He's focused, rifling quietly through the files in front of him, stacked on top of the file drawer he just easily unlocked without the benefit of a key, not thinking about his surroundings. The office is closed for the night, dark and empty, and he's not worried. All he's thinking about is how glad Peter will be when these documents show up in his mail the following morning, from an "anonymous source".

They're watermarked and notorized and clearly legit - and while Peter might glare and threaten and interrogate him about it, he won't be able to prove that Neal's the one who sent them - and he'll secretly be thrilled with this break in the case that's had them stumped for the past few weeks.

Neal smiles a little to himself, his thoughts focused on the satisfaction he'll feel when this is over - and he doesn't notice until it's too late that he is no longer alone.

A harsh blow against the side of his head makes him fall sideways off his knees, and he scrambles to regain his balance, peering into the shadows to see the figure that slipped up behind him. Rough hands shove him up against the wall, and he starts to push back. He's not a fighter, but he can fight, when he has to.

Then suddenly, cold steel against his temple, the click of a pistol's hammer loud in the silence, and a strong, firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him down on his knees with his back to the wall - and Neal freezes, his heart clenching, his throat closing, and a cold sweat instantly forming on the back of his neck.

"Wait," he gasps out, holding up a supplicating hand that's trembling a little more than he'd like. "Y-you don't have to..."

"Shhh," a soft, male voice soothes him, pressing a little harder with the gun, and his stomach rolls dangerously as he closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "Not a sound, Mr. Caffrey. Believe me, I'll want you to talk soon enough - but I'll let you know when."

Abruptly, the office door crashes in, and the light in the room is suddenly bright. To Neal's relief, his captor is as blinded by it as he is, and is quickly subdued. He's shaking when Peter crouches down beside him, hurriedly checking him over for injuries. Still, he doesn't think his fear is that obvious - not until Peter puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, his voice low and gruff, but the most soothing sound Neal's ever heard.

"You're okay, kid. You're okay. Come 'ere."

And then Peter's arm is around him, and his face is buried against Peter's neck, and he's shaking violently, holding on for the reassurance that Peter's real, and there, and he's safe - and for once Neal doesn't care at all who's around to see as he quietly falls apart.