’d been “caught” by voluntarily walking into a trap to protect his girlfriend from taking the fall for him. It comforted you that he was still the same softhearted man you’d always known and loved – but, since he’d always been fiercely protective, you weren’t sure if he’d welcome you jeopardizing your good standing to see him.

            Well, too bad. You winced. Okay, maybe a little more sympathy for the guy in prison.

            You signed in a civilian, not an agent, in the hopes that the bureau was less likely to be notified. You weren’t sure what you’d say, but you couldn’t just leave Neal to rot alone in here. The place looked like the place of nightmares, and you were free to just turn around and walk out the door. Your heart ached. God, Neal…

            They searched you quite invasively, but that bit of your dignity was a small price to pay. Once satisfied you weren’t using your body to smuggle a nail file or the like, the guards had you wait while they fetched Neal for visitation and put him in a small monitored cell, then allowed you to be led back the same way. The moment you realized he had to have visitors in a cell with him, it felt like your heart skipped a beat. You knew his containment orders were serious, but to not even be permitted to use the visitation room? This was the kind of restriction that was usually placed on quite dangerous felons.

            There was already one guard standing inside with Neal, close to the door but warily watching. You could tell from his profile, in the ugly orange jumpsuit, that his wrists and ankles were manacled together and locked to the metal table. As the guard who’d led you back let you enter, the guard already inside gruffly barked the rules: fifteen minutes, follow the tape on the floor to your seat (rather than take a shortcut which passed closer to Neal), and absolutely no touching.

             You ventured in as Neal turned around as well as he was able to see you. The surprise in his eyes was quickly taken over by delight and he started to stand, only to get yanked down by the links around his wrists. That sight alone nearly killed your excitement to see him, but he remained undeterred. “Marbles!” he cheerfully chirped your old name.

            You forced a little laugh, loosely sticking to the tape and hurrying to your side of the table, swinging your legs in comfortably to sit across from him. “You are such an ass, Neal,” you complained with a small smile.

            There was almost a little look of shock when his chosen name came out of your mouth so casually, but before you could respond to it, it had melted into a soft smile that lit up his eyes. He looked at you like you’d put the sun in the sky for a long minute. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

            “I’ve missed you, too,” you risked answering, not daring to look to the guard. Hopefully he wouldn’t remember this bit. “When you… well, I thought for years that was it.”

            “It wasn’t meant to be,” Neal admitted. It was easy to say that now that it was in the past and you’d gotten back in touch, but you couldn’t help but trust him. Neal had never told you an outright lie before, not for any reason. “Things just… is it too cliché to say I needed to find myself?”

            You hesitated, but shook your head. “No,” you said haltingly, “But there were better ways to do it than becoming a milk box picture.” You’d imagined screaming in his face for it, giving him a real what-for over the way he left you to pick up the pieces he left behind. But now that you were here, in a prison where he’d be spending the next half decade of his life – well, it was hard to hold onto any anger. Neal was paying for his mistakes. You didn’t need to pile on with trauma you’d already processed. “Did you?” You gently prompted, sensing that if you didn’t, he was going to wait for you to say what you’d thought about.

            His smile tightened into something wistful. Your heart sank a little for him. “I think I got close at times,” he allowed. You didn’t quite buy it, but thought if he needed to believe it, it wouldn’t hurt to let him tell himself that all of this was worth it. Like he’d always done when he was unhappy, he turned the subject around back to yourself. “I’m so proud of you, Y/N. I knew you’d make something good for yourself.”

            We could’ve done it together. You thought back to his eighteenth birthday. You’d been so close to telling him you were going to take that next step with him. Maybe if he’d known it wasn’t just his journey… well, it didn’t matter now. It was ten years in the past.

            “Stop talking like we’re in retirement,” you accused lightly. If it weren’t for the guard who felt very strongly about touching, you’d have nudged his foot under the table. “We’ve got ages to make more out of ourselves yet still.”

            “You do,” Neal disagreed graciously.

            “No, we do,” you argued, saying it so firmly that he wasn’t allowed to disagree again. Then you softened your tone, because you knew he already knew how bad this was going to be. “Four years… it’s gonna be hard. But one day it’ll be done and you’ll have a whole life in front of you to do something new.” It was the twenty-first century. When he got through his sentence, he’d still have more than half his life expectancy ahead. “And we’re gonna make it good. Got it?”

            Neal’s expression had hardened a bit, for a moment showing his anger. When he was Danny, he’d been good at concealing anger, but when it did come out, it was volatile. Ellen wanted to put him in therapy to better manage it, but his mother had never gone through with it, so Neal had been left learning to self-soothe and manipulate his own emotions until he could explode in private. It wasn’t pretty. And, unfortunately, based on that familiar expression he’d made, that habit hadn’t changed. But when you were done, he seemed to assess what you were saying and judge it on the merits of your own belief in it, because he studied your face as he slowly nodded, and the anger slipped away, either unwinding from his joints or being masked by something else. You hoped for the former, but truthfully, it had been ten years. You’d once known him better than anyone. While you still suspected that that was largely true, you couldn’t be sure this hadn’t changed.

            “We will,” he echoed after you. “You’ll be here?”

            You nodded with certainty. If nothing he’d done so far had gotten you fed up with him, there was probably nothing he could manage from inside a prison to change that. “I will.”

