Elizabeth returned home to find Neal passed out on the couch, his feet pinning her husband beneath them as he channel surfed on the muted television. There was a box of half-eaten cupcakes on the coffee table, and an empty mug beside it. The unusual scene looked like the aftermath of a frat party at a cooking school. She smiled and reached for the coffee mug.

"Refill?" she asked her husband.

"Yes, please," Peter replied, giving her a warm smile. "How was your meeting?"

He heard El sigh loudly in the kitchen. "Completely unproductive. One of the ladies at work got her engagement photos back, and she brought all these color swatches and things for the wedding," she trailed off to the sound of liquid pouring.

"I can see how that could be distracting," he agreed.

"Derailed our whole agenda," she confirmed, presenting him with the mug. "What do you think: cornflower blue and eggshell white, or lavender and buttercup yellow?"

Peter scowled. "Now you're derailing me," he joked, sipping the steaming brew.

"Blue's classic," Neal muttered, waking. "Looks good against a fair complexion."

"That's what we decided," Elizabeth said softly, smoothing the con man's hair. "How are you feeling, sleepyhead?"

He yawned dramatically. "About as well as can be expected, I guess."

Peter shot him a cautionary look. "Don't lie to my wife, Neal," the agent warned. "You have to tell us if your head hurts so we can give you the painkillers."

"Fine, it hurts," the younger man admitted finally. He extended his palm for the pills.

Peter produced the child-proof bottle from his pocket. "More or less than before?" he inquired.

"Bout the same," Neal replied. Peter shook the pills out into the con artist's hand, and Elizabeth offered him a glass of cold water to swallow them. "You wanna check my heart rate next, Dr. Burke?"

The agent rolled his eyes. "Do I need to?" he was concerned despite his consultant's sarcastic tone.

"Relax, Peter. I feel fine, except for the throbbing in my skull." He rubbed his scalp gingerly.

"Uh-uh, Neal," Elizabeth interrupted, pulling his hands away. "You'll pull out your stitches!" She carefully parted his hair to inspect the wound. "Oh, Peter, get me some gauze from the first aid kit – he's bleeding."

Neal sat up as she pressed the gauze to the back of his head. "Stay still and don't bleed on my sofa," Elizabeth instructed.

"I'd listen to her," Peter seconded, sitting back down.

The con man smiled weakly. "Sorry," he muttered. He replaced El's hand with his own, keeping the pressure firmly on the gauze.

"It's only a little blood," she reassured him. "The stitches are still there."

"Good, 'cause I'm not taking him back to the hospital unless he's dying," jested Peter.

The joke earned him a smirk from his CI. "Thanks," Neal retorted, his tone sarcastic.

"You think I'm kidding – ask Hughes about your insurance deductible sometime," the older man replied.

"How many near-death experiences am I allowed per year?" the con artist queried, his lip twisted in a crooked half-smile.

"None," the agent replied sternly. "And don't be so melodramatic – I would hardly call this a near-death experience."

"Fine," continued Neal. "An occupational accident, then?"

Peter considered this with a furrowed brow. "That's more accurate, I suppose," he concluded finally. "No more of those, either."

"I'll see what I can do," the younger man resumed his sarcastic façade. He lowered the gauze from his head. Elizabeth reached out to grab it, but Neal pulled away.

Before she could ask, Peter provided an explanation. "He doesn't want us to have his DNA," he whispered loudly. "As if the FBI doesn't already have it on file."

"One can never be too careful," the con man asserted, folding the bloodied gauze into a square and tucking it into his lapel. "I'll be burning this later."

"I'm sure you will," the older man confirmed amusedly.

Soon, silence set over the room. Peter decided to be the one to break it. "You feel up to a walk, Neal? Satch looks like he wants to go for a stroll."

Secretly suspicious, since the dog was sitting calmly by the stairs with no indications of wanting to go out, Neal nodded his assent. "Okay, let's go," he agreed. The men grabbed their coats and headed out the door, confused canine in tow.

They walked side-by-side down the block, stopping every few feet to let Satchmo sniff a fire hydrant or a mailbox or a lamp post.

"You don't need to make excuses to talk to me alone, Peter," Neal spoke, seizing his handler's attention. "Just say whatever it is you want to say to me."

The older man sighed at his consultant's directness. "I've been thinking about your future, Neal. You've been a great help to the bureau, but none of us know what you're planning to do when the anklet comes off. We've never been sure what side you're on."

"Who says there are only two sides?" the con man misdirected. "The law sees black and white, but we both know I operate in shades of gray."

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," the agent retorted. "I know you're worried about your future, too. You can't deny how that anklet makes you feel, what it means to you!"

"I'll never be an agent, Peter – I'm a felon!" Neal shouted, the word falling disdainfully off his tongue. "And the bureau can't keep me on as a CI forever. There's no place for me in your world."

"That's not true at all," Peter said back. His voice was rising as well. "Do you know how unique you are? How valuable your skill set is?" He shook his head. "Neal, you could make thousands helping improve security systems by trying to break into them! You could give seminars to government agents on recognizing forgeries or apprehending fences! The possibilities are almost limitless!"

"So are the betrayals," the younger man whispered, dropping his head. "Do you know how many people would stop talking to me – or come after me outright?" His sincere eyes met Peter's. "I'd lose everyone and everything in my life, including my safety."

"Not everyone," the older man pointed out. "Jones and Diana will protect you. El and I will be your people."

"What about Mozzie?" Neal pleaded. "My best friend…"

The words dug into Peter's chest like the blade of a knife, hurting him in ways he had never felt before. It was as if he, his family, his coworkers, would never be enough for Neal. He had never expected Neal to say he was his best friend, but to completely deny those relationships caused the agent profound pain.

Neal realized too late what he had said. "I didn't mean that like you think I meant it," he blurted out. "You've been a really good friend, Peter, and I appreciate everything you've done for me, so much! You took me under your wing, welcomed me into your home…" he trailed off. "I'm so ungrateful," he muttered, scolding himself.

Peter said nothing, but continued to walk. "I think I should go," the con man said.

"What about your head?" the agent inquired.

"It's fine," Neal replied. "I'll call Moz." He turned and headed the other direction, returning to his apartment at June's. His cryptic friend was already inside when he opened the door.

"You look like hell," Mozzie said in greeting.

"Wake me up every hour and make sure I don't slip into a coma, please," Neal ordered, shedding his jacket and shirt and kicking his shoes off.

"Do you intend to ignore me?" the little guy asked as his friend trudged off to bed. "What's wrong – you fight with the G-man?"

"Not gonna talk about it," came a muffled voice from under the blankets.

"Talking always makes it better," Mozzie coaxed.

"Save it, Sigmund," Neal retorted. Sensing defeat, the seasoned con man plucked War and Peace from the bookshelf and read as he waited for his friend to fall asleep.