A/N: So here's the story that had been nagging me, needing an out so that I can get back to my other stories.

For this one there are some changes from the series end of the show; so for the sake of this story please ignore Mozzie bringing in the mannequin in the start of season 6 episode 1 and what it implies; [imagine Neal brought the mannequin all on his own] because it will be a little different from the show. It was a perfect ending but my viewer heart would always want more.

So this is an attempt to expand on a point that I wanted sorted out but it was kind of glossed over for the likely reason of justifying the last con of Neal Caffrey. At least for me if season five Peter hadn't happened I would have been upset with Neal for doing what he did because of the pain it caused Peter, but as it was I was very much satisfied :) Still I wanted Peter to do a little soul searching because the Peter of season five was not the character I had loved when the show started [so the story is his point of view] not everyone might agree with me on this and that's okay.

I'm no expert at FBI, police or medicinal procedures, everything here is wishful thinking. And I hadn't the heart to break this story off into chapters so this is a MAHOOSIVE one-shot. Grab a cup of tea and settle in for the angst :)

Also this is my first (and so far likely to be the only) story in this world so my apologies for any mistakes in characterizations and such.

The italics are memories borrowed from the show.

WARNING: There is language in this not suitable for young ones;

There be spoilers of the series end.

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, not making any money either.

Happy Reading!

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." – Khalil Gibran

The seat was hard under him despite the padding, the edge digging into his legs where he leaned on them with his elbows pressed onto his thighs. His head hung between his shoulders as he stared at the black device dangling from his fingers. Hot trails had left his face wet and they still kept coming, relentless as they blurred his sight and burned his eyes. He blinked when a clear drop landed on the plastic gadget in his hold and straightened to sit back, one hand wiping at his face...

"I'm making it a point to remember all the anniversaries. Birthdays, weddings, the day we brought Satchmo home from the breeders –"

"–I imagined a stork delivery –"

"–December 7th."

"Pearl Harbor day? Another day that will live in infamy."

"First time I arrested you." Peter corrects him.

"Hmm, and four years later we did it all over again."

"Yeah,"

"But this time" Neal lifts the trouser leg to expose the ankle bracelet, "you gave me jewelry."

...Peter snorted, shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek.

He had never imagined when he had picked up Neal from prison about the hours he would spend checking the data of a tracking anklet, never suspected how much it would mean to him to know exactly where the anklet went and the fear that it would instill any time it crossed the boundary or was switched off. The fear not just for his own career that was on the line with their arrangement but the dread of what that impulsive idiot had gotten into, the anxiety of whether he would be able to save Neal from whatever the new scrape was.

His fingers curled around the black plastic band, thumb swiping over the bars that were no longer lit. No green for good, yellow for warning and red that announced Peter was needed, that Neal had run.

Weighing the device in his grasp Peter remembered the first time he had been told that his 'pet convict' had run off, and that after their very first day on the job together. Remembered the haste, the anger at his own stupidity for trusting a convicted felon, the need to hunt him down and dump him back behind bars as he had thundered down the stairs...

"Get off my couch." Peter snaps.

"We're just chatting."

"Chatting? How did you get here?"

"Cab."

"You activated your tracker. You're in my house, on my couch, with my wife –"

"Oh, hey, Satchmo!"

"Now you're petting my dog!"

...Peter sucked in a breath and coughed it out. The nurse walking down the corridor glanced up from her papers but didn't stop. Peter cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. That first time Neal had run, crossed his radius, it was to come to him and that had in the depth of his heart stirred something. It meant more to him than he would ever acknowledge that Neal had run to him.

It told him that his instincts hadn't been wrong.

Proved that there was something there, something that had started the first time he had read the file of James Bonds.

Peter shook his head and stepped away from the seat. He looked up and down the corridor and wondered if he should have followed Mozzie out, the man had been a mess as he had dashed out of the morgue. But then the thought of the grey face and the still form they had witnessed left him flinching and with a bitten of gasp he closed his eyes. More tears spilled out and he hastily rubbed them dry...

"He's meeting with the FBI director to put your release in motion. Once he signs off, it should only take a call to the Attorney General to get it done,"

"When?"

"Shouldn't be more than a couple of days. But there is one condition."

"What?"

"You visit El and me in Washington a lot."

Neal spreads his arms slightly, welcoming and surrendering in the same instance.

"I will be the house guest that never leaves," he says.

...this was not the way it was supposed to go. Peter wiped the new tears that sprung to his eyes and pulling out his phone he pressed the speed dial. He put the tracking anklet back in the plastic bag carrying Neal's belongings and as the dial tone rang his fingers brushed against the edge of the identification badge; the same one he had given Neal years ago. The one that he had left behind when he had escaped to Cape Verde, the one that was a confirmation of the position that Peter had fought so hard to be returned to the man when he had come back from there. Pulling it out Peter flipped it open and found himself staring at Neal's picture, the dark hair were longer then, the face younger...

"Did they make a decision?"

"Figured if we didn't you'd end up making one of these on your own,"

There's relief in Neal's laugh and a touch of disbelief as he studies the ID badge.

"I'm official," he says.

"You're a consultant. And I own you for four years. You okay with that?"

"Yeah,"

"You'll be here when I get back?"

Neal glances up at him, bright smile and the badge in hand.

"Where else am I gonna go?" he asks.

...the click on the other end on the line startled him. Peter breathed out, swallowed hard and ignored the wetness warming his face anew when his wife's voice filtered through. Taking a deep breath he wiped an arm down his face, his sleeve soaking up the moisture that was replaced in the next instance. Leaning a shoulder against the wall he forced his words to not shake, forced his voice to remain steady.

"Hey hon,"

Sunshine danced upon the leaves that rustled in the soft breeze. The sky was clear, the air fresh and the number of people who had come out for this astounded him.

"Perfect weather for shorts; when I lose my anklet I'm gonna go out and buy a hundred pairs."

Peter nearly glared at the phantom by his shoulder, almost murmured the name in warning to remind Neal that he should respect the deceased.

The deceased who was –

His free hand clenched into a fist at his side and Peter focused on the crowd.

Aside from the people he knew Neal was acquainted with there were FBI agents from their unit and beyond, from the clerical staff to administration; there were his neighbors and June's, the friends of the landlady's granddaughter; the staff from the Greatest Cake bakery was there; and there were people Peter recognized from the cases they'd solved like Mr. Tuan from Lao's case, the Roland brothers and even Bea from the Patrick impersonator debacle and Evan Leary from Manhattan Prep .There were people he didn't know but vaguely remembered as vendors and shop owners within Neal's two mile radius and of course there were people who came from not so honest means. They only talked to Mozzie and Peter watched the little man barely acknowledge their presence; amidst the crowd that ebbed and flowed around him Mozzie looked alone, bereft like a whether beaten ship that had somehow found its way to calm waters again.

But the damage was done and Peter knew it could not be reversed. The storm they had survived had nearly snapped him at his core and he knew at least Mozzie felt the same. It was odd to find such an intimate common ground between them, to find that the man who had brought them together was now a pain that they shared.

Elizabeth's hand tightened in his and Peter glanced at the woman at his side...

"You're casing her art."

Elizabeth looks more confused than worried as she looks to Neal.

"What? You're casing my art?" she asks.

"Please. You guys qualify for the friends and family plan."

...he gripped her hand back and offered her a nod.

"I had no idea so many people knew Neal Caffrey," he murmured.

"He had a way with people," Elizabeth pressed the handkerchief to her nose, "and he had a good heart that really couldn't be ignored," her dark blue eyes were red rimmed even as she smiled at him, "it showed in the things he did, the lines he drew,"

That was actually the reason Hughes had let him go through with the work release agreement, the reason why Peter had fought so hard to get the brass to agree on such a favorable contract for the conman he had taken responsibility for. Neal may have been convicted for only bond forgery but the lack of evidence for his other crimes was only the proof of how good a criminal he was. And yet no one could deny the fact that he had principles, twisted in a way and not in synch with the society at large but he had his own standards he had held himself accountable to. Peter had always liked the man's resolve to keep to non-violent approaches but he had often been surprised by the strange ethics that would spring up during their work...

"If Mailer thinks someone else is going to steal that fortune before he does..."

"No, no, no. I'm not that guy. I can't con a widow."

"You can if it's to save her."

...his lips twitched in not quite a smile and Peter tuned out the proceedings; hardly paid attention to the words that could never capture the essence of the man they had all known. Because Neal Caffrey was an enigma Peter had studied in one form or another for over ten years and even he hadn't been able to predict what the man would do next. Neal would forge the bonds of your company and then turn around and save your daughter's life at the risk of his own. Peter clenched his jaw shut at the thought of how Stuart Gless had wished that Caffrey had acted more like a criminal so that he could hate him in peace.

"A particular kind of bastard," Peter muttered.

"Hon?" Elizabeth looked up at him.

Peter shook his head, because life would have been so easy if he could only hate the man and be done with it. He, the ASAC at the FBI white collar unit New York, would not be standing there at the funeral of a conman and convicted forger, with a cutting pain in the hollow between his lungs like something had been ripped out from his chest.

"Just thinking about the lines he crossed," Peter said.

Because those were the ones that Peter was sure would drive him to an early grave, instead they had brought Neal to his demise. For years he had tried to keep him on the straight and narrow, tried to keep him safe and yet there he was standing at Neal's funeral. Peter shook his head slightly to ease the stiffening in his neck as the blood pounded in his ears in a helpless sort of rage, because what good had it all brought to him? To the man he had tried to save?

"They were backed by good intentions most of the time," Elizabeth said.

"There is something to be said about the road to hell,"

The hand on his arm tightened, fingers digging in his bicep almost painfully...

"You met with Wilson yesterday. Whatever he's asking you to do –"

"He's got nowhere else to turn."

"Oh, God, Neal, don't do it."

"Look, Wilson's trying to make good with his son and I can help him. The system failed him."

"You're rationalizing and you know it. Nothing gives him or you or anyone the right to go around the law."

"It's his son. That gives him the right." says Neal.

"I don't agree."

"It's what a father should do."

...and when there weren't good intentions there was thrill of the dare that had him pushing bounds. To outsmart, to outrun, to turn a scheme on its head for the latest criminal in their crosshairs, the consequences be damned...

"Peter, there is an explanation for all this."

"You thought you'd spend the money to draw the Vulture out of hiding."

"I love how we're always on the same page."

"Same page? We're not reading the same book. We're not even in the same library!"

"Okay, I can see that you're mad."

"Damn right I'm mad. You robbed a bank!"

"Vulture robbed a bank. We simply robbed a different bank?"

...a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaped him.

There was something building in his chest and Peter felt the well-known urge to throttle Neal; his vision blurred and he could have sworn he heard Neal' exasperated huff at his side, fond, teasing and there. As if he was standing right there at his side.

Not ready to face the worry he could feel rolling off of his wife Peter pulled back his slipping control and scanned the faces before him. Because he could not, he would not look at the coffin. Could not accept that it carried Neal Caffrey, that a wooden box would confine the man he had chased for years and then chased for more years even as they had worked together.

If there was one thing he had learned about Neal it was that he could never be boxed in, he was colours that were vibrant, chaotic; never crude but always out of the confines of the lines drawn for them. He created way where there was none, shifted the situation to form an opening where there was no possibility of it existing and leapt through it with the childish belief that it would all work out in his favor. Peter had seen him jump out of a fourth story window with nothing but a strip of awning to break his fall; had known him to swing off a balcony to crash into a window to get to Fowler; had felt his breath caught and heart still when the maniac had jumped roofs of passing trams in midair...

"Mozzie, he's right there. You need to look at him. You've got to look Mozzie. He's dead."

"It can't be him Peter. Neal always had it figured out. There was always a way out. It didn't matter how tight the scrape, Neal could always slide past. He could always get away!"

"Not this time."

...Peter stepped away from his wife, squeezed Elizabeth's fingers that still reached for him and tilted his head slightly towards the small figure standing across from them. It registered somewhere at the back of his mind how odd it was that he was seeking out Mozzie when Elizabeth was more of a friend to the little guy. Any indecision melted to nothing when the bloodshot eyes flicked towards him from behind the spectacles. There was a dullness there that Peter had a feeling reflected in his own eyes, the testimony of the depth of a loss that they shared.

Mozzie looked away again, far at some point above the heads of those gathered across him.

Arms crossed before him he didn't regard Peter who had come to stand at his side. And that was where they stood, no words spoken between them as the proceedings ended and the people began dispersing. The smaller man didn't move, except for his gaze that switched back to the receding people and Peter watched as it lingered on his wife, saw the imperceptible nod that Mozzie gave to her before Elizabeth turned and took June's hand. Peter observed the two ladies until he could not, the sunlight making him squint as a headache settled behind his eyes.

"So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another; only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence," Mozzie didn't look his way.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," Peter nodded.

Stepped ahead and rounded on the man whose crossed arms had shifted more to clasp himself than anything else, hands clenching where they had fisted into his own shirt. Peter reached out and stopped short of gripping the tense shoulder when the other man looked at him.

