I do not own White Collar. All characters belong to Jeff Eastin and the show writers. This is the last chapter!

Neal was sitting propped against the pillows on the guest bedroom, a charcoal pencil held loosely in his fingers as he basked in the early morning sun, when Elizabeth came through the doorway holding a sheaf of papers.

"Hey, Neal. Are you busy?"

He tucked the sketchbook under a spare pillow and turned his crystalline eyes on her.

"Not at all."

"I hate to do this under the circumstances and all, but would you mind if we moved you out to the living room couch for the day? Peter wants to paint the guest bedroom today when he gets home and I figured you wouldn't want to be in here while I'm taping."

"That's alright with me." He slid out of bed slowly, picking up his sketchbook and pencils. It had been a week since he checked out of the hospital, and he was still irritatingly sore, but as long as he moved carefully, he wouldn't get tired. Elizabeth followed, picking up the still-warm duvet cover and helping him settle on the couch. He briefly wondered if she would have done this for her children, when they were home sick. She had a natural tendency to look after things. She headed back upstairs and he heard the sound of furniture being moved. He felt guilty for being unable to help.

Satchmo got up from his patch of sunlight by the back door and pressed a wet and inquisitive nose into Neal's outstretched hand, and Neal ruffled the golden fur just as Elizabeth's phone chirped on the table. She came back downstairs and disappeared into the kitchen.

"This is Elizabeth." Silence for a moment. "What? Hold on, I'll be right there."

He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, and then she appeared in the front entryway, tugging on her shoes. Satchmo abandoned his snuffling and jogged over, tail thumping the wall.

"Is something wrong?"

"What?" Elizabeth opened the closet doors. "Oh, no. Yvonne is just being a little overwhelmed by wedding guests. I'll be back in an hour, tops. I'm sorry I moved you down here for nothing."

"It's ok. The change of scenery is nice." She smiled.

"I'll let Peter know in case I'm out longer than expected. I'm sure he can take lunch." She bustled out the door, Satchmo letting out one sad little whine that he couldn't go along. Neal flipped out his sketch pad and kept working.

Half an hour later he found his eyes drifting to the cans of paint visible on the kitchen table, still sitting in their plastic shopping bag. The Burkes had decided on a cream paint, slightly darker than the existing color. If she wasn't back in the hour he might have to do something with those cans. He could finally do something for the Burkes, for taking care of him, feeding him,getting him his anti-inflammatories and painkillers on time. He hadn't painted a room in ages, or anything for that matter. His brushes and supplies were all back in his apartment. But this was Peter's project. Peter would kill him.

The temptation was nearly unbelievable.

Neal drew the brush from the bucket and pressed it to the corner, going in one flat, even stroke all the way down. The warm cream paint barely dripped down to the tape stretched carefully over the edges of the trim as he drew the edge flush with the wood, and Neal hummed under his breath as he dipped the dark bristles back into the can. As long as Peter and Elizabeth were still at work, he might as well start working on their project. It was the least he could do, if El continued not to let him help cook dinner. He was starting to be bored staying in the house all day, taking a short walk out to the street corner yesterday just for a change of scenery. At least she had already moved the bed and the dresser somewhat away from the walls so he didn't have to worry about struggling with those. He sat down on the floor, glad Peter had stopped at his place to grab him some sweatpants, and made sure the sheet plastic he had found was pressed over the carpet. Then he lost himself.

Thick, wide even strokes against the wall, careful not to drip on the trim. Soon he was done with the edgework and all the corners, the worst spots to get, and was working on the flat expanses, getting the area around a window. He had found a little stepladder in the garage, opting against the big, heavy ladder. He was carefully balanced on it, getting the top half of the wall, when a voice came from behind.

"What...the...hell…"

Neal started violently, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, and stumbled backward off the ladder, landing on his back. It wasn't high, but it still hurt.

"Jesus Christ, Neal." Someone's warm hand was on his back, and Neal blinked up to see a blue tie flapping in his face, attached to Peter's impeccably stiff collar. He sat up.

"Hey, Peter."

"Hey? Neal, what are you doing?"

Neal picked up the brush that had dropped on the plastic sheeting and looked at Peter like it was self-explanatory, even though he knew that wasn't the answer Peter wanted.

"You were at work and Elizabeth got called out to help with some event trouble, so I figured I'd give you a hand." Peter ran a hand over his face, muttering into it. It sounded something like "Trouble no matter where you are."

Neal studiously ignored this.

"Look, I just figured it would be helpful if I started in on it for you. I'm nearly done, I've just got this wall left. Besides, I thought you'd be home at lunch."

