Blinking in the early dawn, Neal eyed the skylight above his bed and made a face. The sun was just starting to come up, but he could see the other face staring back at him. He had hoped that when he saw it watching him last night that he was either mistaken or that it would somehow disappear during the night. But no, it was still there.

He had no love of pigeons and had eagerly offered to chip in on the cost when June told him last week that she had hired a falconer to come and help clear the house's eaves of the nasty creatures. They left a mess on the porches, steps and in the garden and with her granddaughter and dog playing on all those areas, she was tired of it. In truth, so was Neal. The pleasure of sitting out on his balcony in the early spring mornings had been overly dangerous for the last couple of weeks and after one near miss, he had even contemplated fake owl statues, as tacky and inefficient as they were. Now, it seemed that the pigeons were getting the last laugh as the head of one of their dearly departed was caught on the edge of the glass, mocking him with its dead eyes.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he padded across the room toward the bathroom, unable to enjoy staying in bed any longer under the reproachful glare. It was Saturday morning and he had the entire day ahead of him, no place to be and no one who he had to account to for his actions and now he had a head to dispose of. He laughed, as he pictured telling Peter and Elizabeth how he had spent his Saturday and idly wondered if it was too melodramatic or a fitting end to Friday's massacre to mix up a small bit of concrete and drop the head into the East River.

An hour later, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt he normally painted in and sneakers, he slowly walked around the wall rising up from the patio, studying the stones. There was an access ladder in his apartment but that led to a totally different and unconnected part of the roof and there was no way across to the skylight over his bed. The thought of going all the way down to the basement on the off chance June had a ladder that would reach was unappealing and he doubted she had one that tall. Kicking off his shoes, he smiled slowly as he stood on tiptoe and placed his fingertips into two stone crevices. With a quick breath, he lifted himself up, his toes finding their own holds six inches off the terrace. Previous memories of climbs – some up, some down, some both, all mostly in the dark – flooded his mind and muscles and he laughed out loud.

He was still grinning fifteen minutes later, standing perched on the edge of the roof, panting slightly from the exertion and sheer joy of the experience. The view was amazing – even better than from the terrace thirty feet below him. Turning, he carefully continued the climb up the roof tiles, using the metal slate brackets as finger and toe holds. The angle wasn't too bad, certainly easier than the straight up climb of the wall and he was up at the peak in five minutes. Carefully standing up and surveying the area, he fought the urge to yell at the top of his lungs in sheer joy. The sense of happiness and weightlessness was almost overwhelming and he felt his eyes prickle slightly with tears. The last months had been among the hardest of his life, easily as hard as his first year in prison. But unlike prison, where he could get lost in the routine boredom, now each day felt like a new challenge, an ongoing struggle. A struggle at first to simply Be Good and Do the Right Thing, and now in addition to those, some days there was the struggle simply to get out of bed and keep the mask firmly in place all day, the mask that allowed others to relax and not worry. Kate had been dead for over three months now, he had been back at work for almost two months, back to his routine and yet, most days still felt like a struggle. Every new day was a challenge.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the growing dark thoughts, he instead focused on the current struggle and challenge: figuring out a way down to the skylight. He grinned as he remembered other jobs and plotted his route.

OooOoo

"Is he asleep?" Elizabeth whispered, tiptoeing into the living room the next evening.

Moving quietly, Peter leaned forward and looked at Neal stretched out on their sofa. His face was half turned into a throw pillow, cutting off part of Peter's view, but hands were relaxed, resting on his stomach. Long weeks of watching the younger man pretend to sleep, fitfully sleep and at least somewhat peacefully sleep had given him a good foundation to answer the question. He nodded and then held open his arms for her to settle onto his lap.

She sighed as he kissed her neck. "I'm glad he's asleep," she said softly.

Peter smiled, "Our bedroom has a door, you know."

Elizabeth shook her head. "It's not that, but that is an appealing idea in a bit." She looked at the younger man for a minute before continuing, "He just looks tired still and too thin. I don't think he's eating or sleeping enough. He's put on a bit of the weight he lost before, but not enough."

"He's an adult, honey. He has his own life and we're doing everything possible to help. But it's just going to take time."

"I know," she said with a quiet sigh. "It'll get better."

"Yeah, it will," he agreed.

Standing up, she quietly picked up a small blanket from the open bin by the fireplace. Unfolding it, she gently spread it over Neal, holding her breath as he sighed slightly, but didn't wake up. She turned to Peter, stepping back to him as he stood up. "That's an improvement," she said with a satisfied smile.

Peter glanced at him and saw he was still fast asleep and nodded. "Told you, it just takes time." Elizabeth had done the same thing two other times. The first time ended in complete failure with Neal waking up, panting, wide eyed and on edge. The last time, he had still woken up, but had lost the panicked look or, as Peter worried about, was able to hide it as the con man in him slowly rebuilt his protective walls. But now, the younger man was covered against the night chill and still peacefully asleep.