"Suit,"

"Mozzie," he pulled back his hand and met the tired gaze, "how're you holding up?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you just lost your best friend,"

"Impressive detective skills Suit, I can see why the FBI hired you,"

He bit his tongue to remain calm and frowned in surprise at how close to the surface his anger was. Peter unbuttoned his suit jacket and wriggled his shoulders a bit, shifted back only to find his gaze flick towards the coffin. And once it did he could not look away. All those times Neal had been held at gun point during their stings, all the times he had been fired at, from the case of the stolen Bible to the kidnapping of the genius who designed protective vests rolled through his memory like a cruel montage. With bile rising to his throat he pulled his gaze away. Wiping a hand over his mouth Peter looked to Mozzie.

"He really is gone," he said.

"Another apt observation,"

"Damnit Mozzie I'm trying –"

"Trying to what? To see if all this had effected the workings of this," Mozzie tapped the side of his head, "for I can tell you Suit that this precision instrument is in proper order and if you think you can break into it, that somehow you can take this chance to break through the security –"

"God!" Peter ran a hand through his hair, turned his head to the side and motioned towards Mozzie, "Neal would you explain to him –"

He froze.

One hand still in his hair as his eyes widened. A glance told him that Mozzie had turned to the side too, a finger raised in mid rant and a counter argument now silent on his lips. They had both turned to the man who was supposed to be standing there beside them ready to diffuse the argument between the two.

Peter let his hand drop, watched from the corner of his eye as Mozzie did the same.

He hadn't the heart to break the silence that followed between them, it was an aching pulse that had trapped the two of them in its orbit that neither could escape despite the damage it caused them. Peter heaved in a breath when he realized it had gone ragged and startled a little at the small sniffle at his side. Looking back at Mozzie he found the man stuffing his handkerchief back in his pocket before the reddened eyes sought his.

Peter had nothing to offer but a glimpse of his own unbalanced world.

Mozzie nodded and half turned to leave before he stopped.

"We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out," he said, touched Peter's arm once, "Winston Churchill," he added.

And then he walked away.

"I think we should call him Neal," Elizabeth said with a decisive nod, "it could mean passionate, or champion, or cloud or even all three,"

She shifted against him and looked up at his face, curling into him some more as they sat on the couch. His arm tightened around her as her fingers came to rest lightly on his cheek when he didn't look her way. There was a prickly knot in his throat that blocked his words, made it hard to breathe.

"I think it's a great name," her voice was soft as she went on, "and the variety of meanings is wonderful to choose from,"

Peter felt himself nod as he stared at the television but caught nothing of the game he was watching. The name for their unborn son bouncing around in his head brought so many meanings to his mind. It meant a megawatt grin and the mischief it brings, it meant bright blue eyes full of wonder by the sheer joy of living, it meant the calculating of the sharpest mind he had ever known and the reckless abandon of the kind heart it protected. That name was an unassuming bank client thanking him for his service while the forger he had been looking for handed him a bright green sucker, it meant birthday cards and cookies and international phone calls that were never vindictive in a way he had come to expect from criminals, it was the handshake and honest gratitude before he cuffed the man who had been searching for his lost love.

"Hon?" Elizabeth asked.

"Hmm..."

"It's a good name," she said, "He'd like it,"

Her fingertips pressed against his jaw as she turned his head until he faced her. And he found eyes full of concern and love staring back at him. Not for the first time Peter thanked his luck to have this woman in his life and felt the lump in his throat melt as she leaned forwards to bestow a soft kiss.

He clasped her hands that cradled his face and leaned his forehead against hers.

"He'd like it," she repeated.

Peter nodded again as a smug smile that would put to shame any cat that got the cream flashed behind his closed eyelids...

"Oh, look at you. You'd think being copycatted was like winning the crime Oscar."

"I'm not allowed to revel?"

...he opened his eyes.

"It would go to his head," Peter said.

He pulled away and pressed his lips to his wife's hairline, hoping she would not see the moisture in his eyes. But the way her arms wrapped around him spoke of how he had failed at hiding that. The ache of Neal's loss was a presence in his heartbeat and Elizabeth knew that rhythm inside out.

He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck...

"You ready to go back to school?"

"I think I can handle that," Neal holds up the course outline, "Because I'm a technological virtuoso."

"Okay."

"With a classical artistic foundation."

"Yes, okay. Okay, read it to yourself. Quiet now."

"Did you guys see this syllabus?" Neal asks out loud.

"We don't need to share."

"Because I'm in it!"

...Neal was audacity, he was excitement, he was talent.

And now there was none.

It started with a quickened heartbeat.

Peter pressed his face into his pillow as he tried to escape what he knew was coming. The portable receiver showing him where he had to go, where he needed to be. The people were a blur around him but he knew he was on Wall Street.

"Guess whose anklet just started transmitting?"

His brows furrowed, fingers curled around the ghost of his gun in his hand. A frown crept up as he saw Neal sitting across from him in the back of the van, a winning smile on his face and a strange earnestness in his eyes.

"If I let you go, you promise to let me go?"

Peter pulled in a quick breath, legs tangling in the covers as his head jerked a little when Wall Street came into sharp focus again. His vision zeroed in on Keller, on the hostage in the man's grasp and his revolver pressed to her head.

"It's a sad day Peter Burke. But if you leave now, there's still time to say goodbye."

His fist clenched the bed sheet as Keller smirked, the gesture snapping slack when Peter's bullet found home in his head. And yet the smirk somehow doesn't fade from his sight, like a stain it follows him as he rushes back, rounds the corner and runs to Neal. Pushes through the crowd to reach the man strapped down on the stretcher. Tears leaked past Peter's closed eyes as a pale, clammy face swam before him.

"You're my best friend."

Peter awoke with his breath stuck in his throat.

He coughed, tried to suppress the sound with his fist against his mouth and breathed through his nose. Behind him he could feel Elizabeth shift and he cleared his throat as quietly as he could. She had been having a hard time sleeping with the baby on the way and he soothed a hand on her shoulder to lull her back to sleep.

"I'm fine hon," he murmured, "gonna go get some water,"

Elizabeth wriggled a little but settled down and Peter untangled himself from the covers. Swung his feet down, picked up his laptop and quietly padded out from the bedroom. Once downstairs he put the laptop on the table and as the system booted up he fetched himself a glass of water. He settled on the chair and opened the Marshall's web page. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as his brain stalled. Peter blinked at the screen he hadn't had to use for three weeks now, the screen that he had pulled up out of habit more times than he could count in those weeks. He had closed the web page almost instantly on those occasions...

"Where were you this morning?"

"Home,"

"Came from a different direction," Peter says.

"Okay, I see what's going on here."

"Oh, really? Enlighten me."

"You're having separation anxiety. It's totally natural," Neal says.

He sounds pleased with himself, his smile teasing when he looks to Peter.

"No, we're never separated enough for me to be anxious about it," Peter says.

"But without my anklet you can't track my every movement, and it's driving you crazy."

"I'll admit I sleep better when that dot tells me exactly where you are."

"I hear lavender's good for sleep,"

"–I'll adjust –"

"–Maybe a sound machine? Let the crash of waves wash away your anxiety."

...with his elbows propped up on the hard table and the heels of his palms digging into his eyes, Peter's shoulders shook with the grief that hit him.

The picture was the last thing he placed in the box.

It took an effort to let the frame go from his grasp and let his hand fall on the edge of the cardboard; he leaned on it until he realized he would crush it under his weight. Peter rolled back on his heels and looked one last time at that picture, of his and Neal; the one Elizabeth had taken before they could leave to stop what could escalate into a mob war...

"They don't know what the Dentist looks like. I could go in Mozzie's place,"

"Neal you'll never pass as the Dentist."

"I could be his assistant,"

"This isn't your fight," Mozzie reminds him.

"No, it's not. But you are my friend,"

...placing the lid on top of the box he taped it down. Peter took the sealed box and went up the stairs to the attic. They were turning the guest bedroom into the nursery and he had been clearing out the stuff he had stored there. But that was not the reason he was carrying a box up a flight of stairs at four in the morning. Peter placed it atop the low tower of three boxes and eyed the rest of the neat line of cardboard containers along the wall. They held all his research on Neal, supplemented by the files he had copied from Rebecca's stash of investigation on the man...

"I mean we've always worked well together, from our first chase..."

"...to our first case."

...there were gifts in there that Neal had sent him from around the globe; there was a catalogue of the bottle of wines he had occasionally sent to the surveillance van when Peter had been staking out Neal's hideouts and of the sporadic takeout deliveries that Neal had sent his way during such endeavors; copies of those cheerful phone calls at odd hours during the years the FBI agent had chased him were in there too.

Peter laid a hand flat on the box that he had carried up. It held all the latest odds and ends in his life that he had spent with Neal at his side; that reminded him of the man now that he was gone. He hoped with these out of sight he could finally move on. It had been over two months and with the baby almost there he needed to focus on the future. His hand curled into a fist and he knocked twice on the closed lid of the borx before he turned back. Walked out of the low roofed room and closed the door after him...

"I can't believe Mozzie kept tabs on Jeffries all these years,"

Neal's glance towards Peter is fleeting.

"Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye," Neal says.

"How's Neal doing?"

His pen paused over the form he was about to sign.

Peter looked up at Diana and nearly saw the lanky figure in a trim cut suit rushing up the stairs that were visible through the glass walls of his office; he blinked and the man standing in the doorway making slashing motion over his own neck vanished.

"Peter?"

His gaze focused on the woman now that the ghost behind her was gone.

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course," he nodded, slapped on a smile and reminded himself that they had named their son Neal, "the baby's doing well; although Elizabeth would appreciate both of us getting to sleep through the night for a change."

"Good luck with that happening anytime soon," Diana said.

She handed him the file she had carried up and studied him for a minute. Peter closed the folder he had been reviewing and tipped his head towards the visitor's chair. Diana smirked and took a seat.

"So have you decided?" she asked.

"About what?"

"D.C," she rolled her eyes, "they're tripping over themselves to clear a position for the man who brought down the Pink Panthers. And last time I talked to my friends there they said you still haven't made up your mind."

It wasn't that he hadn't made up his mind; it was that he knew what the answer was but not the reason behind it. With Neal gone he could no longer make him the excuse to stay in New York, he was after all the reason Peter had dropped all plans of his departure at the last moment before. But with his death there was nothing holding him back from his dream job, nothing standing in his way to get what he had aimed for ever since his time at Quantico.

"You deserve this promotion Boss," Diana said, "You've worked hard and taken risks to get there. Its time you get the reward for all the work you've put in."

"Oh I don't think I would enjoy that work,"

Diana sat back, her head cocked to the side as her dark eyes met his.

"You thought different not so long ago,"

Peter shrugged...

"I've made my peace with what Neal did, but I'm not sure if I've made peace with myself."

...he opened the folder before him again and singed it off.

"I changed my mind," he said, "I'm going to respectfully decline,"

He could feel Diana watching him, could feel her frown as she stood up and asked him to think over the decision again before he called D.C. He glanced up as she left and dropping his pen with more venom than necessary Peter found his gaze instinctually fall on the desk at the far end of the bullpen below. For a second he thought he saw the dark head unerringly look up to catch his gaze but that hadn't happened for seven months now.

Peter pushed back from the desk and picked up his suit jacket; shrugging it on he left his office ordering Jones to keep an eye on things as he left for an early lunch. And yet he was empty handed and unfed when he found himself on a bench in the park, staring at the statue of a cherub playing a violin. He was surprised when a picnic basket set beside him and his eyes widened when Mozzie sat down on its other side. The man proceeded to extract a bottle of wine from his basket and a wine glass that he filled up far more than it was healthy. He sat back sipping lightly as he stared ahead at the statue in the distance.

"I haven't been stalking you if that is what you fear," Mozzie said.

Peter huffed and sat back, he hadn't seen the man since the funeral.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"I come here from time to time," Mozzie said and nodded towards the statue, "did you know that the stone violinist over there had to sacrifice two and a half million dollars to pay your ransom to Keller?"

Peter looked from the man to the statue and then back again. He shook his head and sat forwards, glaring at the smaller man from the corner of his eye. He mused if the man was confessing to a crime in a roundabout way; it wouldn't be the first time.

"You're not making sense Mozzie,"

The man in question took a mouthful of wine and hummed. Peter had a feeling that he was done talking and checking his watch he made to stand up.

"He told me he used to come here," Mozzie's words stopped him, "with Kate that is. Wanted to watch their children play over there; had planned to purpose to her at this point, planned out all the arrangements too."

Peter looked to the statue again, understanding dawning slowly. Because of course Neal would think of hiding a priceless artifact, a historical piece of jewelry in plain sight. A small smile crept up on his face.

"The ring," he muttered.

And felt something knot up in his chest as it occurred to him what it would have cost Neal to give it up for him. He shook his head slowly as he saw that day in a different light now that he knew what the man had chosen to do, what he had let go to bring Peter home...

"I mean, what's the deal with the bottle?"

"It's '82 Bordeaux,"

"Yeah, costs 800 bucks a pop,"

"It does when it's full. I got it empty."