"Neal, it's 12:38." Peter held up his watch. "I think you're due for your meds and we both should eat." He stood and held out a hand. Neal took it and Peter pulled him up, opening the door. "I think it's time we had a talk."

Neal blinked, his internal alarms going off. He was too tired to think about it, though. There was some leftover pumpkin risotto in the fridge that had his name on it.

Peter got down two bowls, opening the refrigerator and taking out the container of risotto from Elizabeth's last catering job. He dropped it in the microwave and Neal bit his tongue, avoiding pointing out the steamer.

"Sit." Peter pointed at the kitchen island and Neal slid onto the stool, wishing he had brought down his fedora from the closet so he had something to occupy his hands with. Peter braced his hands on the counter and faced Neal, looking both frustrated and vaguely fond.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine. You just surprised me. I didn't hear you come in." Peter grinned.

"That's a first. Sneaking up on Neal Caffrey." Neal halfheartedly glared at him. Peter spooned risotto into his bowl and put the two familiar tablets on the counter. Neal popped them obligingly and chewed through a mouthful of pumpkin.

"You know," Peter said thoughtfully, sitting down across from him at the island, "You do a lot of things you shouldn't, Caffrey."

Neal looked at him then, point blank.

"No shit."

"That's not what I meant. Yeah, you steal and lie-"

"Allegedly."

"Fine. You live a lifestyle you can't hope to maintain indefinitely and you live on a tether in a multi-million dollar house as an FBI consultant serving out a sentence, but those aren't even the most incredible things."

Neal was getting irritated now. "What do you want me to say, Peter? I turn it around and it still isn't enough for you?"

"What? No! Neal-"

"I'm sorry I'm not doing more to be less, Peter. That I'm living in your house and taking up your time and energy and that I got shot on your sting opp."

"Dammit, Neal!" Peter brought his hand down on the table and Neal flinched, rubbing a hand on his side a moment later, but he stopped talking.

"I meant you do a lot of good things that aren't expected of you, if you'd let me finish." Neal bit down a comment and glared at him.

"You remember anniversaries that aren't even yours, bring Jones coffee in meetings. You paint bedrooms without me asking. You even-" Peter looked at him, head on. "You grabbed me when I tripped as we were running from a gun-wielding art forger even though you could have outpaced me. That's not something people would expect from you. You are a fundamentally good person, Neal, no matter how you try to convince everyone otherwise."

Peter reached out and clamped a hand on his shoulder, and Neal felt a brief burst of pride in himself as he allowed himself a genuine smile, before immediately questioning why he felt this way about a fed and the floundering praise he delivered. His self worth must have dropped low if Peter's bumbling convictions made him content. It was a hollow attempt at convincing himself that these relationships, these people, and their praise meant nothing to him, and he brushed it off. If Peter saw good in him through his actions, then maybe he was doing something with himself other than looking for the next con or a way to toe the line. That was some freudian level thinking he'd leave to Mozzie. His sense of value was an issue for another day, and he wasn't going to analyze why the praise of a fed made him happy.

Not just a fed.

Peter.

"Fundamentally." Neal tried to brush through the moment, wiggling out from under Peter's arm and tapping a beat out on the floor with his foot.

"Well," Peter said ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, "I can't sugarcoat it all, Neal. You've done some things I can't condone, and even more I can't prove. But you have proved to Hughes, Elizabeth, and myself that you are capable of good actions and have helped us run smoother with the knowledge you provide. I may not always know what you're doing or thinking, but I can promise you I will always trust your judgement and you will always have value."

Neal blinked away a sudden wetness in his eyes and gazed studiously at the counter.

"You're the only one to see that in me, Peter." He met the agent's surprised gaze. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Neal."

A hand reached out and ruffled his hair, and Neal scraped out the last spoonful of risotto before rising and rinsing out his bowl.

"How about we finish painting that room so Elizabeth has a surprise?"

Neal grinned at Peter. "That sounds awesome, but you might want to change first."

"What?" Peter looked down. "Oh. Enjoying the irony, are we?"

Neal snickered and headed for the stairs.

Three weeks later, Peter found a large white envelope lying flat on his desk when he came in to work. His head immediately went up to locate Neal, finding the consultant pouring himself a cup of coffee and chatting up an intern. Peter shook his head as he slit the side open and pulled out a painstaking pencil sketch of a photo El had taken. In it, Peter and Neal sat side by side on the couch, case filed spread out on the coffee table and suit jackets folded over the arm of the sofa. The artist had inscribed a single sentence at the bottom of the page, and Peter propped it up against the picture of El on his desk to catch the tiny printing in the light.

You saw the good.

Fin.