Act IV.

In front of June's house, there are two ambulances parked haphazardly. FBI and other law enforcement members swarm all around the street, heedless of the rain that's still steadily pouring; it's raining cats and dogs and the street is a riverbed, but within the loud grumbling of the weather, chaos is undisturbed.

Neal's sitting at the back of one of the ambulances. June is in the other one.

Peter continuously goes back and forth between the two of them, pacing restlessly. He doesn't even seem to notice that he's soaked to the bone, splashing water all around as he moves with harsh strides. One moment he's with June, searching her pale face, asking the paramedic about her blood pressure, dissatisfied with the simple fact that June isn't hurt at all. Then, he's at Neal's side, looking over with a deep frown as the latter's face scrunches in pain, fingers gripping the edge of the seat until his knuckles turn white as the EMTs treat the bullet wound on his arm.

Peter seems to be still high on adrenaline.

"Damn it, Neal," he mutters, for probably the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes, running a hand through his sodden hair. He doesn't even seem to notice that he's speaking.

"Will you give it a rest already?" Neal snaps irritably, hissing as the paramedic presses down the gauze to stop the bleeding.

"Give it a rest– do you have any idea," Peter counters, one hand on his hip, "how worse this could've gone down?"

"Yeah, Peter; I do have a pretty good idea," Neal shots back. He glares at Peter, who has finally stopped his pacing and is standing under the pouring rain. Peter looks at him for a moment, and then, releases a huge breath; approaches, and slowly sits down next to his partner under the protective shelter of the vehicle.

"I know," he sighs, sounding spent. "I know, Neal. I'm sorry."

Neal looks over him. "This would have gone worse if it weren't for June."

"Yeah," Peter agrees readily. His eyes are watching Neal like a hawk, as though he can't take his eyes off of his partner; the need to make sure he's okay is all too apparent, and Neal subtly looks away from Peter's protective glance. His teeth are clenched, but it's obvious he's trying not to let his discomfort show.

In the silence, Peter's brow slowly creases.

"How did you not recognize Lenart?" he questions slowly. Neal's eyebrows shoot up.

"Yeah- did he say anything? 'Cos I still have no idea who he is."

"Really, Neal. Honestly, you have no idea?"

"What?" Neal counters, an air of complete innocence on his face, "you of all people know about my deeds—alleged ones," he adds quickly. "You expect me to have a visual library in my head of all the people I've allegedly wronged?"

Peter blinks. "Well. Yeah."

Neal hisses again, though it's not clear if it's directed at Peter or the paramedic working on his arm.

"So Lenart didn't say."

"He did. Samson&Charles." Peter pauses. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Ah." Recognition flashes across Neal's face. "Benjamin Lenart – no wonder I don't recognize him. I'd never met the man."

Peter looks from side to side. "Is there an explanation somewhere in there?"

"Lenart was the heir of Samson&Charles," Neal says vaguely. "They went bankrupt after someone forged Samson's signature to – ah – donate a good amount of money to some sort of – charity."

He clears his throat, and deliberately averts his gaze.

Peter simply shakes his head. "No wonder he's holding a grudge."

"I know," Neal admits quietly.

Before Peter has a chance to continue interrogating Neal about Lenart and the company that's gone bankrupt, June comes over to them. There's an umbrella in her hand, a worried frown on her face. She's just a bit pale, just a little shaken, but she holds herself as gracefully as she always does.

She directly looks to the paramedic treating Neal's arm.

"How bad is it?"

"It doesn't look deep," the man responds. "The bullet's ripped through the skin; doesn't look like it needs surgery. It'll need to be stitched once we stop the bleeding."

"Damn, I hate hospitals," Neal mutters behind clenched teeth. It earns him a glare from June, and Peter rolls his eyes. Then, he turns to June.

"June," he starts, shaking his head, "for what's it's worth… I'm sorry about the way things went down."

"Well," June breathes, lifting her shoulders as though she's cold, "let's all be glad that Lenart's aim wasn't any better." She smiles tensely, putting a hand on Neal's knee. Neal shakes his head.

"We should have never agreed to let you do this."

"Oh, be quiet," June chastises, "you've got your man, and this has been a lesson to me. I really am too old for this kind of thing."

"I don't know about that," Peter say with the hint of a smile on his lips, "but you definitely deserve an Oscar."

"Amen," Neal agrees, nodding. "You were amazing, Mrs. Fey."

"Come now," June mutters, but she's smiling. "I have to admit, though, it felt nice to be doing this again."

"Do I even want to know the previous roles you played?"

"Oh, you, Agent Burke, should come to my house for dinner, bring your lovely wife with you, too, and I'll tell you about the time Byron and I were Sir and Lady Hartley of Nottingham-"

"Oh dear."

They laugh, and the curtain goes down.

When she was a little girl, June dreamed of being an actress.When she grew up and met Byron, her dream came true. No; she never saw herself on the silver screen, never heard the applause of wild crowds, never received flowers and letters from fans or gave out autographs. But now, as an old woman, she sits at the head of her dining table, with Neal, Mozzie, Peter and Elizabeth, and knows that she's had it much better than an actress.

With Mrs. Fey, she's got her proverbial Academy Award.

Byron used tell her that 'the con must go on'. June would always counter by saying it had to end one day.

In her jubilee, she declares that Mrs. Fey was her one last role.

A/N: Thank you for reading.