"Empty?"

"When Kate and I met, we had nothing. I got that bottle, and I used to fill it up with whatever cheap wine we could afford. And we'd sit in that crappy apartment and drink it over cold pizza and pretend we were living in the Côte d'Azur."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"It didn't." Neal looks him right in the eye, "Because that bottle was a promise of a better life. What Kate got was a guy locked away for half a decade,"

...it was the last remnant of that long held dream that had blown to pieces; and Neal had given it up for him. If he had known what Neal had finally succeeded in accomplishing that day, had he known the importance of the moment when the man had refused to take back the ring – Peter reminded himself that it hadn't belonged to Neal to begin with. Still he would have liked to somehow acknowledge that moment.

"The curse of the romantic is a greed for dreams; an intensity of expectation that, in the end, diminishes the reality," Mozzie turned to him with his glass raised in a toast, "Marya Mannes,"

Peter shifted where he sat, leaned against the backrest and smiled at the thought of the convict who had broken out of prison with just a few months left in his sentence simply to chase down his girlfriend. It was such a bullheaded move that he had been almost sure it was a part of some grand scheme that Neal was laying the foundations for. He had only realized after he had worked with the man that hopeless romantic was an actual state of being...

"How many times are you gonna screw up your life for this girl? I hate to break it to you buddy but she dumped you; with prejudice."

"–No –"

"–Exactly what is your plan if you find her?"

Neal looks at him like a little boy who'd been told that there is no place called 'Neverland.'

"I know there's more to our story. She disappears in the dust? No. That's not an ending," he says.

...Peter glanced at Mozzie who had finished his glass of wine and was pouring another. He had to rein in the desire to either tell the man to stop before he died of liver failure right there or to tell him to simply drink from the bottle. Instead he found himself wondering if the man missed Neal's wine collection.

"You haven't met my son yet," he found himself saying.

The thought of the child brought a smile to his face.

Mozzie stopped mid sip and eyed him, clearly wondering if the FBI agent was up to something. Peter ignored the suspicion as he took out his wallet and the picture of the baby from it. He saw the way the smaller man's eyes softened immediately; a smile lighting up his face as he took the picture from him to get a better look.

"Neal Mitchell Burke," Peter was proud and not an ounce sorry for it.

Mozzie's eyes were a little wet as he handed the picture back.

"He is perfect," he said.

"I know,"

"Congratulations Peter,"

"Thank you," he placed the picture back in his wallet, "I've been offered a job in D.C. I'm not taking it."

If Mozzie was surprised by his decision or that he was sharing it with him he didn't show. The silence urged Peter to fill it and he pushed a hand through his hair before he shrugged, didn't look at the man at his side as he pulled his thoughts in order.

"I don't think I can live the rest of my life behind a desk. I know El would appreciate the stability it brings but I can't do it. Being ASAC is already raising my chances of carpal tunnel syndrome but at least I can take up active cases here. If it hadn't been for Neal needing a handler the thought of participating like that wouldn't have occurred to me and now – it's not the same without him but it is something,"

"Getting back to the monochrome is difficult now that you've seen the colours," Mozzie nodded.

And Peter huffed out a laugh as something tight wrapped around his lungs. His eyes burned as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and he sat forwards. Rubbed the back of his neck and silently cursed the day he had picked up the file of James Bonds.

"He was the first one I called," Peter cleared his throat, "I'd just met my son for the first time and I called Neal," he shook his head, "half the time when my phone rings I expect to hear his voice on the other end. Or the Marshalls calling to tell me he'd run, or Jones calling to complain about him from the van or Diana calling with threats to break his fingers,"

From the corner of his eye he saw Mozzie pack up his picnic basket and sit forwards. Almost shoulder to shoulder with him. He looked from the statue to the area where the children were playing in the sunlight before Peter felt the weight of the bespectacled gaze on him.

"He lived Suit," Mozzie said, "And to live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

"Oscar Wilde," Peter said.

Mozzie nodded.

Sitting back Peter watched the people strolling down the path off to his side. And there among the oblivious afternoon wanderers was Neal; dark hair windswept and blue eyes wide as they met his own and he offered Peter a shrug, arms spread open as much in apology as in defiance like the day he had jumped out of the judge's window. The meandering park goers walked past him and in that blink Neal was gone.

Peter looked to Mozzie, his vision slightly blurred with the wetness in his eyes.

"He lived didn't he?"

And they both knew he was not talking about the writer.

"That he did Suit,"

It took some time but she caught on. He had a feeling Elizabeth had caught on long before she revealed it but being the amazingly intuitive woman that she is she had kept it to herself in the hopes that he would share it with her. But Peter Burke was the man who would slug you on the shoulder and tell you to cowboy up, he was not the man who could say out loud that every time a certain name was spoken he expected a flip of a hat and a tilt of its brim and that he winced every time that vision faded.

It was after his first birthday that Peter noticed his wife had taken to call their son Mitchell. And then he was dropping the terms like 'the baby' and 'my boy' and 'my son' and using the name too; started seeing his son without the shadow of pain that his first name could not shed even though Peter wanted it to. He had tried, went to therapy and counseling and yet there he was sitting in the surveillance van listening in on their latest target still expecting Neal's exasperated voice to tell him that nothing was clearly happening and that he should go in to move things along.

Peter stretched out a leg that tingled in protest; his rear had gone numb ages ago. He shifted the headphones to his other ear as he watched the screen for any sign of trouble. He had given up on ever being able to walk into the white collar office and not expect Neal's presence to be there in step with him; or enter his office, the conference room, the bullpen and not see the man with his feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles as he tossed around that rubber-band ball.

That grin; that stupid hat and its exuberant flip, the eagerness for an exciting case and the whining at the mortgage frauds, Neal poking fun at him anytime he did 'The finger point' were all just the inevitable paper cuts to his existence. Fleeting and sharp in their pain and a reminder that he was there, he was there and Neal was not...

"How are you, Peter?"

"I see him, you know? His face. I'll catch him out of the corner of my eye. Just for a minute he's real."

"I hear him; 'Hey, Moz!' in the roar of a subway going by or his laugh in a taxi horn."

"I turn, but he's never there," Peter says.

"'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat," Mozzie offers him a smile, "'we're all mad here.'"

...that was a year ago. And a sad smile crept up on Peter's face at the thought that he was taking solace for the sanctity of his mind in what he found similar between him and Mozzie. The smile turned relieved when the door to the van opened and Jones climbed in.

"I come bearing gifts," he said.

Peter took the offered coffee with an appreciative nod and motioned to the other headset.

"And I have some in return for you,"

"Corporate politics, awkward attempts at flirting and exclusive office gossip," Jones plopped down in the empty chair and picked up the headphones, "the joys of surveillance,"

Peter took another mouthful of the coffee and grinned now that caffeine was in his veins again. He stood and picked up his briefcase, waited until the blood rushing back into his legs found its pace.

"Heading home early?"

"El's visiting her parents with Mitchell so I'm going to head back to the office and catch up on some paperwork,"

At least that was his plan as he bid Jones goodbye and stepped out of the van. He had decided against taking a cab and had just gone down two blocks when he saw her. Emerging from the park with a book in hand and Peter quickened his step.

"Hi June,"

"Peter," she smiled at him, "it's been ages. How are you? How are Elizabeth and your son?"

"They're good, thank you for asking – they're all good,"

"Well I'm heading home. Why don't you join me for a cup of coffee?"

Peter was shaking his head before he could utter the words. He could not go there; the mere thought sent a tremble down his spine. He was not ready to face that building again, June's home was Neal's home and Peter was not ready to face that.

"Oh come on Peter, it had been so long since you dropped by,"

"I have work – I mean I have to –"

"Are you saying no to Italian roast Agent Burke?"

Peter hoped his smile didn't come off as a grimace. He had avoided that particular brand of coffee and deviled ham sandwiches in the past two years, the latter being a reminder of his lost friend's distaste and the former as his favorite...

"Peter, I am impressed! I thought you only drank FBI drip,"

"Well, a friend of mine introduced me to Italian roast a few years ago."

"Sounds like a smart guy,"

"Jury's out on that one,"

...he was sure he hadn't the strength to take any 'cappuccino in the clouds' without Neal there to gloat at him. He was dreading the second he would lay eyes on June's residence as she herded him in the back of her car and asked the driver to take her home. Any other time he would have balked at the silence that filled between them, would have tried to make awkward small talk but Peter was busy gathering his wits as if he was being taken hostage by the likes of Adler.

It was not until he had walked up the stairs, through the main iron gates and was sitting in June's lounge that his heartbeat calmed down a little. Carefully unclenching the armrest he had grabbed who knows when, he breathed out and offered the lady across him a smile.

"How are you Peter?"

"Fine, I'm fine," he nodded, "I'm good, how are you?"

Tried his best not to glance beyond at the staircase he had climbed up so many times, tried not to listen for the footsteps of the man who had lived up there. June smiled back at him when his gaze shifted back to her and Peter was surprised to find that coffee had already been served.

"I often expect him to just come downstairs one day," she said, "or find him on the terrace when I take breakfast there. I don't do that much often now."

June picked up a cup and saucer, her head tipped a little to the side as her dark eyes softened.

"The house is quieter," she said.

"No more schemes brewing under our noses," Peter found himself relaxing, "life's quieter without them."

June's smile turned light, her eyes alit with mirth as she raised a finger in half a reprimand.

"The first time we talked you reminded me he was a felon, you were worried Agent Burke,"

"I didn't want him taking advantage of your kindness," Peter shrugged, "he was a conman and you a rich lady with a kind heart..."

"An easy target,"

"Exactly,"

June sipped her coffee before she looked at him.

"He had told me about his incarceration and your agreement already. Do you know why I let him into my home Peter?"

"Because he had the best damn luck I've ever seen?"

Peter grinned even as he shook his head, he had been speechless the first time he had followed the directions on the note Neal had left him at that motel. Had been torn between fury at what he saw was Neal falling back to his conning ways and frustration at the unfairness of a convict landing in the lap of luxury...

"For starters; I work hard. I do my job well. And I don't have a 10-million-dollar view of Manhattan that I share with a 22-year-old art student while we sip espresso,"

"Why not?" Neal asks.

"Why not? Because I'm not supposed to; the amount of work I do equals certain things in the real world."

...but apparently such rules didn't apply to Neal Caffrey; because he had a penchant for landing on his feet no matter where he had fallen from. For the situation to work out in his favor because it was Neal and he simply believed that it would. Not to forget that he had the talent to nudge and steer it if it didn't.

"It was because I saw no malice in him, no desire to dwell on any unfairness perceived or otherwise in his incarceration and I saw no self pity," June said.

Peter drank his coffee – leagues better than the one Jones had brought for him – and marveled at the positivity of the woman before him. Why June had expected Neal to complain at being caught for his crime he could not understand. True that Neal had not whined against or contradicted the charges he was sent to prison for but that was simply because he shouldn't.

"He committed the crime he did the time, that's how it's supposed to be," Peter said, "There was nothing for him to be bitter about."

"Despite all the implications in various crimes the only one Neal was convicted of was bond forgery. And for that he was locked up in Super-max;" June said, her dark eyes held a challenge in them that surprised him, "A non-violent, white collar criminal,"

Peter's grip tightened around the coffee cup as the meaning behind the words hit him. Neal had never complained about being sent there, never questioned Peter why he was sentenced to maximum security for bond forgery and Peter had never dwelled on it either. He wondered if Neal had not been held in super-max would he have asked for the work release agreement. Peter stared in his coffee as he understood what June was saying, that Neal may have looked for wriggle room and loop holes, he would pick the handcuffs he was in but not complain of being put into them in the first place.

For all his smiles, charm and schemes to manipulate the situation Neal had understood the simple fact that his control was limited. He had accepted the cards dealt to him and mastered the art of playing them to his favor.

Peter's mind suddenly went back to the case with Agent Rice. Neal had been betrayed by an FBI agent, abducted and tasered and beaten a few times over; but when all was said and done he didn't even allude to filing a complaint for that. A sick feeling curled in his gut at the sudden thought if the man was even aware that it was within his rights to do so.

Neal hadn't even complained when he had been sent back to prison after Kate's death. Didn't begrudge that he was being questioned as a suspect in the murder of the woman he had loved enough to through away the freedom that was just there at his door.

A sour taste rose to his mouth as Peter went back to all the times Neal had complained; and he had responded to that with a 'cowboy up' and a threat to send the man back to prison. A prison that was far harsher than the crime he had been caught for. A prison that could have been a horror house for a man like Neal, a horror house full of violent criminals intent on setting a pecking order. Wiping a hand over his mouth Peter looked back at the woman.

June nodded at him. Satisfied with the realization he was reeling from.

"Mozzie and Ellen had talked you know," she said, "and Mozzie told me that Neal was in second grade when he pulled his first con. He turned all the clocks in his school half an hour back and when that didn't work he blocked roads to get the school bus to go by house. You see Peter he was looking for ways to get to school on time."

Peter blinked rapidly, he hadn't heard this story. Despite all that had come to light about Neal's past the man had at worst been silent and at best diverting whenever his childhood had been brought up between them.