            You put a hand down on the table. The guard locked his eyes on it and you barely refrained from rolling your eyes. Symbolically, you were offering Neal a hand to hold. Judging by how exasperatedly he glanced at the guard, he understood as he made an exaggeratedly slow motion, mirroring your hand but not reaching across to you.

            “It’s gonna be a long four years,” Neal grumbled under his breath, shooting an irritable glare in the guard’s direction.

~~~ ~~~

Dean was struggling to find “cool” and “calm” as he turned onto Sam’s road. It had been a little over an hour, and he’d listened to that damn voicemail twice since the first time. He still had no clue what was going on, and he was honestly afraid of what he would find, because the time stamp on the damn recording was four hours ago.

A lot could happen in four hours.

And he couldn’t get Jess or Sam on the damn phone.

He had yet to call the fed that Sam had told him to—he’d worry about that after he’d made sure his future sister-in-law was safe.

Please let her be safe. If anything happened to Jess… Sam would never recover.

He hard-braked his car on the curb, the driveway full with Jess’s yellow Jeep and a car Dean didn’t recognize. Sam’s Mustang was nowhere to be seen.

Dean felt like ice was in his veins. With slightly numb fingers, he opened the glovebox and pulled out his Colt M1911. He’d bought the thing and gotten a license to carry concealed after his car restoration garage had been broken into for the third time. He’d trained on it—his dad had been in the Marines, and Dean had been around guns his whole life—but he never thought he’d have to use it in this situation.

He approached the house with the gun held down by his side, the spare key Sam had given him in his hand. His heart was pounding so loud in his ears, he honestly couldn’t tell if anyone was inside. A light was on in the main room though, and when he paused beside the unfamiliar car, a dark blue Charger, the hood was slightly warm.

Whomever the stranger was, he or she hadn’t been here long.

Dean let out a deep breath, taking the last few steps up the steps and onto the porch at a slight jog. He used his free hand to unlock the door, his palm already sweating on the ivory handle of the gun.

He tucked the key back into his pocket, wiped his hand quickly before releasing the safety and gripping the pistol the way his father had taught him. The adrenaline was pumping, and he wanted to yell for Sam and Jess, but he tried to move softly through the carpeted hallway. If someone unwanted was here, one of the people who had been threatening his brother, Dean would do what it took to keep what was left of his family safe.

Whatever it took.

He headed for the living and kitchen area—they had an open set up in the center of the house, and that’s where the light was coming from. He heard a low voice coming from the room. Jess. She sounded worried.

Dean’s hand was shaking slightly, and he steadied it. There was no time for nerves. He was at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. Jess was there.

She was alive. Standing at the kitchen table with her back to him. She was alone, her hand held up to ear, probably on the phone. Dean was too concerned with where the driver of the other vehicle was to listen to what she was saying. His eyes scanned the corners, worried someone was hiding there.

Then he felt a cold barrel against the back of his skull.

“Drop it, or I’ll drop you.”

Jess spun around at the sound of the woman’s voice behind him, the woman who was holding a gun to his head.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene and Dean weighed his options. Dean slowly raised his hands, the gun aimed upwards.

The woman, and possible hit-man, prodded the hard metal into the base of his neck. “I said drop it, Ace. That means on the floor, not in the air.”

Dean shot Jess a look, trying to see if she was hurt; he didn’t want to get shot, especially not right in front of her, but giving up his gun seemed like the dumbest move at the moment.

Jess seemed shocked out of her silence at Dean’s look and took a step forward, “Dean? Dean! Y/N, no! Don’t shoot him. That’s Dean, Sam’s brother.”

Y/N? The fed Sam had asked him to call?

Dean lowered his gun slowly, willing to trust Jess’s identification and Sam’s message for the moment, even if that gun was still jabbing at the skin on his neck and the hairs were still standing at attention on his arms and nape. He safetied the weapon then dropped it the last three feet from the bottom of his arm to the ground.

He felt the gun at the back of his head move, and he breathed out a sigh of relief, throwing Jess a smile.

The relief vanished as he was twisted and spun from behind, pushed up against the wall while small hands patted his shoulders, his sides, feeling through the leather jacket he wore.

“Hey, sweetheart, watch the hands.” Dean pushed away from the wall and went to turn and face the cop behind him, but he felt a forearm against his spine, pushing him forward again while the other hand patted his waistband, searching for another weapon.

“Y/N, stop.” Jess was there now, right next to Dean and the as-yet unseen Y/N. The hand on Dean’s hip and the arm across his back were removed and Dean swiveled to see Sam’s spitfire of a fiancé holding the arm and shoulder of a woman with icy eyes.

Dean’s first impression of her, other than noticing her short stature in comparison to him (which, let’s face it, was true of most women) and the holster strapped to her hip with the black gun he presumed had just been aimed at him, was that this woman wasn’t one who would take crap from anyone.

“Y/N, this is Sam’s brother, Dean. We’ve talked to you about him before—hell the two of you are supposed to be best man and maiden of honor in a few months.”

Dean raised an eyebrow in question. He should have paid more attention to the wedding planning emails Jess had sent him.

Jess blushed, “this wasn’t exactly how I wanted you to meet.”

Dean smiled at Jess’s blushing face—he knew she hated that involuntary reaction. Mostly he was just relieved that his favorite soon-to-be sister-in-law was safe. She was still in her professional dress outfit—something the art museum she curated insisted on, though Dean knew she preferred baking in bare feet, a t-shirt, and jeans over briefcases, dress pants, and heels.

He tried to turn the smile towards the cop next to her, but the expression on her face was still not very friendly, and Dean held off extending a hand to shake. With the look she was giving him, she might chop the thing off. She crossed her arms over her navy FBI bulletproof vest, her matching pants going all the way down long legs and ending with a pair of combat boots.

