"Neal, do not do this."

Peter, out of breath and out of time, already knows Neal won't be talked down. Not while his gaze remains, like his gun, fixed on Fowler.

"Look at me." Kid, please. "Look at me Neal. Neal, look at me Neal. Come on-"

Come on! The scene blurs. Freezes. It's just Neal, Peter and a stretch of tarmac between them. De-ja-vu of the worst kind because he remembers this moment too vividly, is all too aware of the time bomb they're sitting on.

The gun wavers, despairing blue eyes drop to the floor then finally, finally rise to meet his. Hope sparks in Peter's chest "…this isn't who you are."

No one in the room is breathing, the warm summer air turned ice cold. So cold Neal breaks. He breaths, a shaky inhale that brings tears with it. Neal's shaking, whole body crumpling, in danger of crashing to the floor. Peter takes the gun from one lax hand. He wants to hug him, hold him down and still for as long as possible, anything to keep him safe, but Neal keeps moving, walking head in hands getting as far away from Fowler as possible. He's angry. Peter gets that, they all are. Angry at Fowler, angry at whoever's pulling the strings in this mess, but right now Peter needs Neal to do the right thing. By the law, not his heart.

"Cuff him." Peter orders Diana, taking what little solace he can get when Neal doesn't fight her.

Diana, looking as worried and sad as Peter feels, secures a compliant Neal. "How are we going to handle this?"

Peter breaths deep, recalling the taste of tainted Armagnac on his tongue. "Call Jones, you two can handle the official bureau response."

Diana hears, looks his way to confirm and receiving a nod of acceptance of his terms Peter moves forward, feeling safe to deal with Fowler and get some god damn answers.

…

Neal's shaking. Head to toe shivers running through his body, increasing in increments the closer they get to their final destination. He's fucked it big this time and he knows it.

They're in the Taurus, Diana had let him sit up front instead of manhandling him into the back seat like the unworthy criminal he was. The gesture would have been comforting if Neal didn't suspect it had little to do with acknowledging his place amongst them this past year and a lot to do with keeping an eye on him. It was a good play on her part, he would have run by now if she'd placed him in the back. Might still run, wasn't discounting the possibility yet. He hasn't had to escape from the FBI lock up before, but is sure it wouldn't pose much of a challenge compared to the supermax.

Of course, escaping the car would be much easier he considers while staring out the window, watching the buildings roll by at a steady, stop-start pace. Not his first in transit tuck and roll. Peter would no doubt yell at him, be especially annoyed if he gets hurt. Neal lets out a quiet chuckle at his delusion that Peter would actually give a damn after this, which causes Diana to give him a sideways look. Neal risks meeting her gaze. She doesn't look disapproving, or angry, but there isn't that soft aura of concern in her eyes that he always see's in Peter's when he's done something utterly stupid.

Dread, shocking and overwhelming suddenly consumes him, sending his eyes wide and breathing shallow. Neal had gotten used to a certain order to his ankleted life. He did something wrong, Peter found out, they'd argue, Peter would punish or yell at him, usually both, then after Peter fixed what he'd broke Neal would apologize and they'd moved on. Neal didn't know when he stopped actually wanting to get away with his crimes, but the cycle was one he'd come to depend on, one that made him feel safe. And it hadn't happened this time.

Fear tightened Neal's chest. The strength of its grip crushing his resolve to keep it together. Neal recognized this feeling. He'd experienced it many times before, over and over when the con went too long, or the price on his head got too much. The good things in his life being slowly ripped away, too fast becoming a distant memory. Each time ended the same, with a solitary packed bag and sense of nostalgic longing for how things used to be.

Cuffed hands clasped tight in his lap, fighting back the surge of emotion rising from his stomach Neal focuses on the feel of cool metal encircling his wrists. The feeling of familiarity and security they offer. With each too quick inhalation followed with an equally hasty exhalation, sounding suspiciously sniffle like, Neal closes his eyes and concentrates on forcing calm into his veins.

Panic seeps in instead. Focusing on the cuffs isn't working. Not like it should, like it has times before. Neal shudders, leaning forward with hunched shoulders sinking lower into the passenger seat, eyelids squeezed tight to stop the thoughts swirling through the deep dark blackness of his mind from escaping…

But one particularly persistent thought battles through, breaking down all his internal barriers and explodes -

The cuffs aren't comforting him like they usually do because Peter's hands hadn't been the ones to put them there.