"It makes sense then that his first forgery was a bus pass;" June smiled at him, "he didn't begrudge the people who were supposed to make sure he got to school on time, instead he found ways to get there himself."

Peter remembered that day in the 'picnic area' when Neal had brought him lunch; again...

"When my dad went away, my mom just checked out. I mean, she was around but she wasn't around. So, Ellen looked after me,"

...apparently Ellen's best efforts hadn't been able to keep the kid on the straight and narrow. Peter suddenly wondered if Neal's mother had interfered in that, had her presence been a hindrance to Ellen's efforts to help out. Because clearly Neal had learned how to get his way but what he hadn't learned was the consequences of the questionable means he used...

"I was in seventh grade, I didn't know any better, but the money was sticking out of her purse, and boop, mine. It was the same thing with the Garrido self-portrait in Belize. I mean, I wasn't taking that out of a purse. It was more like a highly secured wing of a Central American antiquities center. Am I talking too much?"

...that drugged confession made a lot of sense to him suddenly. What had started as a necessity for the kid turned into a habit that turned into a game. Neal hadn't had the experiences similar to the ones he had growing up and abruptly Peter realized that the man he had been trying to change, to turn into what Peter had grown up believing right, was coming from a completely different perspective. Peter had had the chance of stability, of people looking out for him when he was too young to do so for himself while Neal had simply learned to depend on his wits for anything he needed or wanted; and he had relished testing his skills in that. Suddenly Peter had a new appreciation of the part wary part playful way Neal approached the life he was offering him.

June set her cup and saucer on the table and laughed lightly.

"And later of course he did it for the challenge," she said, "it's an addictive thrill my Byron had a hard time shaking off too."

Peter drained his own cup and placed it back.

"Do you think he would have? Neal I mean," He clarified, "do you think he would have shaken it off?"

June clasped her hands on her knee and shrugged a shoulder.

"I can't say that for him. I don't know if he would have done that," she said and looked the FBI agent in the eyes, "Neal didn't respect the law Peter but I'm certain that he respected you,"

And why that left his words clogged in his throat Peter refused to think about it. Instead he thanked June for the coffee and the company and declined her offer of the car to drop him off wherever he wished. He was at the door when Mozzie was shown in.

"Suit,"

"Mozzie," he stared, "haven't seen you in a year,"

"I went on a trip, to Europe,"

"Should I be expecting a call from the Interpol?"

"Ha, Suit humour, never acquired the taste for it,"

Peter's eyes narrowed. There was something about the smaller man, something that had not been there when they had met at the street corner a year ago. His mind worked to connect the dots and it hit him that Mozzie was smiling, a smile that held no touch grief. It was the one he had given him when he had bid him farewell that same night at his house a year ago.

"What're you up to Mozzie?"

"Nothing," he looked offended, "I merely traveled and met an old friend. Sara has started her own security company this past year you know."

"You met with Sara?"

"I said I went to Europe, Suit. London is somewhere in there isn't it?"

"Why Sara?"

"Why not?" Mozzie frowned at him before he scurried off ahead, "June! It's been a while!"

Peter watched him go and felt Neal standing beside him. From the corner of his eye he saw him shake his head, both fond and resigned as he watched Mozzie disappear inside the house. And Peter stood there for a few more moments, enjoying the company of the ghost he knew would vanish the second he turned his head.

Elizabeth hummed as she set the table.

The low murmur of the cartoons came from the television where Mitchell was asleep on the couch. Peter kissed his wife and took a seat at the table, smiling at the love of his life as she joined him. They were well aware the calm would not last long; the three year old would be up soon and ready to be taken to the park as promised. Peter reached for his cereal as El poured the coffee...

"We're having breakfast. It's a crazy ritual I'm sort of fond of. You wanna know why?"

"Because you love the free toys," Neal says as he grabs the cereal box.

"Because breakfast doesn't involve you. You see, every morning I sit at my dining table with my lovely wife and my delicious cereal and no thoughts of Neal Caffrey."

And said man is busy searching the cereal box.

"Free sheriff's badge; you get it already?" Neal asks.

...Peter set the box down and looked up from the bowl.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand and offered him milk, not questioning where he had zoned out to. It was clear in her smile that she knew the answer to that. Offering another gentle tightening of her fingers around his she drew back and grasped her coffee mug.

"So the gallery called, they asked me to visit today," she said.

"I thought you wanted to stick with one job," Peter said, "and Burke Events can't work without Mrs. Burke,"

"But Mrs. Burke can delegate, which the technology had made easy," she told him, "Besides, Mitchell's going to start pre-school soon and you know I like to keep busy."

"Daddy?"

Peter grinned; he could never get tired of hearing that. He was out of his chair and picking up the sleepy jumble of limbs and blanket that had been approaching the table. The small boy let his head fall against his father's shoulder and rubbed at his eyes, Mozart the bear tucked firmly under one arm.

"Sleep well buddy?"

"Hungry," was the reply.

"Monosyllabic," Elizabeth laughed, "like his Dad without his morning coffee,"

Peter shrugged and took a mouthful of his coffee and wriggled a sock clad toe to set the boy giggling. He was a bit disappointed when the little one squirmed out of his hold and made for the stairs. He knew he should be happy the boy was accepting of the morning routine but a part of him wondered if his son was growing up too fast. Peter quietly followed the boy up the stairs; to watch surreptitiously as he went about doing his own 'stuff' that he had left undone in his room. It was a routine that had settled in as his son had grown more and more independent which was why Elizabeth had let the boy brush his teeth on his own in the mornings. The overactive imagination of all sorts of accidents he could get into had the father tailing him – just keeping an eye on him he reminded himself...

"Your separation anxiety has spiraled into control anxiety,"

"Big time,"

"You'd better get used to it," Neal tells him.

"Why?"

"You're going to be a father,"

...he looked up to see the man on top of the stairs, watching him with undisguised glee and a superior look that screamed 'I told you so.'

"Shut it Neal," Peter walked past him

He closed the door after him and oofed rather loudly as the small body collided with his legs. Peter looked down to catch the blue eyes smiling up at him from under the fringes of light brown hair.

"You're home!"

"I'm late aren't I?" he asked.

"Uh–huh,"

"In trouble?"

"Nope," said the boy, "Mom's happy,"

Peter dropped his briefcase and loosened his tie; they had finally nailed the CEO they had been after for months now and Peter was hoping that Elizabeth would not be too upset that he had missed the display at the gallery. Some new artist was taking the world by a storm and Elizabeth's boss had been ecstatic to have the collection on display in his gallery. And Mrs. Burke had been talking about going to the opening together ever since the deal was finalized.

Peter gathered Mitchell up in his arms and looked about the house.

"Where's Mom little man?"

"Upstairs," he said, "She got a painting; I'm helping her hang it,"

"A painting?"

"Hon?" Elizabeth's voice filtered down before she appeared at the top of the stairs, "Peter come up here, you need to see this."

She motioned for him to hurry up.

"I'm coming, coming," he hefted his son closer a little, "so between you and me buddy how is it?"

The four year old pursed his lips in concentration in a way that was remarkably like his mother. A few seconds of contemplation later he gave a serious nod.

"Nice," he said, arms spreading out as he spoke, "there're dragons in it and a shield too! No horses but pretty colours."

"Dragons?" Peter asked as he came to stop before his wife.

"You could say that," Elizabeth shrugged.

Peter let his son go when the boy squirmed and observed the painting his wife had put up in the upstairs corridor. There were indeed dragons in it, or they were seahorses with wings Peter mused, facing each other as they held up what could be a shield; which was filled with colours in distinct blurs as if you were looking at objects or people from a fast moving car. The corners of the canvas were rounded with thick black arcs and there were fracture lines all over the painting like that of a broken glass. In the bottom right corner it was signed V. N. Moreau.

Peter cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.

"You bought it from the gallery?" he asked.

And looked away from the painting that had somehow left him feeling wobbly. Elizabeth grabbed his arm and hugged it tight.

"Actually it was a gift," she said.

"Your Boss finally realized how invaluable you are?"

"I like the way you think Agent Burke," she pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned against him, "but this is from Sara,"

"Sara?'

"Yeah, Victor, the artist, the one who had the exhibition at the gallery, is her husband. And when she found out I was working in the gallery she decided to surprise us with a gift,"

Peter looked from his wife to the painting and back again at the woman. There was a coiled feeling in his gut as he tried to wrap his mind around this information. Because somehow in his mind Sara was supposed to marry Neal, he had no idea when the idea had sprung in his thoughts or how, he hadn't even known it existed until Elizabeth's words had hit it like a kick to the sternum.

"Sara got married?"

"Yeah, three years ago has a two year old daughter now," Elizabeth looked away from the painting and rubbed his arm, "Hon? You all right?"

"Yeah, just surprised,"

"So was I," his wife said.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. Ordered him to shower and change and come downstairs for dinner. Peter did as he was told and if he avoided looking at the painting as he went about from his room to the bathroom and then down to dinner, no one was the wiser.

It wasn't until late in the night when they were headed to bed, Mitchell already sound asleep in his room, that Peter found himself standing in front of the painting again. Eyes seeing the canvas but not really and yet he could not look away, there was something arresting about – unseen but there like a shift in air pressure and it was gathering a storm in Peter's chest.

"I should have left him in prison," he said.

Eyes widening at the words that had came to him out of the blue. He felt rather than saw his wife come up behind him, her hand stroking his back as she turned him around to face her with the other.

"You saved him," Elizabeth said, "he couldn't have lasted another four years in there. He asked you hon and you took that chance with him."

Something dark and solid twisted in his chest and sank to his stomach, because Neal had asked him. At the time he had been sure it was simply to go after Kate, or to stay out of prison, or even an attempt to con him as some sort of payback. But now he wondered with the precision of hindsight why instead of hating the man who had caught him had Neal asked Peter to take charge of him; had that been a roundabout offer of friendship? A gesture of respect? A tentative show of faith?

"Peter you risked your carrier for him time and again," Elizabeth said, "you risked your life; you risked everything we have and gave him more chances than anyone does in this arrangement you had. There was nothing more you could do for him,"

He knew that, had always known the leeway he was giving the man to stretch the boundaries.

"Come to bed," Elizabeth said.

Peter pressed his lips to her forehead and breathed in her scent; steadying himself against the thoughts and emotions brewing in him. He told her to go on, knew she understood he was too restless to follow. She hugged him tight and pulled away.

"Don't stay up to long,"

And Elizabeth left; the bedroom door closing after her as he glanced back at the painting...

"We need to find the kill switch. Take this."

"No, no. We look together. We share the oxygen until Jones comes."

"Not enough time. Five minutes for one, two and a half for two."

"No, Neal."

"We're wasting time. Peter, I trust you."

...and he had. Even when he had found the kill switch he had let the decision fall in Peter's hand. With his life on the line he had trusted Peter to make the choice he deemed right. His hands clenching into fists at his sides Peter turned away from the painting. He walked down to the end of the hallway and up the staircase to the attic. Switching on the light he pulled down the first box, realized it was the last one he had put there and turned to the one under it. Tore off the tape and flipped through the folders...

"You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?"

"I don't know,"

"You do. Tell me,"

"I don't know. Okay?"

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Tell me."

"You're the only one who could change my mind,"

...even with Kate waiting for him, with the one thing he had been working so hard for just a few steps away Neal had stalled. He had been adamant in his words to leave but hesitating in his steps to walk away. Even then, even with just after a year of working together he had been torn between staying and leaving.

Peter pulled down two more boxes, pulled open one of them and skimmed through more folders until he found the one he was looking for. He read through the pages even as his mind raced back to the treasure of the U-boat. The one Neal had told him so expressly to prove that he had stolen and in retrospect, he knew in that moment the man had not taken it. No that was Mozzie, offering Neal riches and freedom...

"What were you two arguing about?"

"Mozzie wanted to leave New York. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"You,"

Peter knows his surprise is clear on his face.

"Elizabeth. Sara. The view out that window. Stepping off the elevator Monday morning. All of it. I have a life here."

...Peter traced the words on the page, reading June's testimony and Elizabeth's. His eyes watering even as he snorted lightly at how his wife had explained the workings of the work-release arrangement between him and Neal. He turned the page and found Neal's interview at the commutation hearing. And something tightened in his breath at finding that Neal hadn't lied to him when he had come out from the interview...

"How'd it go?"

"As well as it could go I think. You know what the nice thing is?"

"Hmm?"

"It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're gonna go in there and say your piece, and the board's gonna make their decision. But with or without my anklet; come Monday morning I'm gonna step off that elevator on the 21st floor and go to work."

..he re-read the words and frowned. Neal had been so sure that he was happy with his life, was content to live the 'dream with an anklet attached;' even when he had been forced to run he had been willing to return. Cautious with what was waiting back for him but trusting Peter would get him back home. Closing the folder he stuck it back in the box and drew a hand through his hair. Peter blinked away the blur in his eyes and exhaled slowly. Because that was not the Neal Caffrey he had been working with towards the end. No that Neal Caffrey was clearly not the one who saw this place as his home...