“This is Dean Winchester, huh?” Dean straightened, giving her a slow flirty smile he figured would tick the Ice Queen off and nodded. “What were you doing breaking in here armed? Or, an even more important question, do you know where your brother is?”

Dean dropped the smile and looked to the floor to see his gun, stooped to grab it and tuck it in his waistband. “I didn’t break in, sweetheart. I have a key. And no, I don’t know where Sam is, but I know he’s in trouble—hence the gun.”

Jess paled a bit, and Dean eyed her warily. She wasn’t the type to faint, but he didn’t like her complexion right now.

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’. My name is Y/F/N Y/L/N. Either of those, or Agent, will be fine since apparently I’m working right now—what do you know about Sam’s trouble?”

Dean ignored the cop, closing the distance between himself and Jess and taking her arm, leading her into the living room and pushing her gently onto the couch.

“Sit down before you fall over, Jess. I’m sure Sam’s fine.” Dean kept his voice comforting, and was alarmed when he saw tears starting to form in Jess’s eyes. Jess didn’t cry like this. Pissed off and yelling, he’d understand. What if she knew something? What if—

“I’m sorry, I’m just—ugh, I’m a mess. Damn hormones.” Jess looked around and Y/N was there, already handing her a tissue. She nodded her thanks and Dean felt his opinion of the woman improve slightly when he saw the unmistakable concern for her friend in her eyes. “It’s just that, this isn’t like Sam. We were supposed to meet in town to look at two possible wedding venues. But he didn’t show up—I thought he’d been caught up at work, but then he didn’t answer my text. When I tried again an hour later, I got ‘message undeliverable’ and I started getting worried…when I called, it said his phone had been disconnected.”

She sniffed and blew her nose, some of her color coming back as Dean moved back, letting Y/N sit closer to her. He was useless when it came to crying women.

“So I called his work, and they said he hadn’t been into work today—but I made them check, and his car was there in the lot, and—“ Her voice was steadily rising in pitch and Dean was getting more and more alarmed. Was she having a panic attack? What the hell was up with Jess? This wasn’t like her at all!

“That’s when you called me, sweetie. Which was the right thing to do. I don’t know what’s up with Sam, but you need to calm down. This stress isn’t good for you right now.” Y/N’s voice was completely different now—no hard edge, just soothing comfort and warmth. Dean shot a look between the two women, completely lost.

Dean shifted, his confusion and discomfort obvious enough that Jess managed a half smile as she sniffed at her tears.

“I’m sorry, Dean, you don’t know yet. I’m pregnant.”

Dean felt like his eyes were going to bug out of his head. “You are?! That’s—that’s fantastic, Jess! Congratulations!” He wanted to pull her into a big hug, but she was still crying, and Sam wasn’t here—wait— “does Sam know?”

“Yes, of course. We were just keeping it quiet till the rehearsal dinner. Sam…he thought it would be a nice surprise for everyone to find out then….” Jess looked down at the tissues in her clenched hand, or maybe at her waistline which was still the same as far as Dean could tell, then straightened her shoulders and gave a loud sniff before clearing her throat.

“I’m fine. But, Dean, how did you know something was wrong with Sam? You said you didn’t know where he was?”

Dean nodded, relieved to be on firm footing again. “Yeah, he called and left a message while I was at work—and when I couldn’t get him or you on the phone, I rushed over here.”

Dean took out his phone, scrolling through until he found the voicemail and setting the speaker and volume so that Jess and Y/N could hear.

Dean?… It’s Sam. I’m, uh…I’m in trouble.

Dean’s eyes were glued on the two women. Y/N had her eyes narrowed, leaning forward towards the phone in his fist, every inch of her tense and screaming “cop”. He had a fleeting thought that he liked the comforting friend better than the ice lady, but Jess’s in-drawn breath distracted him.

I’m okay right now, but I’m worried about Jess. That case that made the news, the one we talked about last week? Well…things aren’t as simple as I thought.

Dean only vaguely remembered the case. Something about a major drug operation and Sam had gone after the head guy, some dude named Crowley who was supposed to be this generation’s Al Capone or something. Honestly, Dean had been proud of his brother’s first big conviction, but hadn’t paid that much attention to the details.

Look, I’m not going to sugar-coat this. Someone’s dirty. And they’re framing me. And it has something to do with this case with Crowley. I don’t know all the details yet, but from what I’ve seen he might be out soon, and he’s made enough threats against me that…well, I’m going to do some digging. I’m not letting this go…. I can’t let this go.

God, he’d practically memorized the damn thing at this point. It made his gut clench to think of Sam out on his own, trying to dig out a dirty cop or lawyer—Dean didn’t know much about that kind of thing, but he knew his brother was smart and stubborn as hell. And that people who committed major crimes were willing to commit more to not get caught.

But I can’t let Jess be hurt because of me. I need you to make sure she’s safe. And to get in contact with a friend, someone I trust. She’ll help. Y/N went to school with Jess and I a few years back. She’s a fed now. Her number is XXX-XXXX.

Dean watched both women react as Sam said their names. Jess’s jaw jutted out, and if Sam had been present, Dean would have had to make the tough call of stepping between his brother and her to protect him, or to back out of the room slowly.

Y/N was harder to read. Her lips tightened before she drew the lower one inside her mouth to chew on, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. Dean watched that abused piece of flesh slide back out of her mouth and almost didn’t hear the end of the message.

I’m dumping my phone, Dean. Be safe, and don’t do anything stupid. Don’t come looking for me—you might lead someone else my way. Just… look after Jess.  Love you, man.

He quickly pressed the end button before the automated voice gave him the option to delete or listen again. The silence was heavy in the room as he looked warily at Jessica, worried she’d start crying again.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Or not.