Diana was not Peter and it didn't matter how gentle she'd been escorting him down the stairs of the gallery or out to the car. Peter handed him over. Left him vulnerable to the control of others. Others less invested in his welfare. Skin tingling, the sense memory of electricity entering his body, reducing him to tears and leaving him inert. He wants to deny it, but Peter had done something Neal hoped he'd never do, had fought long and hard for years with phone calls, birthday cards and teasing clues to make sure didn't happen.

Peter had abandoned him.

And Neal had made him do it. He needed to run.

"Don't even think it Caffrey." Diana drawls without breaking eye contact with the traffic up ahead.

Instead of denying the accusation Neal sinks even lower, head bent, almost kissing the dash. His chest is on fire, mind swimming. Neal swallows convulsively to prevent being sick, but it doesn't quell the nausea one bit. Two more blocks and they'll be there. Best time to make his move will be when she makes the final turn. Diana may be throwing him off balance with her twisted reverse psychology, but one thing is certain - he can't go back to prison. He can't. Not after Peter. It would be like a hungry person having to dig through bins after a lifetime of gourmet food and fine wines.

Next block. They'll be turning soon, slowing at the lights. Diana won't be expecting him to leap from a moving car. The streets are busy enough, he'd only need to clear the corner to get away. Neal has disappeared before. He can do it again. And again. As often as needed until he forgets, forgets all about White Collar, about Diana, about Jones, he chokes up at the thought of forgetting June… Elle, even Satchmo, P- he cuts himself off from thinking anymore. Blinking away the tears burning his eyes.

Bracing himself, trying to calm the shakes enough to ensure he doesn't miss his mark, Neal eyes Diana. Her focus is on the road. He reaches for the handle-

Diana doesn't slow, doesn't take the corner. She doesn't even blink. Neal can't keep the fear and the worry and confusion off his face, watching the buildings wiz by until they're out of view and far behind them. Thrown as to where Diana could be taking him, Neal doesn't realise his breathing has turned quick and shallow again, the shaking which had never gone away increasing tenfold. Diana looks at him, the first time since missing their turn. He stares back at her, mouth working but no words passing his lips.

"Relax. I'm not going to shoot you. Or break any bones." She turns, eyes back on the road adding 'as much as I'd like to' under her breath.

Leaving that to Peter, Neal thinks. Thoughts of Peter bring fresh tears and a reminder of what started this mental collapse. He'd held a gun. On another person. He was going to shoot. Only time he's chosen to hold a gun since he turned 18. What the hell had he done?

Look at me Neal.

Neal clenches his fists, the cuffs tightening, cutting into his skin.

Neal. Look at me.

The Peter in his mind tells him to look, but Neal doesn't want to. He wants to stay in the darkness, the all-consuming darkness where no one can find him. He's tired of being alone, but he doesn't want to be found. Not by anyone. He can't deal with it. He doesn't care anymore, all he knows is he has to get away. He has to run, run as fast and as far as he can because alone in the dark is better than being alone in the light. The light where the truth can be seen, where everyone can see him and chose not to want him, chose to leave him. Neal's scared of the light.

"We're here."

Neal snaps his eyes open, jerking forward with the car when it comes to a sudden halt. Panic takes over, the disconcerting feeling of being one place one minute and another the next being more than Neal can handle right now. He can hear himself breathing again, that ragged snuffle of congested tears blocking his sinuses. Turning away from Diana who's sitting silently staring and unmoving in the driver's seat, Neal fixes his gaze out the window. The familiar skyscrapers are gone, light blue sky from earlier faded to a muted grey. A storm closing in or maybe just the late hour, he can't tell and doesn't care.

"Caffrey?"

He blinks, sniffs and wipes his eyes, ignoring the dampness against his palm. What was he doing? Oh yeah, running. Only Diana's now standing by his door, blocking his escape. Which means nothing if they're already through the prison gates. And they have to be. Where else would she have taken him if not the FBI? Peter said to take him back to the office, but Diana has her own mind and would certainly be justified in making her own judgement. He'd missed his opportunity.

Looking up and out Neal's agile mind plays through every possible scenario, already plotting, never stopping. Until his eyes see something they shouldn't-

Elizabeth.

His whole body jolts, unable to move for fear the image before him will shatter and leave him, figuratively and literally, out in the cold. She's standing not at the gates of the supermax, but on the top step of their home in Brooklyn. Arms folded to stave off the cold, looking at him with nothing but worry and concern in her calming blue eyes.

Stunned into compliance, Neal lets Diana pull him out of the car, one hand taking his arm, the other resting encouragingly at his back. He walks unsteadily toward the all too familiar house he never expected to visit again. Rain, fat drops of cold liquid, hit his face in slow and methodical succession. Elizabeth takes his free arm the second he's within reach, and together both women accept him into the house.