"That's not the future I have in mind. The promotion at D.C. your case history was a huge factor in that decision, right?"

"That's right. It was based in part on my successes as a field agent."

"Our successes," Neal turns to stop him in his tracks, "No more handlers, no more cases, no more anklet."

"Neal, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want my sentence to be dropped."

...in retrospect he felt there was something wrong with that conversation. Peter frowned as he tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that he felt off about it. In the moment, in the context there was nothing wrong with it. But a niggling feeling that had been there for the past four years insisted that he was missing something, there was something in these words he needed to take notice of something he should have noticed years ago. His gaze fell on the first box he had opened and he reached out to pick up the picture that had hung in the kitchen until the day he had rid his house of every Neal related item...

"Hey, before I go back, you should know this. Out of all the people in my life, Mozzie, even Kate you know? You're the only one."

"The only one what?"

"The only person in my life I trust."

...and Neal had been so out of it that Peter knew he could not be conning him. So he had done that day what he had never done in his life before. He had broken the law, deliberately done something wrong. Agent Burke had taken the surveillance video to save his loopy-on-unknown-drugs convict. Crossed the line for the first time and never stopped to consider why...

"You stole that for me?"

"Yeah; it's a regular Kodak moment,"

...but now when the dust had settled he had to ask himself why. Had to wonder when had 'my successes' turned to 'our success;' and why did it bother him that it had turned back to 'my success' again. And the simplicity of the answer floored him. Peter realized that long before he had accepted it he had started seeing Neal as more than an informant; more than a criminal, more than a resource to be tapped for understanding the minds of convicts, more than a means to solve cases, more than an asset to reach the highest closure rate in the bureau...

"We either take down Lao now or our partnership comes to an end."

"We're partners?"

The hint of awe in Neal's surprise was obvious.

"You tell me," Peter says.

...and he knew now that that was the moment Agent Peter Burke had gained an ally for as long as either of them lived. Because the only positive influence in the conman's life had been Ellen, the one thing he had learned in his life was how far partners would go for each other. Feeling just a bit winded Peter sat down on one of unopened boxes and drew a hand over his suddenly wet eyes. That evening at Neal's place burst forward into his mind like a festering wound he had chosen to ignore...

"Because you stole them,"

"It's not what you think."

"Neal, you impersonated a fireman, and you robbed a vault under my watch."

"I can explain, all right?"

"Don't! Don't you dare try to justify what you did! I put myself out on the line for you, all the time! I helped your father. I was charged for murder because of it –."

"Will you please –?"

"I nearly lost everything –"

"I did it for you!"

...Peter winced, the words echoing in his mind with a new understanding. It was wrong for Neal to take the step that he did, unfair of him to put the Agent in that position. Peter shook his head slowly because for the first time he understood clearly why Neal did it. Because Peter had teammates, class fellows, acquaintances, subordinates but the only one he had called a friend was Neal. They were partners, they were friends and for Neal that was all the reason he needed to do what he did...

"I know why you did what you did,"

"Yeah. To help my friend."

"And because you're a criminal, and you can't help yourself; shame on me for expecting anything else," he meets the wide blue eyes, "Things are gonna change for the both of us," Peter says.

"Yeah. It's time they did."

...he flinched.

What had he done?

Where was that venom coming from?

Clenching his eyes shut Peter clutched the picture frame tight as his head lowered, chin coming to rest on his chest. That evening at Neal's place had been the last tug, their conversation after that case the final snap that broke what had taken years to grow between them. And for the first time since Neal had died Peter let himself accept that what they had, had been indeed damaged. Pulling in a ragged breath he dared ask himself why, how...

"Do I want to know what's in the box?"

"Got a new anklet in."

"Any particular reason?"

"Felt it was time for an upgrade. This is an all-new one with a new chip set."

"Looks the same on the outside. I think there's a metaphor there somewhere." Neal says.

...he pinched the corners of his eyes, finger and thumb digging until the colors on the back of his eyelids swirled. Had he felt it then Peter wondered, had Neal seen the shift, the change under the surface? Had the man sensed the resentment he felt towards him, had he read the bitterness that Peter refused to acknowledge in himself? The bitterness that had been stemming from his desire to brush away the fact that he had spent six weeks in a prison, the experience that had changed him in ways he still was not ready to touch upon...

"Jones and Diana, everyone in the White Collar offices, we're all family and you're a part of that family. You're also a criminal. I forget that a lot. And until you've served out your sentence, that's exactly what you are. I've made mistakes because I let emotions cloud my judgment, and I can't let my next handler make those same mistakes."

"You're choosing someone from outside the office to be my new handler,"

"Someone with the right perspective; someone who will see you as you are,"

"A criminal," Neal says.

...never before had he so clearly, so formally called the man a criminal before.

Orange jumpsuits, FBI ownership and prison had always been a playful threat, never had he so viciously put Neal in his place before.

It ached somewhere deep in his chest to realize that he had been the one to very plainly redraw the line between himself and Neal. He hadn't wondered about it then, with his recent freedom and the promotions coming his way but sitting in his attic in the middle of the night he frowned at every piece of advice that had come his way regarding his and Neal's partnership. Hughes, Diana, Jones, Elizabeth, people whose words mattered to him had always pointed out how much he had done for the convict, had always told him that he was the one risking everything for Neal, that he was the one making sacrifices and somehow over their years of working together he had absorbed it and believed it. When he had been caught for James' crime it just hammered home the fact that he was the one who had done so much to make it work.

"Damnit," Peter tossed the picture frame back in the box and surged to his, "damnit. Danmit. Danmit!"

Only the thought of Mitchell asleep downstairs stopped him from punching the wall.

Grinding his teeth with his hands on his waist he turned around to stare at the boxes as it occurred to him like a bludgeon to the head that it was a partnership; a two way street and he had been blind. Drawing a hand through his hair he pulled at the strands in his grasp as he turned back towards the door, the desire to run, to not go where his thoughts were going was trembling under his skin.

Every one of them saw their arrangement as Neal getting what he wanted at the cost of Peter' career.

Because Neal had never mentioned what it was costing him. And it had cost him; in burned aliases, in contacts that shied away from his new status as the FBI informant, as old friends looked upon him with caution or betrayal, as he formed new enemies in the criminal world by helping out in the FBI stings. Bile rose at the back of his throat as Peter realized what could happen to a snitch in prison; where he had so often threatened to send the man back, death would be a mercy for what they did to informants in there.

Neal had been risking life and limb in situations a consultant or informant should never be put in; and he had nowhere to turn back, he couldn't have gone back to prison after his deal. He had been burning bridges ever since he had asked Peter to take him on as his informant...

"We have the highest arrest record in the bureau,"

"Yeah,"

"Bruce thinks the real reason he won't release you is because you're such a big asset. The bureau doesn't want to lose you."

"I screwed myself."

"If you weren't good, they would have revoked your deal and sent you back to prison."

"So the game was rigged,"

...while he had been so sure, while everyone had been certain that it was Peter paying the cost and Neal reaping the rewards in the end it turned out the other way round. A bitter smile curled up Peter's lips because the fact of it was that Neal may not have complained about it, would have been happy with the thrill of risks he had no business taking for the FBI because he was not a trained agent, he would have just been satisfied with how things were if Peter had not pushed the man away. He remembered what June had told him about what or who the younger man respected and it dawned on him that the deal he had made with Neal was never between the convict and the system. That is until Peter made it...

"Look how far we've come since that case." Peter says.

"You've come."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're in Hughes's office, with a well-deserved promotion. I'm still on an anklet; just with somebody new holding the leash."

"You've gone from an incarcerated con man to an invaluable part of this FBI team. That is nothing to sniff at."

"Hagen's free. I'm not."

...pressing a hand flat against the closed door Peter leaned against it. Wondering how he had gotten everything he had ever wanted and more; taking up the D.C offer or not he was still a legend in the white collar offices. And yet everything he had worked hard to build had been ruined. He had lost Neal long before the man had died...

"You know, it's scary." Neal looks up from the new tracking anklet he had put on.

"What's that?"

"It feels strange when it's not on; like I'm missing something. That's how used to it I've gotten."

...but it was not that anklet that was keeping Neal at his side. It was not the device that was forcing him to rethink his ways. It was Peter, it had always been Peter. He was the one Neal had come to with the evidence about Kate in the very start of their partnership and Peter hadn't read much into Neal's expectation that it his action should count for something; and it had been him that Neal had ran to when he had escaped custody after Fowler framed him. Peter pushed away from the door and wiped a hand down his face wondering why he hadn't read those signs. Grimaced as it settled in him that the day Neal had asked for the deal it had not been a simple chance or an elaborate ruse that Peter was the one asked. Neal had made a choice and whatever his reasons were he had chosen Peter...

"Any new plan passes through me before Woodford hears it."

"Why wouldn't it? We're partners."

"Yeah, the partner routine may have worked with Luc, but you and I – let's just say good anklets make for good partners." Peter says.

"Okay. But I got to say,"

"Yeah?"

"This has been more fun than a prison sentence has any right to be,"

...and Peter had brought it full circle.

From an FBI Agent and convict, to friends and then back to the keeper and prisoner. Towards the end that was all he had been able to see. That he was the agent, the one who would be the casualty, had already been the casualty of his convict's schemes. That he had been the one who had suffered because of Neal's father and that he was the one stuck in an impossible position with what Neal had done to save him and his career...

"...this is all my fault. I asked Neal to do whatever he could to help you."

"Honey, Neal broke the law. You didn't."

"I'm glad he did," Elizabeth says.

...but he wasn't mad at his wife. He understood where she was coming from, she just wanted her husband safe and back home. She didn't want him to suffer for a crime he didn't commit. But Neal – he did it. He played his cards and he got him out. He did for him what no one else would do and in doing that showed him the cracks in the foundation of what he had built himself upon. Showed him the fractures in the one thing he believed in. And Peter mused if that was how the younger man had felt when he had found out about the truth of his father and his own family. Because if he did Peter had no idea how Neal had kept his optimism when the pedestal of his belief had been so thoroughly shattered. Because Peter knew now how bad it hurt...

"All I did was help you," Neal argues.

"At a cost I'm not comfortable with,"

"Well, more comfortable than a prison cell,"

"Watch it!"

"I did what you couldn't,"

"What?"

"You heard me,"

"You took a system I believe in and corrupted it,"

"Because that system didn't believe in you,"

That was a kick to the gut.

"Don't say another word. Now, we are finished here. Go home."

...he had not been ready to face it. Not ready to accept that despite it all a part of him was glad that Neal had done what he did. That he had saved not just his life but his career too; his career that only James' confession would have saved and that was one thing the man would not give. He had been torn between who he saw himself as and the side of him that Neal was bringing out. He had seen the world in black and white and Neal – he didn't just show him the greys but the entire damn rainbow. With a shake of his head Peter began closing the boxes he had opened, a weight settling on his heart as he remembered what he had told Neal...

"Actions define us. I made sure yours did."

...but he had never stopped to analyze what his own actions said about him. He knew he had been focused on closing cases and had encouraged Neal to bend and break the law to get it done, he had went along with the ends justified the means when the ends were in the Bureau's favor. Had been so focused on his righteousness and the need to set Neal right that he never before asked himself what he was doing said about him. Not until Neal had cleared his name with fake evidence and the reflection that Peter suddenly saw in the mirror then had not been what he had wanted.

Putting the boxes back in their place he stepped back and stood with his hands on his waist. He had been angry at Neal for that, hated him for putting him at war with himself, for pitting Peter Burke against the Agent Burke and he had lashed out. In his struggle to come to terms with himself he had broken the one thing that had held them together...

"But even when there isn't trust, there's always faith. Faith; that whatever the other's doing, it's for a good reason."

"As long as Peter has faith in me, I'll have faith in him,"

...but he had lost that.

He had pushed Neal away; saw him as a liability to be shed off and a tool to be used. Something he had shaken out of only when the FBI had refused to grant Neal the freedom he had earned. But that had been too little, too late. Peter closed the light of the attic and the door after him. He made it down to his bedroom but stopped with his hand on the door. The thought that struck him had him turning away and Peter went down to the kitchen instead...

"When did you stop putting faith in people?" Peter asks his mentor.

"When they stopped deserving it!"

...he was not turning into Kramer, he was not. Pulling out a bottle of beer from the fridge he drained it halfway even before he had perched on one of the chairs at the kitchen island. Swiping a thumb over the cold glass of the bottle Peter remembered another night of revelations he had stayed up for; with beer, wine that didn't need a corkscrew and a budding friendship he hadn't ever imagined to mean to him as much as it did.

Because it did mean to him a lot more than he had ever understood before.