Y/N was shaking her head slowly, “I might help you with that, Jess. I warned him…” Her voice drifted off.

Great. Now Dean was in a room with two homicidal women.

Y/N slapped her hands on her thighs suddenly, startling Jess. “Well, since Sam has decided to throw this shit into a fan to see what would happen, we need to get moving. Jess, Dean, I’m going to make a few calls, get some wheels rolling legally. I need you to pack anything you might need for a week or so—you two are going into protective custody.”

“The hell I am!” Jess was definitely back to her take-charge self now. Dean had always joked that, with her fire, she should dye her hair red to give the world a warning label. She jumped off the couch and towered over her friend while Dean took a step back. “I’m going with you to find Sam. There’s no way I’m going to go sit in some safe house while he’s sticking his idiot neck out.”

Then Y/N was up, arms crossed over those white FBI letters, “oh, yes, you are. You’ve got more than just you to think of now, remember?” She pointedly stared at Jess’s stomach.

Jess narrowed her eyes and copied Y/N’s stance. “That’s dirty pool, you know.”

Y/N just gave a smug smile. “You’ve already told me I’m going to be godmother, so I’m allowed. Now, go get packed.”

“Fine. But you have to bring him back so I can kill him before the wedding.” Jess poked her finger into her friend’s shoulder for emphasis during that last statement while Y/N tried not to smile.

Y/N nodded, apparently seeing some sense in that insane comment that was beyond Dean’s grasp.

Jess glared for a moment longer, then spun on her heel and stomped out of the room, slamming her bedroom door shut behind her like an angsty teen. Dean let out a breath of relief, glad that she had seen reason. Protective custody for Jess was exactly what needed to happen so Dean could fulfill Sam’s request and still sleep at night.

Because he couldn’t let his brother down by letting Jess get hurt, but there was no way he was going to sit around and let his little brother get himself killed either.

“Yeah, I need you to look into this quietly. Let me know what you find out.”

Y/N was talking in a low voice, pacing in the kitchen, while Dean leaned against the door frame, eyeing and appreciating her shape walking back and forth as he waited for her to get off the phone. He realized he was about to lock horns with her—and, strangely, despite his worry for his brother, he was kinda looking forward to it.

“Yes, I realize that….A safe house, what else? We can’t leave the two of them out in the cold, not if someone’s on the take and Crowley makes good on his threats….Sam? I have no clue.”

Y/N seemed to notice him for the first time, stopping her pacing and looking him in the eye. A few strands of her (Y/H/C) hair had escaped from that tight bun on the back of her head and were brushing the side of her neck. Dean fought the urge to pull the hair tie out and see what it looked like down around her face, but he resisted—she’d probably shoot him or kick his ass or something.

“Just get it done. I’ll wait here till Agent Tran gets here to move Sam’s family, but then I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on….Thanks.”

She disconnected and kept her eyes locked on Dean’s.

“I realize you can’t really pack a bag right now, but is there a reason you’re standing here staring at me?”

Dean thought of at least three pick-up lines that would be easy to throw out with that set up, but refrained from saying them. At this rate, he deserved an award for self-control.

“I thought you should know that I’m going with you.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled a little, apparently amused. Dean smiled back, but his was cocky.

“No, actually, you’re not. The professionals will take care of this now, thanks.”

Dean didn’t let the smile falter and her’s slowly melted off of her face. “I’m serious, Mr. Winchester—“

“It’s Dean. And I’m serious too, sweetheart.” He deliberately put emphasis on the nickname and watched her eyes narrow. “I don’t have a bun in the oven to protect, so you don’t have that to hold over my head. I’m going to help you find my brother.”

She crossed her arms in front of her, a stance that Dean recognized as a challenge instead of defensive for this woman. “You have no experience in law enforcement, you know nothing about this case, and you know nothing about these people. How exactly are you going to be any help at all?”

“I know my brother. I can help you find him.”

“I won’t be looking for Sam.” That shook Dean. The smile dropped from his face and he took a step towards the cop in front of him. This was the woman his brother trusted for help, and she wasn’t even going to look for him?

“What?”

“You heard me. If Sam’s right about a leak and someone tampering with this case, then me finding him would fix nothing; he would still be in danger. I’m not going to be looking for Sam. I’m going to be looking for a way to help him. And the best way you can help with that is to not get yourself killed by sticking your nose in where you have no business being. I’m good at my job. And Sam is my friend. I’ll bring him home.”

Dean let that sink in for a second, reigning in his anger. “He may be your friend, but Sammy is my baby brother; he’s family—and I’m not going to sit around while he’s in trouble.”

Dean locked eyes with the cop in front of him who seemed to be listening to him for the first time, weighing his seriousness. He made sure there was no trace of a smile on his face as he concluded his argument—a trick he’d learned from watching his lawyer little brother.

“You say you’re good at your job? My job is to take care of him. And I’m fucking excellent at that.”

Y/N waited a measured beat, her face softening to resemble the caring woman who had comforted Jess on the couch earlier. “I understand that you’re worried, but I’m sure Sam will be fine. He was right to reach out to me; I’ll have this sorted out before long, get Sam home and—“

“Then we all go out for ice cream and strippers. Don’t patronize me, Agent. You know how stubborn Sam is? Who do you think he learned that from?” Dean leaned down, his face barely inches away from Y/N’s, her supportive look turning hard in the face of his defiance.

“This is very simple. Either I will work with you to help my brother, or I will go out and try to find and help him by myself. Your choice.”

JAC Part 2

Just Another Case Series Tag List:

            It was hard, at first, to forget who you were talking to. You’d gone through Quantico in the last five years, and then you’d asked around about the division once it was set in stone that you’d be working there. Neal Caffrey’s reputation preceded him; in all honesty – and you would never admit it to his face – you were a bit starstruck the first time you saw him striding in beside Peter, coffee in one hand, anklet on one leg, hat jauntily perched on his head. This was James Bonds himself, in your new office, sitting barely fifteen feet away from you and even using the same coffee pot. It felt a little bit like a fresh-blooded actress being cast alongside Meryl Streep.

            But, truthfully, the stars blinked from your eyes pretty quickly. Working in the same space, even if you didn’t work on the same cases together, took apart whatever larger-than-life image you’d built of him in your head. Talking to him – shyly at first, getting more comfortable as the days went by – humanized him, until, yeah, it was still pretty cool that you were sharing water cooler gossip with Neal freakin’ Caffrey, but he was also the guy who infamously got the double-finger-point from Hughes every other week and was sent to fetch coffee from outside the building whenever he pissed someone off by complaining too much about the instant mix in the kitchenette.

            As weeks went by in your new division, you actually started striking up something with Neal. You weren’t quite ready to call it sparks – for a few reasons, you weren’t willing to go there just yet, even in your mind – but you did think it could be friendship. You started taking coffee breaks together when you were both able to step away from work. Sometimes, Neal even finished with what Peter had given him and wandered over to your desk to pull up a chair and help you look at your cold cases of the week, seeing if a fresh pair of eyes couldn’t make a difference. They usually couldn’t, but that one time they had? Oh, boy. You hadn’t felt a rush like that since the one and only time you’d taken the free fall at the amusement park.

            After months in the division, there was truthfully only one thing you still complained about to yourself and your non-bureau friends. It wasn’t the cheap coffee; you were more than welcome to use your breaks to go get better stuff from a café. Nor was it the sometimes long hours; you’d known those were coming, and you had the security of salaried pay to make the few instances worth the exchange. Even the boring cases, you had, in a sense, signed up for. No, what still really bothered you, months in, was the way one specific coworker was treated by everyone with authority.

            Neal brushed it off and never let it get him down. He was like a smiley, cheerful duck in that it all rolled off his back, barring the few comments where he made a mocking face of hurt or sarcastically clapped back. Most of the time, he just let it go as if everything were warranted; and it wasn’t. Because, the thing was, he’d been sentenced to four years in prison. Between actual prison time, and his time on parole, he’d served well over four years. Sure, he’d gotten that additional four for breaking out, but time and hindsight had proven that the girl he’d broken out for had, indeed, been in danger. She’d wound up murdered by the people who’d pushed her to go off the grid. Personally, you were pretty sure Neal had more than made up his debt to society, especially since the man whose company he’d stolen from gave him the moral all-clear after the kidnapping debacle.

            It wasn’t your call to make, and you weren’t going to delude yourself into thinking it was, but all that left you with a bad taste in your mouth when Neal was treated poorly by figures of authority in the bureau simply because of his record; the record that he had paid for dearly with whole years of his life. No, he didn’t serve out that second sentence in full yet, but he was working for the bureau in a capacity that often put him in mortal danger; didn’t that at least earn him the respect of the people he worked beside? If they were comfortable enough entrusting him with civilian and agent lives alike, you thought they should be plenty comfortable going more than a single day without a jibe meant to put him back in his place.

            “Trust you? I don’t think so,” Jones would say in all seriousness with an amused chuckle when Neal encouraged him to take a leap of faith.

            Diana wouldn’t even look up from her desk before issuing mild-mannered threats about Neal attempting to manipulate her – before even letting him say hello or approach why he was at her desk to begin with.

            Even Peter would make the jabs on occasion. One time Neal had been admiring a car and they used its lo-jack to identify a suspect. Neal made a comment appreciating that it came with a GPS, and Peter made a cheerful quip of, “Just like you!” That seemed innocent enough on its face, but it became a lot less innocent when he would make very casual references to having looked at Neal’s tracking data, or reminding the artist that Peter could chuck him back in jail when he thought Neal was being annoying.

            All the little things like that added up to you, and you started cataloguing them with your head down and a frown replacing your neutral, preoccupied expression. You told yourself you worked with good people, and they wouldn’t constantly put a man down like that – especially a man who was on their side, ostensibly their friend. Maybe it sounded bad to you, but was all in good fun – like the way you insulted your best friend if she dared to touch your French fries. You started glancing at Neal afterwards to see if he seemed upset. He never seemed to let it get to him, but you did notice that if he’d been acting playful or particularly friendly before, that seemed to put an end to it. So there went that theory of it being appropriate in context.

            As a junior agent, barely out of your probationary timeframe, it was absolutely none of your business how Diana or Clinton interacted with Neal – much less how Peter did. And, since Neal didn’t make a fuss about it, you didn’t either. Maybe that was cowardly of you, but you didn’t want to stand out at work for any of the wrong reasons. Instead, you just tried to be a good friend to him at work, showing him the respect of not automatically assuming he was constantly out to manipulate, trick, lie to, or otherwise scam you. Likewise, you never tried to guard your phone, jewelry, or other personal effects from him. You hoped that if he noticed that behavior from some of the less confident agents, he would also notice and appreciate the opposite from you.

