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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