There was no stopping Neal Caffery once he had decided his target and Peter wondered when the man had decided that he was it. Because he had walked right past any and all barriers that Peter had built around himself. Slipped under every yellow tape, picked open every locked door and scaled every wall that kept him from reaching the man that was Peter. With his teasing grin, the tilted hat and silly magic tricks he had conned his way through every fact on paper that the FBI Agent had memorized about the criminal. When Neal had crossed the line from convict to colleague to partner to friend to family he had no idea. But the man had left an aching absence in his life that was a constant presence in itself. Peter remembered what Jill had told him during their stakeout together, that how she had never gotten over the loss of her partner who had died eight years ago. How she could not stand to have another person trying to fill that space. But Peter hadn't just lost a partner who worked with him in perfect synch, he had also lost an opponent who kept him on his toes; lost a best friend who always watched his back and he lost the kid brother he wanted to strangle half the time and protect always...

"You said you made your peace with what he did." Elizabeth says.

"That's right,"

"Have you actually made your peace with him?"

...he had been so sure that he would eventually.

Been so sure that he had time for another all night of confessions.

Sitting in the empty kitchen Peter finished his bottle of beer and set it down softly.

The knock on the door surprised him.

Elizabeth was at work, Mitchell was at school and he was home because he had sniffed at the office. He may have sneezed too but Peter was adamant it was the dust. Still Jones had all but exiled him from the office and the sofa at home was just too damn comfortable to not lie down upon. So Peter had laid there with his phone pressed to his ear because over at the Violent Crimes unit the 'Phantom' had finally been captured a week ago after eighteen years of chase; and apparently murder wasn't enough for the man because he had been a part of antiquities smuggling as well.

"...the word going around is that he always worked alone and disposed off of loose ends if he had to work with someone," Jones said.

"No wonder they couldn't catch him soon," Peter checked his watch as he took to his feet when another knock came, "are you sure you can handle it there?"

"Its fine Boss, you and your germs can have a day off,"

"Thanks," he said.

Ended the call and picked up the pace as another urgent knock sounded. Peter went to answer the door with a frown. It deepened when he saw the visitor.

"Mozzie?"

"Suit,"

The smaller man nodded and walked past him into the house. Peter watched him make his way to the kitchen and was about to make some remark about inviting yourself in when the words died on his lips. Because there was a weariness in Mozzie's movements that reminded him of the man he had stood beside at Neal's funeral five years and seven months ago.

"Elizabeth's at work,"

"I came to see you,"

That – Peter blinked – was odd.

So he did what he knew one had to do with Mozzie around, he went to the wine cabinet and pulled out the first bottle that his hand fell upon. Filling a glass for the man perched on the chair by the kitchen island Peter eyed the briefcase Mozzie had set on the counter.

"Are the Queen's jewels in there?" he asked.

The smaller man took the offered glass and drained it, reached for the bottle to fill it again.

"What?"

"Last we met you said you'd been visiting Europe, England?"

"That was over three years ago. I was just in D.C, Suit. Keep up will you,"

Peter leaned on his fists curled on the countertop and tried not to snap at his unexpected visitor.

"Did you rob the Smithsonian?"

Mozzie set down his newly emptied glass and the bespectacled eyes narrowed in displeasure at Peter.

"Contrary to the popular belief of my alleged activities, I do have some other work in my life that needs my attention," he patted the briefcase as his shoulders dropped slightly, "very important legal work,"

Peter looked from the briefcase to the man and read the exhaustion in the face before him. It was clear Mozzie hadn't had decent night's sleep in a while and his face though shaved clean looked drawn, as if constant stress had leeched out the vitality from him.

"What are you up to Mozzie?" he asked.

"Oh I didn't do anything; but –" he stopped short suddenly.

Peter frowned but Mozzie pulled off his spectacles, wiped a hand down his face and meticulously cleaned his glasses with the corner of his shirt. Placing the glasses back on his nose he reached for the wine and took a bracing sip from the glass he had poured himself; his eyes fixed onto some point past the man before him. Peter felt his patience thinning like a stretched rubber-band and only kept it from snapping because the smaller man looked downright haunted.

"Mozzie?"

The other man looked to him and smiled lightly, it looked weighed down.

"Ignorance is a bliss Peter," he said.

After all the lectures of knowledge is power, a crucial weapon, the words from the man before him sent a chill down Peter's spine.

"You are telling me this?"

Finishing his wine, Mozzie slipped off the chair and grabbed his briefcase, giving a soft bow as he stood.

"I am a contradiction," he said.

And then he was walking to the door. Peter growled under his breath as he followed him, wondering if he should pull out his badge and demand to see what's in the briefcase. He nearly ran into the smaller man who had stopped at the main door. Mozzie raised a finger to stop the words Peter was about to say.

"Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks," the smaller man grinned, "Samuel Johnson,"

He turned and walked out the door and down the stairs.

"He's in trouble," said the presence at Peter's side...

"He says he's feeling fine,"

"Moz insisted on coming; that's his choice. But understand I look at him as more than a resource."

...Peter sighed and pulled out his phone, he would need Jones to look into the matter.

It was not yet five, there were still three minutes to go.

Peter closed the last file of the day and took to his feet. Shrugging on his suit jacket he closed his briefcase in haste, walked out of his office and bid Jones goodnight. He had to pick up Mitchell from his friend's place before heading home and checked the time again as he waited for the elevator. The ding of its arrival had him looking up and Peter stopped short of entering it.

"Sara,"

Green eyes blinked in surprise before the woman smiled.

"Peter," she stepped forward and hugged him, "I was just coming up to meet you,"

Pulling back Peter couldn't help but smile at her.

"Well you found me," he said, "and congratulations, Elizabeth told me you got married,"

"And I have kids too," Sara nodded, "two of them now,"

"Two?"

"Yeah, a four year old girl and a two year old boy," Sara nodded and ushered him into the elevator, "but you're a father too Peter, congratulations,"

"Thank you," Peter stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor.

As the doors closed he turned to the woman at his side and shrugged slightly.

"Well, you said you came looking for me," he said, "a new case?"

"Actually I'm here to invite you to dinner,"

"Sara –"

"I've talked to Elizabeth and I'll be picking her up from the gallery before collecting your son and meeting you at June's,"

"June's?"

"My husband and kids are there," Sara nodded, "she insisted we stay the night and sent me with a mission to get the Burkes there for dinner,"

"Organized and proactive," Peter said.

Shaking his head slightly as they stepped off the elevator on the ground floor and headed for the main door.

"I'm running a security company Peter it's part of the job,"

"About that, how's it going?"

"That's why we're in New York. Our business expanded from London to Paris and now I'm opening an office here. If things go well this is from where I'll be working out of,"

"Wow,"

"Impressed?"

"Very,"

"I try," she laughed and shrugged a shoulder.

They had stopped on the sidewalk and Peter wondered if he could wriggle out of the dinner invite. It wasn't that he didn't like Sara or that he usually just wanted to go home to his family after a day of grueling paperwork; it was the idea of spending the evening making small talk with an artist. Because that was all he knew about Sara's husband – Vance, Vincent, Victor – Peter gave a mental nod, Victor, that was his name.

"You're not getting out of it Peter," Sara said, "It's settled, there's no escape."

"Are you sure I –"

"Just go," she told him.

And Peter did. He called his wife from the car and pleaded his case but Elizabeth wasn't any help. By the time he had pulled outside of June's house Peter was feeling decidedly cornered. He could feel the amusement in the vacant seat at his side as if the blue eyes were right there looking at him squirm at the thought of the coming dinner. Peter didn't look that way as he grabbed the wine he had bought on his way and stepped out of his car. The housekeeper met him at the door and when he asked after the hostess he was told she was out with the young ones. He could only assume that she was talking about Sara's kids.

"The gentlemen are upstairs,"

"That's alright," he said, "I can wait here,"

"But Ms. Ellington told me to send you upstairs if she hadn't made it back before your arrival,"

Peter glanced at the staircase then back at the woman who was looking at him expectantly. He wondered if he could stall or stay there without seeming rude. She swiped a hand through the air in an 'after you' motion and Peter grit his teeth behind his smile. There was no way out of this; he could not explain to her why he was avoiding going up there.

His heart thudded in his chest, pumping blood loud against his ears as he slowly climbed up the stairs. Rounding the corner into the upper floor corridor he stopped; eyed the door at the end that he could not bear to open to reveal some stranger. And yet the light spilling from under that door told him that was exactly what would happen, drove home the point that what he wished for was truly over, was never going to happen again.

With a bracing inhale he crossed the distance. Yet his hand shook a little as he reached out to knock.

But the door opened instead at his touch.

Peter stepped across the threshold and stopped. The apartment was lit and furnished exactly as it had been years ago, a pocket of time stopped somewhere in the past. As his breath caught in his throat at the vivid reminder of the years gone by, his eyes drew to the man sitting on one of the chairs at the dining table like a figment of those long vanished days.

Mozzie raised a glass to him.

But Peter found himself looking at the fedora tossed on the table, the suit jacket hanging on the backrest of the chair and beyond that; standing just inside the door that led to the terrace, with a glass of wine in one hand and the other in his pocket, as if the past six years hadn't happened, was Neal Caffrey.

Blue eyes met brown.

Peter let go a breath that had stopped somewhere in his chest but his feet refused to move. His brain wasn't clearly sending the message anyway. So he stood and he stared, watched the bright blue eyes turn brighter with a sheen of moisture, watched the confident smile wane into a smaller, rare genuine one. His eyes tracked the man who put down the wine glass and rounded the table, slowed in his confident stride until it halted completely at an arm's length from Peter.

Neal ducked his head a little, one hand rubbing at the back of his head.

"Hi Peter," he said.

"You son of a bitch," it left him in a rough growl.

But even as Neal looked up at him in surprise Peter crossed the distance between them in a single step. Pulled his lost friend into a tight embrace and held on. Let himself feel the solid, living warmth of the man who had become his family against all odds. Neal was holding onto him like he was the ghost intent on disappearing, fisting the back of his suit jacket as if afraid he would vanish, and Peter smiled at the irony of it. He was not the one who had returned from the dead but he was not above to revel in the fact that the desperate sort of fear was mutual.

He pulled back but not completely, his hand remained on Neal's shoulder although the man didn't seem to mind. Peter smiled through the tears that had rolled down his face even as the younger man wiped a sleeve over his own eyes.

They were still red-rimmed when they met Peter's.

"I –"

"Yeah," Peter nodded.

He squeezed the shoulder in his grasp and cleared his throat.

"Really –"

"Me too," Neal said.

Blue eyes not leaving his.

"And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend," Mozzie spoke up.

Peter shifted his grasp to the back of Neal's neck and gave it a squeeze, eyes still wet and wide and roaming over the friend returned to him. Slowly, reluctantly he let go, patted the younger man on the shoulder for feelings that wouldn't be voiced and pulled his gaze away from the reality that was too close to a dream.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," he said and pointed a finger at the smaller man in the chair, "you knew about this."

"Not from the start," Mozzie glared at Neal, "it was on the evening of the day you met me at the street corner. Blue eyes here had sent me a plane ticket, a business class reservation for Mr. Haversham. Our reunion was a bit more... violent,"

"Violent?"

"Of the fist meet face sort,"

Peter laughed, and it felt damn good to do it. But he stopped short when Mozzie gave him a very unenthusiastic look and Peter glanced to Neal, a habit he hadn't been able to break in the years of his partner's absence. And it felt so good to have the man there to respond and not just be met by his ghost again. A smile touched his lips when the younger man made a face at their bespectacled third.

"Gave me a bloody lip," Neal said.

"You deserved it,"

Neal rolled his eyes and headed to the fridge, he handed a bottle of beer to Peter as he took a seat at Mozzie's side. There were so many questions whirring in his head and the normality of the way Neal was moving in the familiar environment was making Peter feel off kilter. He took a gulp of his beer and placed the bottle on the table as Neal took a seat across from the two of them. Peter clutched the bottle in his hand lest he did something absurd like grab onto Neal's wrist just to make sure he was there.

"How?" he asked.

"Faked the gunshot wound, paid the paramedic and the doctor," Neal said, "and used poison to make it convincing,"

"Poison he says," Mozzie snorted.

He drained his glass of wine and refilled it by upending the bottle in it; glaring at Neal the entire time. The younger man shrugged lightly before he crossed his arm over the tabletop, his shoulders hunching forward in a manner both accepting and bracing of the anger Mozzie was targeting him with. Peter had a feeling he was missing something.

"So poison?" he asked.

"Yes Suit, poison from the puffer fish. Nothing halfway for Neal Caffrey,"

Peter stilled.

He was well aware what that poison was capable of. Just thinking about his friend putting himself through dangerous levels of decrease in blood pressure and full body paralysis that would stop his breathing set his own heart racing. With his mouth suddenly very dry he looked at Neal.

"So while we were at your funeral –"

"He was in a coma deciding if he should return to the land of living or not," Mozzie's voice had an edge to it, "went all out for authenticity."

Peter swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat...

"Is your freedom worth dying for?"

"It might be."

...a sick feeling swirled in his stomach at the thought that Neal was somewhere between alive and dead when they had seen him. That instead of seeking medical help to keep him alive he had instead asked that his cohorts use his dangerous condition to ensure that Mozzie and Peter saw him dead.

"It was the only way Moz," Neal said.