            Silent support seemed to be working pretty well, because you picked up on how often Neal would come to you to socialize or help out with cold cases when he didn’t have something else to work on or anywhere to be. And in addition to having the clever blue-eyed boy keep you company, it brought an unexpected upside of drawing positive attention from the older agents, who, after several months of no incidents between you and Neal, appeared to believe that you were capable of handling yourself. Between your composure and Neal’s favorable attention, Peter’s team started to loop you in on cases when they needed more manpower. Being included, in whatever capacity, in the larger-profile cases was a huge professional boon.

            That was how, on a Thursday evening, you found yourself in the van with Neal and Peter. It was far from your first surveillance operation, but it was your first time on one of this caliber. Fortunately, there was very little pressure; it being late evening, the suspect was more likely than not to head to bed soon and then be unconscious for most of your shift. Still, the van needed people in it, so you traded places with Clinton for a staggered watch and joined the infamous crime-solving duo with fresh coffee and a deck of cards.

            Both men started grinning, albeit for different reasons. Peter reached for the coffee you offered him with an almost reverent tone of gratitude, while Neal started to grin widely and rolled up his sleeves. “Finally, a way to pass the time.”

            “Nertz is off the table,” you said regrettably. “But anything where we can check the cameras every few seconds is fair game.”

            You handed him the deck since he was so excited. Neal popped it open and started shuffling the cards with the ease of a practiced magician. He caught your eye and grinned as you watched him bridge the deck against his thigh without dropping any.

            “Y/N doesn’t know how to play the usual card games,” Neal said sideways to Peter, shuffling without even looking. Now that was unfair. You sipped at your coffee, made a face, and put it to the side to cool off. The equipment on the table was taking up most of the space, so you’d have to make smart use of the flat tops, too, but it was going to be wholly doable. “I promised I’d teach her some.”

            “Got an extra deck, if you wanna play,” you offered. Truthfully, you didn’t know how many decks most games needed, so you’d just grabbed two to be safe.

            “We’re gonna start with poker,” Neal said brightly.

            You chuckled quietly, already quite certain that in any game of bluffing, you would lose to Neal. Still, you’d never had a reason to bluff to him before, so maybe you stood a slim chance that he wouldn’t know your tics right away.

            Peter made an almost incredulous face at you, and then looked at Neal, then back to you. “You’re teaching Neal to teach you poker? You know what he does for a living, right?”

            “Peter,” Neal objected gamely, giving him a scolding, but not very serious, frown. It was a token objection, if that.

            “Works for the FBI,” you said at the same time, giving Peter a pointed look. It was the quickest and bravest you’d dared to be about one of those snide little remarks. But the fact was, Neal didn’t make his living hustling people at cards. He earned his stipend by working for the bureau, just like you and Peter both also did. The only difference was that the two of you were actually paid a living wage, whereas it was somehow fair for the bureau to not only demand Neal’s compliance with life-threatening demands, but also to pay him less than poverty wages.

            “Before that,” Peter said, smiling a little like you’d made a funny joke. He elbowed Neal, but Neal didn’t play along with him. Instead he straightened the edges of the cards and deliberately didn’t look at Peter.

            “He’s my teammate,” you said, frowning at Peter fully. “I trust him. I’ll continue to do so unless he gives me a reason not to.”

            The senior agent looked almost shocked that something he’d meant as a joke had been responded to so seriously. Did he really not hear how mean-spirited it had sounded? At least he now seemed to see that it wasn’t taken as one, and that you weren’t the only one upset. He looked at Neal again, but then looked away, frowning to himself. You could see gears turning in his head. While he reflected, you changed the subject back to friendlier waters, encouraging Neal not to mentally retreat.

            “What’re we playing for?” You asked him, opening up the small bag you’d brought with you. “I brought chocolate. Or, we could go for coffee-fetching.”

            The stakeout passed uneventfully. After a few minutes, you’d drawn Neal back out into the playful mood he’d been in before, and once a respectable amount of time had passed since you’d very politely told off your boss, Peter asked to be dealt in. As predicted, both of them wiped the floor with you, but you’d had a good time and the foresight to bring spare chocolate.

            Another few weeks passed uneventfully. You were pleased to note that, at least in front of you, Peter made fewer snarky comments about Neal. Something about that night – whether it was being called on it, or actually seeing that Neal wouldn’t look at him after – showed the older agent that his jokes weren’t actually funny. Not that you spent that much time in his presence, granted. That case was closed a couple days after you helped to surveil, and you hadn’t been recruited for anything by their team since. You still said your friendly hellos and made conversation with Neal almost every day.

            There came one interesting day when organized crime popped in. It wasn’t unusual for agents from other divisions to wander through for some reason or another, but when a whole trio of them came in doing the strut together, you tended to take notice. They went straight to Hughes’ office, and when the white-haired ASAC came out, he did the double-fingered point at Neal before turning straight back into his office. Neal looked like he had no idea what was going on, but was just happy to be invited, and went on up to Hughes’ office on the mezzanine with a bit of pep in his step.

            The pep was gone when he came to see what you were up to later on in the day. “Special assignment?” You asked him curiously before he had the chance to say something to you. When you looked to his face, his expression was glum. “Oh. Not in a good way.”