"Why?" Peter asked, "Why were you so adamant? God! Neal you could have died; you were dead – to us you were and then you very nearly –"

He drew a hand down his face and took a drink from the bottle. Setting it down with a bit more force than necessary he glared at the young man across from him. Of all the stupid – hurtful things to do – six years he had spent with the grief of his loss, a chronic pain that flared unexpectedly – he loosened his tie and sat forwards, face set in grim lines.

"You were getting your freedom; I got them to sign your contract. Then why?"

"It was the only way –"

"Don't," Peter snapped.

His hand on the table curling into a fist as a laugh that was anything but happy escaped him.

"You were dead to us –" he could not keep the wetness from his eyes, "and you're not now but you were and you risked dying, you took a damn poison –"

"A misguided attempt to protect us," Mozzie said.

He shrugged when Neal gave him a pointed look. Peter looked from one man to the other, and the blue eyes that met his seemed resigned. Neal sat back and pulled close his abandoned glass of wine but didn't drink from it as he sat back.

"I would have been free of the FBI but the Pink Panthers were going to come after me. I could have just disappeared, never to be found again. But I was leaving behind people I cared about," he drew a hand through his hair and sat forwards again, "You, Mozzie, Elizabeth, June, everyone was a target and they wouldn't have stopped hurting you until I came to them or I died. So I did."

"You let us think you were dead because of us,"

"I broke the cardinal rule of a conman's life, I cared. And it put you all in the line of fire," Neal said.

"You could have -"

"No Peter," Neal shook his head, "I couldn't have. I was not going to risk the safety of any one of you. Moz had already been a target because of me more than once and you, after all that you've done for me - I couldn't let them come after you. I couldn't ever let that happen."

The determination there was iron and Peter had to look away, swallow back the hard lump that abruptly rose to block his throat. This was what he had missed, missed noticing it when Neal was around and missed feeling it when the man was gone. This unconditional, rules-be-damned approach that the man had when it came to watching his back, that the agent in him resented and the friend in him coveted.

Before Peter could force his thoughts in order, find the right words to form a reply the door to the apartment opened again. His wife in hurried in and dropping the grocery bag she carried on the kitchenette counter, Elizabeth's gaze sought out Neal. Who had stood at the sight of her but the man had only taken a step towards her before she rushed closer and caught him in a hug. When they pulled back Neal's hands still remained on her arms as he grinned down at her.

"And how is Super Mom doing?" he asked.

She hit him in the shoulder even as she picked off the tears from the corner of her eyes with the tip of her finger.

"You're a brat," she sniffed lightly, "a complete attention seeking brat,"

Neal hugged her again; rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

"You're realizing that just now?" he asked.

A chocked laugh escaped Elizabeth as she hugged him back before stepping away.

"It is so good to see you alive," she said.

Squeezed his arm before her hand fell away to rest on the boy's shoulder who had come to stand at her side. Peter saw the blue eyes that had softened at the sight of his wife sharpen with delight as they fell on his son. Neal crouched down to the level of the six year old who studied him with the even look that was far mature than his age.

"And who is this?"

"I'm Mitchell,"

"Hi! I'm Neal,"

Dark blue eyes widened slightly.

"That's my name,"

"Is it now?" he asked, "I thought it was Mitchell."

"Neal Mitchell Burke," the boy straightened a little, "but everyone calls me Mitchell,"

"Alright Mitchell I think your father here lost something, could you get it for him?"

Peter frowned as he watched his boy nod and hurry over to the table towards where Neal had gestured. His frown turned into an incredulous look when Mitchell picked up the hat and found Peter's FBI badge under it. He took it from his son even as he glared at his friend; Neal grinned unrepentant. He took the hat from the kid and flipped it before settling it on his head.

"Cool," Mitchell grinned

"You want to try that?"

"Yes,"

"N –ow!" Peter stared at his wife who had elbowed him.

Elizabeth shook her head and he let his friend teach his son that silly hat trick. It wasn't a surprise that Neal had easily charmed his son but he was worried that his boy might learn a few not so lawful skills quite unintentionally from his exuberant friend. But his attention was snagged by Sara who came in with an armful of groceries and he moved to help her. Neal stood as well, taking the last bag from his wife in return for a kiss.

"Look, look, look!" Mitchell hopped up to Neal, "I got it,"

He fumbled with the hat before plopping it on his head, a happy grin on his face. Neal tapped the top of the fedora.

"Perfect buddy," Neal grinned.

"Speaking of children I remember there were two of ours," Sara looked around.

"June took them to the park," Neal said.

"That's not fair to her,"

"I warned her but she insisted," his friend defended himself.

As if summoned by his words a high pitched squeal of "Daddy!" came from the corridor.

And a fair-haired blur shot through the open door to wrap herself around Neal's legs. The father wasted no time to grab her up into his arms as the little girl chatted away about how they went to the park and she met a puppy and can they have one and they got new coloring books and there were so many colors and David got lost again but June found him and can they have a puppy?

"Calm down monkey, look we have guests," Neal motioned towards his friends.

Bright blue eyes exactly like her father's looked from Peter to Elizabeth and then –

"Uncle Mozzie!"

Neal let her down so that she could hug the smaller man and grinned at June who had finally let go of the little boy's hand. The toddler hurried over to his father on his small legs as the lady behind him shook her head.

"You were right. I was holding his hand and then suddenly he was gone," she said, "I think I aged ten more years in that minute and a half,"

"Sorry, he gets distracted easily," Neal said.

Peter watched his friend as he picked up the dark haired boy who talked away in his ear even as he tried to draw on his father's face with the red crayon he had in his small hand; that is until Sara took that away. Only to have the little hands clutch at his father's hair before tracing shapes over his face with a chubby finger.

"So you said," June smiled, "but he found me again,"

"I still don't understand how he does that," Sara shook her head, "never cried over getting lost that one,"

Peter couldn't help it; he chuckled at the little one who by then had both his hands on his father's face, turning it slightly in order to get his attention. Something that Neal seemed delighted to oblige him with.

"An escape artist in the family?" Peter asked.

"Cot, playpen, high chair," Sara rolled her eyes, "nothing had stopped him yet. One of us has to sit in the back every time we go out just to keep him in the booster seat."

"As I said before, talent like this is born not learned," Mozzie spoke up.

But Peter's attention was pulled by Neal who turned his gaze away from the toddler giggling in his grasp and looked to him with an earnest expression.

"Gave me a heart attack the first time I found his cot empty," he said.

And there was some karmic justice in that Peter mused; it was clear Neal had read his thoughts because the man gave him an unimpressed look before he bent down to pick up his other offspring. He straightened to face his old friends and the smile on his face held no intensity and flare, but simply pride and joy.

"This is Emily Pierretta Moreau and David Byron Moreau," he said, "and kids this is Elizabeth and Peter Burke,"

"Hello!" Elizabeth said.

"Hello," they parroted back.

But it was the way the two small faces were watching him that had Peter shift his weight where he stood. Until David looked to his sister, the green eyes of the boy meeting his sister's blue in a silent conversation children that young weren't usually attune to. With a nod Emily turned to her father.

"Peter?" she asked.

"Story Peter?" David added.

And for the first time in his life Peter saw Neal embarrassed. He would not have caught on that his friend's wide eyed look was one of discomfort if Sara hadn't giggled and Mozzie hadn't snickered. So as Elizabeth and June shared a look Peter frowned slightly.

"Story Peter?" the FBI agent asked.

"Yeah..."

"Will you show us your superpowers?" Emily asked.

Peter looked to his friend who gave an awkward, helpless sort of a shrug. It warmed him that even though Neal had left them behind it seemed he had kept a part of his old life for his children. Although what sort of stories he was telling them Peter was very interested to find out.

"Peter would need to have dinner first for all those superpowers to work," June spoke up and held up the bag she had been carrying in her other hand, "how about you all draw some nice pictures for Peter until then?"

"June you shouldn't have, we brought their stuff –" Neal started.

"Yes, now I bought them new ones," June held up a hand to stop him and motioned for the oldest child in the company, "C'mon Mitchell I'm sure your father would love to see what you come up with."

Peter watched the lady herd the younger ones over to the sofa by the bed and set them about on the carpet with an assortment of colors and paper and coloring books. He looked back when Sara sat down in a chair and ushered Elizabeth in the one next to hers.

"They'll be spoilt if we stay in New York," she said.

"I'll spoil them no matter where we live," Neal countered as he set about sorting the groceries.

Peter moved to help as Mozzie went over to June and the kids with a glass of wine for the woman and one for himself. As dinner was prepared the conversation turned to all the hows and wheres and whens. Neal was only too happy to explain in enthusiastic detail how he had met Sara in Paris by a strange stroke of good luck, saw her in the red and gold hues of the setting sun and how their eyes met through the crowd and –

"And I still think you planned it," Sara pointed out.

"It was nothing but a stroke of good luck," Neal insisted as he chopped the vegetables, "destiny, fate, some benevolence of higher power that brought us together because we were simply meant to be,"

"Aww..." Elizabeth smiled.

With her elbow on the table and her chin cradled in her hand she listened to the story with a brightness in her eyes. And Peter shared a skeptical look with Sara, one borne of mutual understanding of living with romantics at heart.

"Imagine my surprise that Mozzie was not with him," Sara rolled her eyes.

"I still resent the fact that everyone believes Neal and I to be joined at the hip," Mozzie announced from where he sat on the sofa with June, "that's the Suit's job,"

"Joined at the anklet Moz," Neal corrected.

Peter sputtered.

"Well there was no Mozzie and no Peter," Sara went on, "I had to know what was going on,"

And Peter knew that she was not one to be shaken off the trail once she got a whiff of it, it was something he was known for too in the FBI. And it was what made both him and Sara good at their jobs.

"She made me tell her everything," Neal said, "all of it."

"Made you?" Peter raised a brow.

"She can be very persuasive," his friend nodded.

"I can," Sara grinned, "and then I used my contacts to find out about the Pink Panthers. Convinced him to contact Mozzie once I was sure they were all behind bars and were going to stay there."

"And then you got married," Elizabeth added.

Her smile eagerly prompting the details.

"And then we got married," Sara nodded.

And as Neal talked about how worried he had been that Sara might just come to her senses before she said 'I do' and how beautiful she looked that day, Peter bit back a flash of resentment at the realization that he had had missed that. Neal had been there when he and Elizabeth had had a second, private wedding and yet he hadn't even known his friend was even alive to get married. He stamped down the bud of jealousy that sprung at the thought that Neal had Mozzie at his side on the occasion and hadn't even told him about it, hadn't even told him that he was alive.

"You should have said something when you sent us the painting two years ago," Elizabeth said.

Neal paused in his work, he looked from Peter to the women sitting at the table and Peter felt something sink in his stomach. He hadn't considered how much it would hurt to know that Neal was not the one who had tried to contact him.

"What painting?" Neal asked before he pointed the spoon he had been stirring with at his wife, "You said it wasn't returned to London because you've kept it for the New York office. And you promised your silence."

"I promised I won't contact Peter or tell him anything," Sara raised her hands, "and I said I'd found a place for that painting in New York. It is now at the Burke's residence. I sent that painting to Elizabeth and if she'd asked some questions I would have been obliged to answer and then..." she shrugged.

"Sneaky," Neal grinned, "I like it,"

"I had to do something; you looked like a kicked puppy anytime Mozzie or I mentioned Peter,"

"I did not,"

It was the tone that told Peter otherwise and the knowledge that his friend had missed him soothed his rising disappointment over being left out. Still the discontent remained. Simmering under the surface even as he basked in the company of the friend he had believed dead. It was not until dinner was done and the young ones sleeping on the bed that Peter decided to voice the question screaming in the back of his mind.

Elizabeth and Sara ushered the two men away as they sorted the leftovers and the dishes. Peter looked to the sleeping children and smiled at June and Mozzie who were setting up a scrabble board on the rapidly clearing dining table. When he turned to look for his friend he found him having drifted out onto the terrace. Neal didn't look away from the dark cityscape; with his chin resting on his crossed arms on the high stone balustrade he made no move to acknowledge his presence as Peter approached.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter asked, "a sign, a hint, anything."

"I didn't think it would matter,"

"Wouldn't matter?" it was sharper that he had intended, "the fact that you're alive?"

Peter came to stand beside the man who had never really left his side. Leaning against the corner of the balustrade on his other side he glanced at his friend. As much as he wanted to protest and explain what it would have meant to him to know that Neal was alive, a part of him that had spent six years grieving over every perceived mistake wouldn't let him feel the indignation at the lack of explanation.

Instead Peter breathed in the night air and searched for words.

"Before you – before the Pink Panthers we were – I mean what you –" Peter shook his head.

His eyes narrowing in irritation as Neal turned his head to grin at him.

"Suddenly I have a clear understanding why Elizabeth had to hold up that sign for you," he said before the grin diminished slightly, "and you don't need to feel awkward or guilty or whatever this is. I don't blame you for responding the way you did to my actions,"

"But I –"

"No," Neal turned to him fully, "I wouldn't be Neal if I didn't do whatever I could to get you out of that situation, and you wouldn't be Peter if you didn't react the way you did to what I had done."