            “I’m getting loaned out,” he complained, filling one of Peter’s mugs with coffee. By the amount of cream he put in it, you strongly suspected it wasn’t for Peter. “Ruiz doesn’t even appreciate my expertise.”

            “Not all agents can be as cool as I am,” you said sympathetically. “I’m sorry. It’s not for long, I hope?”

            “This case they’re on could be a few days,” Neal predicted. Then he confirmed your suspicion about the coffee by taking a big sip from the rim, settling his hip against the counter to make himself more comfortable as he spoke to you. The artist scrunched up his nose adorably; you weren’t sure whether it was about the coffee or about the division’s visitors. “He said I’m a tool in his belt.”

            You snorted. “From what I’ve heard, Ruiz is the tool.” He was a passable agent, but not well liked by any stretch of the imagination.

            “Not Ruiz,” Neal corrected you, still just as displeased. “Hughes. He can loan me out because I’m a tool. And not even a good enough one to want to keep on, apparently.”

            This was the first time you’d ever heard Neal voice his issues with being spoken down to in that way. You wondered if it was because you’d demonstrated that you were in his corner about it already, but brushed it off; this wasn’t about you. That said, there really wasn’t anything you could do when Hughes had already made a decision. He outranked you by miles.

            “Well, if you were on my team, I’d be fighting to keep you put,” you said, trying to bolster his mood without stroking his ego – or sounding too much like a heartfelt cheerleader. “I’m sorry Hughes still talks to you like that.” Really, you’d think someone as experienced as your division chief would know better than to paint people with such broad strokes. Especially when those strokes were demoralizing, and, dare you say, dehumanizing.

            “If I put together my own crew, you’ll be on it,” Neal promised in solidarity.

            Your lips twitched up, but you tried not to actually smile. This was the kind of good-natured joking Peter thought he was doing. “Team.”

            “Crew, team. Same thing,” Neal said innocently.

            Neal was with organized crime for three days and part of a fourth before you got him back. When he did return, he arrived to a little bit of well-intentioned fanfare from you, Peter, and (albeit more sarcastically) Diana. He caught you all up to speed on his week with a quick sum-up that amounted to “murder bad, guns ick, Ruiz boo” before immediately pouncing on Peter’s newest case.

            To be clear, it wasn’t like you were waiting on the edge of your seat to be brought into another of the big cases. You knew exactly where you sat in the pecking order, and you knew that if you were patient, and continued to show your merit, you would eventually earn some better files. That said, you were not going to turn down an opportunity, so when Neal indirectly asked if you’d like to join the team on a counter-smuggling operation, you excitedly let him lead you to the floor’s biggest conference room.

            The way that the team talked about everything going into their sting made you almost buzz. It was all so normal to them – they did it, or something like it, so often that the novelty had worn off. But for you, there was a thrill to what you were doing and what you were aiming to accomplish. Your role was small, but crucial; you were inwardly delighted that they trusted you with it, even if only because their small team was too small for the operation they needed to pull off.

            After the whole team disbanded, Peter led you and Neal down into the evidence warehouse to select and familiarize yourself with the props you’d be using: precious gems. The idea was to flash valuable stones enough that your display would be targeted when your back was turned. Little did your thieves know, but you were replacing the real ones shown for appraisal with cheap facsimiles in the case. Clinton and Peter would be making sure to keep the heat on your bad guys, so they wouldn’t have time to stop and appraise the fakes in the dark before leaving – and taking a tiny GPS tag with them. The act of stealing the fakes would, itself, be a crime, and hopefully lead back to the pure emeralds stolen from a gallery.

            With a careful, gloved hand, you picked up a vaguely oval-shaped stone from a small blue felt tray where the bureau’s confiscated mid-range gems lay. “This is gorgeous,” you admired, turning it slightly and seeing how the colors seemed to shift from a ocean blue in the center to a faded pink on the edges.

            Neal looked at what you were appreciating for only a couple of seconds before he identified it. “Alexandrite,” he said. “We’re looking for something a bit more valuable.”

            The other stones were pretty, too, but you loved the alexandrite. “Value is subjective,” you sighed softly before putting it back down.

            Neal ran a gloved fingertip gently over some of the stones on the tray, making them move and seeing how they changed under the light. Peter sighed while he waited for the two of you to make your picks, but you ignored him – neither of you knew what you were doing, so you were going to defer to the man who actually had professional expertise on the subject of gemstones. After a moment, Neal seemed to zero in on a couple before choosing a relatively small one to hold up. At first, you’d thought it was a diamond like some other pieces, but when he held it away from the blue felt, you could see it had a soft purple tint to it.

            “Amethyst?” You asked skeptically.

            Neal smiled at you, amused by the guess but not being rude that you were wrong. “Taaffeite. First found in Ireland, valued at up to thirty-five grand per carat.” You eyed it skeptically. The artist quietly chuckled. “You think the alexandrite is prettier, don’t you?”

            “I do,” you confirmed.

            Neal gently put the taaffeite to the side and picked up the alexandrite you’d put down. You perked up. “Alright. This isn’t a rare coloring, it’s got a flaw running the side. But something like this, it could still go for fifteen, maybe twenty.” He put it with the taaffeite, which made you smile excitedly. You were allowed to be excited about holding pretty gems. This was probably the only time you’d ever be able to so much as look at them for free, much less model them on your body.

            Since he’d been sweet enough to bend his criteria just a little to let you wear your favorite one, you shut up and smiled at all of the others he selected, too. In the end, you had realized there were well over a million dollars there on that tray, hence Peter’s presence and the antsiness of the agent against the wall who’d brought them out. Neal chose a little over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gemstones to attract smugglers of this particular tier.

            “You’ve been holding out on me, Peter,” Neal said with obvious glee as he stripped off his gloves, all the gems safely stored in soft velvet bags.

            “I’d hoped I’d never have to tell you this stash exists,” Peter moaned. “Next thing we know, we’re robbed blind and you’re halfway to India.”

            Neal looked up and shot Peter a glare. It was almost alarmingly quickly that Neal’s aggravated expression turned much lighter and almost exasperated, but you hadn’t missed that split-second before he covered it up. The artist didn’t appreciate the accusations. At all. And hell, you couldn’t blame him – Peter didn’t sound like he was joking, because he wasn’t laughing with Neal, he was just shoving his nose back in the fact that he had a record and his own coworkers didn’t trust him.

            Catching that look on your friend’s face, finally, after months of looking for it, made something held tight inside of you snap. Your friend was hurting. Neal hated that the people he had no choice but to be around treated him like he was going to do exactly what Peter said: rob them blind and run to the other side of the planet. You’d known him long enough to know that the artist valued his own integrity. His moral code was a little different from yours, but he had no interest in backstabbing the people he had worked with for years. And in those same years, he had proven the same, despite every opportunity to make them look bad – only for the accusations never to stop. For the trust never to be earned. For the respect to be revoked the moment they felt irritated or embarrassed.

            “Why do you always have to hold his conviction over his head?” You blurted out hotly, fisting your hands at your sides. “Exactly what does he have to do to prove he’s not looking to screw you over at any chance? Because I’ve only been here a few months and I’m sick of it – and none of the snide little comments are even directed at me!”

            “Y/N,” Neal said, voice as soft as his expression as he looked towards you and warned you down.

            “No,” you said to him, firmly. “It’s okay.” And then, so he didn’t feel like you were making some grand gesture, you made it clear that, although you cared about Neal and were upset on his behalf, this wasn’t some show of loyalty or concern. “We’re supposed to have principles. Treat people as innocent until proven otherwise. The one thing Neal was actually convicted of is someone the one thing I haven’t heard anyone accuse him of! Is that really the dynamic we want the bureau to share with our consultants? Jeez, Peter – if the bureau’s supposed to operate as a bunch of overpowered bullies, I’ll surrender my badge and gun right here!”

            The words were out of your mouth before you thought them through, but, you realized, you fully meant them. You loved the work you were doing. You couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But you’d seen your friend be nearly shot or stabbed or even speared with an arrow that one time, and Neal didn’t have a say in any of it. Not only was he not treated with the basic respect and autonomy of a civilian, but he was constantly harangued and picked at over water that should’ve gone under the bridge ages ago. If you were him, you would’ve lost your mind long before now, and this had presumably been going on long before you transferred into the division.

            “Y/N,” Neal said, again, with quiet dismay.

            Peter looked absolutely startled that you were arguing with him, especially over what he’d thought was a one-off complaint. As you went on, particularly nailing him on the argument of moral behavior, he almost went pale, eyes looking to Neal with concern. You knew that Peter truly cared about his CI. Maybe getting snapped at in turn was what it would take for him to see that he wasn’t acting like a friend or a mentor at all.

            “I –“ Peter stopped, paused to think intently to himself, and shook his head slightly. He cleared his throat. “You’re right. That is how I’ve been behaving, and it isn’t the way this is meant to be.” He turned to Neal, seemed to fumble for a minute like he wasn’t sure what to say, and then tightened his jaw, figuring it out. “Neal. I’m sorry if how I’ve behaved has hurt you. There’s a difference between keeping you in check and putting you down.”

            On your part, you were surprised, albeit very pleasantly so, that Peter was owning up to it like a man instead of retaliating against a junior agent. Neal looked stunned that anything had come of this comment at all, and answered as if dazed. “I never said…”

            “You shouldn’t have had to,” Peter said emphatically. “Y/N is right. I’ve been beating a dead horse. I don’t think I’m the only one. That needs to stop… you’re part of this team, too.”

            The rest of the day was indescribably awkward. Peter authorized the agents in evidence to keep the gems that you would use for your op separate from the rest so that you could easily retrieve them when they were needed. Then he called Diana and Clinton into his office for a couple minutes, leaving yourself and Neal in the bullpen. It was only for a couple of minutes, but by the subdued way that both Diana and Clinton made their way to Neal one after the other, you could surmise Peter pointed out exactly what you had. It wasn’t the whole division, but it was a start. A good one, too – it was heartening to know your coworkers were the kind of people who would apologize for poor behavior.

            Neal came to you before the end of the day. He had this look on his face that you’d seen in a mirror when you couldn’t quite believe what had happened. “You didn’t have to do any of that,” he said quietly, leaning over your desk to you and putting a hand lightly on your knee.

            You gave him a small smile. It had been weighing on you for a while, so it was a relief to have it off of your chest – and all the better, it looked like it actually made a difference and improved the workplace for him. “I’m glad I did, though.”

~~~

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