Peter opened his mouth and closed it, the absolution offered without being asked left him feeling a bit unbalanced. With a nod he mirrored Neal as they both turned to stare out at the night, simply letting the comfortable silence sink in. But something would not let Peter's mind to rest, it were his instincts that always held him back from getting lulled into security whenever it came to Neal.

"What I said, before I knew what you had done. When I came to you that night with the new anklet –"

"You said nothing wrong,"

"No but it must have hurt and then at the office after everything was out in the open –"

"Why are you digging this up?" Neal turned to him, his smile too wide to be real, "really Agent Burke you've changed. I miss the Peter who thumped me on the shoulder and told me to cowboy up," he tilted his head slightly towards the apartment, "fatherhood has mellowed you out. It's amazing the things it brings out in us isn't it?"

Peter looked to where Elizabeth and Sara moved around the kitchenette, he could not see the little ones asleep on the bed but he nodded all the same.

"Yes it is," he said and pointed a finger at the man before him, "and you are diverting the conversation,"

Neal shrugged; a look of mock innocence on his face even as he smiled. But Peter knew that the happiness and mischief before him was not real; he had witnessed the genuine playful Caffrey enough times to know the difference. Understanding churned with guilt at the obvious avoidance tactics of his friend.

"It was because of that isn't it?" he asked, "You didn't tell me you were alive because my words hurt you,"

"Can we let this go? You know I wasn't even gonna tell Moz that I'm alive..."

"No, no I spent six years believing you were dead. You owe me,"

"Owe you?" Neal stared wide eyed.

"Yes," Peter snapped, "you need to tell me why you kept me out, was it what I said?"

"Yes Peter what you said hurt, that you couldn't get my perspective on why I had done it hurt and yes with you no longer my handler I wanted out. But that's not the reason why I didn't tell you I was alive,"

"Then why –?

"I heard alright?" Neal drew hand through his hair and turned away, "I heard. When Hagen had me decoding the map I had dropped a microphone in Mr. Rawling's pocket to know what was happening with the forged painting. I don't know if he was there with two or what happened - but I heard. I heard you talking to Jones."

Peter frowned and then it hit him...

"So why did you take Neal to the auction house in the first place?" Jones asks.

"That was a mistake."

"Listen, I wanted to ask you earlier. What happens to Neal when you leave?"

"He's the next ASAC's problem."

"You know, because I could –"

"Jones. Don't volunteer to take him on. Trust me. You'll regret it."

...His eyes widened.

Peter winced at the thought of Neal hearing him say that and knowing that Peter was talking about him behind his back. And that was the day his friend had found out the truth about Rebecca too. Peter searched for words that could take the pain away from the ones spoken so long ago. But after everything that they had been through together; for saying those words he had nothing to offer, no explanations to give. He eyed the rigid lines of his friend's back turned to him.

"I am sorry Neal," he said.

When they turned back to him the blue eyes were bright, a sheen of moisture gleaming there before Neal faced the city again. The lines of his face were sharper in an attempt to keep his emotions in check. Peter stepped forward but stopped in his tracks when a soft chuckle came from the man before him.

"I didn't tell you I'm alive because I was afraid that you'd be disappointed," Neal let go a bitter laugh that sent a shiver down Peter's spine, "as pathetic as it may seem I don't think I'd be able to bear that,"

Peter stepped closer and placed an arm around Neal's shoulders. He could feel his friend tense but let his instincts guide him as he had done every time he had to deal with an upset Mitchell. And when Neal turned to him in surprise he pulled him close into a hug, his other hand coming to the back of the younger man's head.

"Peter –?"

"I would never, no matter what you do, I would never be glad to see you dead." Peter held on tight, "You hear me? I missed you buddy; you have no idea how much I missed you. I was angry and torn and raw when I said that and I shouldn't have said it still. I'm sorry Neal,"

It took long seconds, the words hanging in the air as the rigidness in his friend thawed, the stiffened pull to slip out of his hold loosened until Neal melted against him. Peter swallowed the lump in his throat when the younger man finally raised his arms and hugged him back; nodding slightly against Peter's shoulder even as his breath hitched a little. Peter felt his own eyes fill up with tears that had done nothing to sooth the wound of his loss in the past years...

"We're gonna get you out of this." Peter tells him.

"I don't think so."

"Don't. Don't say that."

"You're the only one who saw good in me."

"Stop it Neal."

"You're my best friend."

...but Peter hadn't gotten to reply to that, the stretcher was heaved in and the ambulance' doors closed and he hadn't been able to tell the younger man just what he meant to him. He hadn't been able to the man of the place he held in Peter's life, the space he had occupied in in the very heart of the FBI Agent. If Neal had died, truly died, Peter shuddered to think it would have been with the thought that Peter was better off with him gone.

His hold on his friend tightened imperceptibly, fingers tangling in the dark hair where his hand rested on the back of his friend's head.

"We're family kid," Peter's voice came out hoarse, "you and I, we may not share parents and we may not have grown up together but we're brothers. You gotta know that Neal,"

He felt rather than heard the sharp inhale from the younger man in his grasp.

"Okay, okay," Neal said.

Clutched him back in a fierce hold before he pulled away, wiping at his eyes as he refused to look Peter in the face. Giving his friend the dignity of silence to gather his wits again Peter stepped back slightly. They stood leaning against the balustrade until Mozzie stepped onto the terrace. Setting a bottle of wine, two beers and two glasses on the table he sat down in one of the chairs.

"The ladies have gone downstairs for coffee," he said.

And Peter had a feeling that Neal was thankful for the reprieve Mozzie's presence offered. It was clear in the way he hurried over to pour himself a glass of wine even before the smaller man could reach for it. With a chuckle at the surprise on Mozzie's face Peter settled in the chair, leaving the one between them for Neal. He waited for his friend to get comfortable before he broached the next burning question.

"How did you make it back?" Peter asked.

"I made a deal with the FBI,"

"What sort of a deal?"

"The change of identity to Victor Neal Moreau would become legal, Neal Caffrey remains dead and I get my life back."

"Like Witness Protection without the Marshalls," Peter nodded.

"And my choice where I get to live and for how long," Neal added.

It was the ideal offer, for Neal to get the freedom he had worked for and to break away from the life he had lived completely. But Peter knew such a deal would require an equal level of payback, he was half afraid to ask the next question.

"At what cost?"

"Yes Neal why don't you tell him?" Mozzie asked; "Regale him with the half-baked plan and the frightening tale,"

"It was not half-baked and not that frightening,"

"Not from where I was standing mon frère," Mozzie said.

Peter noticed how the eyes behind the spectacles hardened, how the fingers holding the wine glass tightened their grip as Mozzie stared into the red liquid as if it held the secrets of one of his conspiracy theories. Whatever it was it had shaken the man and Peter could only watch as Neal grasped his friend's arm to get his attention.

"It couldn't have been half-baked, you helped me plan it Moz," he smiled.

Mozzie nodded and raised a finger to make his point.

"I was thoroughly apposed of the entire idea and I was blackmailed of the emotional kind," he said.

Peter took a mouthful of his beer feeling that he would need it in his system for whatever explanation that was coming. Sitting forward in his chair he looked from a calming Mozzie to Neal. His friend poured some more wine in the two glasses before picking up his own.

"The Phantom," he said, "I met him in London, formed a plan to lure him to the U.S and into the hands of the FBI,"

Peter coughed, set the bottle down on the table and pressed a hand to his chest. His throat burned but it didn't stop his voice.

"What?"

"The Phantom, the one the Violent Crimes had been looking for –"

"I know who we're talking about," Peter cleared his throat, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "what the hell were you thinking involving yourself in his affairs?"

"It had to be something worth much to the FBI for the deal I wanted," Neal shrugged, "I had faked my death so the contract they signed wasn't going to hold to keep me free,"

But Peter was looking to Mozzie now, he remembered the day the man had come to visit him, remembered the exhaustion and the haunted look that had been in his eyes. By the way Mozzie offered him a sharp nod it was clear he knew what the FBI agent was thinking.

"You said you were coming from D.C," Peter said, "the legal work you had to get back to,"

"I was making sure everything was in place for the deal,"

"You went to Peter?" Neal half chuckled, "you two bonding behind my back again?"

"It was a difficult time. I sought the company of the man who would understand the pain of losing you."

The abrupt honesty from the smaller man silenced both of them. Until Neal shrugged and offered one of his trademark grins.

"You didn't lose me –"

"I had been at your funeral once, I had cried over your cold dead body and I had very nearly gone through it all over again," Mozzie's tone was sharp.

"Moz –"

"Again?" Peter asked.

"Yes, once was not enough apparently," Mozzie took a sip from his glass, "I had spent half a year watching him execute our plan and then everything went to hell. He wouldn't let Sara get to D.C until everything was settled but I was there," he looked to Neal, "I was there when they found you, I saw the – and then at the hospital," Mozzie shook his head, "the entire next week in the hospital I spent wondering if you would survive to even enjoy the damn deal you had worked for."

"Mozzie, Moz I'm fine, I'm right here," Neal grasped his arm and ducked his head a bit to catch his gaze, "We made it thanks to you."

"I –"

"Yes you, you were there to get the deal instated when I couldn't Moz. You made sure they didn't go back on their word when I was too far gone to hold them to it." Neal said, "Thank you,"

And Peter found his gaze drawn to the faint pink scar circling Neal's wrist where his cuff had pulled up. It surprised him that he hadn't noticed it before. Neal had rolled up his sleeves the entire time he had been preparing dinner and Peter hadn't even noticed the marks then. He shook his head slightly at the sheer force of Neal Caffrey's charm that hid any signs of weakness even if it they were in plain sight. But as he pulled his focus away Peter found himself looking at the portion of a similar pink rope burn on his friend's neck where Neal's collar had shifted.

Blue eyes turned to him and Neal stilled, shifted slightly in his seat under the studying look until Peter looked up to catch his gaze. For the first time since he had known him Neal looked away and down, the flash of vulnerability that skittered across his face had Peter reaching out to lay a hand at the nape of his neck. He mused if he felt the scar under his touch but didn't linger on it as he gave his friend gentle squeeze.

"It was your fault I went to the Suit anyway," Mozzie said.

"Mine?" Neal looked up.

He neither resisted nor shifted away from Peter's grasp.

"You practically hammered the need in my subconscious," Mozzie said, "what with you asking for Peter in your bouts of delirium and insisting that he would find you during those waking nightmares or asking if he had safely gotten away –"

"Moz!"

"What?" the smaller man looked miffed.

"You don't – just don't," Neal poured him some more wine, "just stop with the overload of information,"

Peter's grasp on his friend tightened slightly before his hand shifted up to ruffle the hair at the back of his head. He swallowed back the prickly knot in his throat and wished he had been there, if only to help the man through whatever condition he had found himself in at the hands of the Phantom. Neal had been there in D.C, he had been so close and Peter had no idea - he reached for his beer with a shaky hand and took a sip. The thought of his friend going after the murderer alone was igniting every latent protective instinct that played up whenever Neal was involved.

"It was a huge risk," he murmured.

"I had my reasons,"

"Yeah?"

Neal's gaze went to the apartment before him, traveling over to the side where the bed was and although he couldn't see it Peter was sure he was picturing the children asleep there. When he looked at Peter there was a firmness in his presence, a steadiness in his eyes that left Peter surprised.

"I don't want them to grow up and wonder what sort of a man their father is," Neal said, "I want them to know Neal George Bennett, Danny Brooks, Neal Caffrey and Victor Neal Moreau. One day I'll tell them all the good and the bad and I hope they can find their father a decent man,"

Peter refused to acknowledge the burning in his eyes.

Ignored the sound of Mozzie clearing his throat.

"They will," Peter said, and the conviction in his words was not a lie.

None of them mentioned the man who had left a deep enough mark in Neal's thoughts to push him into considering what his children would think of a father whose past was shrouded in mystery. Peter finished his beer in silence as Mozzie divided the last of the wine between the two glasses. Putting his empty bottle on the table Peter sat back.

"You said reasons," he said, "what's the other one,"

"I think I've told you that one already," Neal glanced at him, "something I was going to tell you at an airstrip years ago,"

It was the airstrip Peter wouldn't forget even if he wanted to. He remembered the curiosity for the words Neal had been about to say before the concussive force had drowned them. And he remembered weeks later when his friend had offered him those words not spoken...

"There's something you should know. When we were at the hangar that day before everything happened,.I was gonna tell you something."

"What?"

"I didn't wanna run anymore. If I had gotten on that plane, regardless of whatever deal was made it wouldn't have felt like freedom."

"Why?"

"Because it was an escape. You're right Peter. I have a life here."

...grinning slightly Peter reached for the second bottle of beer and twisted the top open. The night breeze was warm, signaling the change of seasons as he breathed easy for what seemed like the first time in a long while. With a heart much lighter than it had been in years he raised the bottle in a toast.

"To old friendships," he said.

"To a better future," Mozzie raised his glass.

Neal's gaze went from one man to the other before he raised his glass too.

"To the hard fought for present," he smiled.

"Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come." – Rumi

END

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