OooOoo

Jerking awake two hours later, Neal stilled himself, forcing his eyes to remain closed and his breathing steady. He shifted a bit, coughed slightly to cover up any signs of actually waking up and mentally took in his surroundings. A second later, he opened his eyes and slowly sat up, glancing at the blanket. The house was dark except for a faint nightlight shining through the kitchen's frosted door and he knew that Peter and Elizabeth had gone to bed already. The clock on the TV box glowed 11:15 and he shook his head, disgusted with himself for getting too comfortable, silently vowing to be a better guest. He had come over regularly for several weeks and it was becoming a too comfortable routine. The cozy townhouse in Brooklyn was beginning to feel as much of a home as his own studio but he needed to remember that it wasn't – in fact - his home. He was only here as a guest and guests had certain obligations. Those obligations did not include falling asleep on his host's couch after dinner.

A Month Later

The first clue Peter noticed that something was going on were the scraped knuckles. It shouldn't have been – the gradual calmer air that had come over Neal in the last month should have been a bigger clue. But, like the joke about how to boil a frog – gradually and with a slow build up – the change was too gradual, over too long a time, for Peter to catch on right away. Even if he had, he probably would have assumed that the calm was a result of their new arrangement and Neal slowly but surely getting over Kate's death. As it was, he was only partially wrong.

They had just replaced Neal's tracking anklet after removing it for a case and Peter caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look – to watch.

Neal had propped his foot up on the seat of one of the conference room chairs and was readjusting his sock under the hard plastic, straightening it and making sure his pants cuff was hanging correctly. "So do you think the partner was involved," he asked Diana casually, glancing up from his foot to smile at the other agent.

She shrugged. "I don't know, but I'd guess that he knew at least."

Peter tuned out their conversation and focused on Neal's hands. Or, more specially, the two scraped knuckles on his right hand. He didn't think he had ever seen the other man with scraped knuckles or at least not without a direct tie-in to a case he had been involved with. Neal was definitely a lover, not a fighter. Making a mental physical assessment of the other man, Peter didn't see anything else that was out of place and Neal certainly wasn't acting like he was in pain, not that that was any sort of reassurance. There was no doubt in Peter's mind that Neal would smile and say he was "Fine!" with four broken ribs or a compound fracture hidden under his suit. But watching him move easily convinced Peter far more than any words could do. Mentally filing it away in the Suspicious Things To Keep An Eye On category, Peter turned back to the conversation flowing around the conference room.

"I think he was in it from the start," Neal was saying. "When you look at the access times of the computer files, it doesn't seem like the work of one person."

Diana nodded, "If so, I bet Crafton cuts a deal and turns on him. No honor among thieves."

Neal laughed and gave a small shrug. "Among some at least." Sitting down finally at the table, he glanced at her, "Some of the people I know wouldn't turn on their worst enemies while others would sell out their mothers for the right deal." He grinned and gave another small shrug. "Of course, their mothers would also sell them out – do what you know, I guess." He blinked and smiled again. "That's why you always have to be careful with who you trust, who knows what's going on and where things are."

Peter watched him, seeing the smile falter for a half second and thinking over Neal's file. The conman had always been a loner, hooking up with teams or other operators for single jobs, but never officially part of a crew. He had a few known associates, of course, but no one who was usually close enough to turn on him. Or at least, no one who would be able to turn on him without implicating themselves in a much bigger operation. Being part of a team implied trust that he didn't think the other man did easily. Closing the file, he glanced around the room. "I think the rest of this paperwork can be done tomorrow, assuming everyone is OK with that."

Diana smiled, standing up. "Without a doubt."

Pushing off from his leaning position by the window, Jones nodded. "Out by five, you're starting to spoil us, boss."

Peter laughed. "Don't get used to it – just consider it a reward for an excellent job with this case." Watching the other two agents file out of the conference room, he glanced at Neal, who was still sitting at the table. "Ready to go?"

Neal glanced at him as he stood up. "Sure." Grabbing the legal pad he was using to make notes on, he hesitated for a second, opening his mouth and seeming to catch himself, closing it. "Meet you at the elevators in a few minutes?"

Peter nodded as he gathered his files to carry them back to his own office. He had noticed Neal's hesitation and smiled to himself with the other man resisted asking the question he knew was going through his head. A quick stop in the bathroom and he meet the other man patiently waiting by the elevators.

Neal laughed. "You know, I've always been curious if the water pressure of cities drops as everyone goes to the bathroom right before starting their evening commute. Just think of all the toilets flushing, sinks going, all at the same time. It's got to be a major pull. "

"Yeah," the other man said, with a smile and a shake of his head, "I think I can honestly say I've never thought about it."

He shrugged, "Bet you will now though."

Peter laughed, stepping into the elevator. "And I'll have you to thank for that."

"Always glad to help."

Unlocking the car remotely a minute later and sliding inside, Peter glanced over and nodded. "You did good today. Excellent work figuring out the log in issue."

Neal gave him an honest smile. "Thanks. Once I noticed the times and thought about it, it seemed sort of easy to see that they had altered the internal clocks, sort of like running a phantom day light savings program. Once they could go back in time, they could set up alibis and point the suspicion to someone else." Snagging a straw wrapper out of the cup holder, he idly played with it as the car pulled out of the garage. He opened his mouth and then quickly closed it, turning to look out the window instead. The straw wrapper bent and folded into a complex shape almost without his conscious notice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched him. He knew he could say something to put an end to Neal's unease, but they had talked about this routine several times and had followed it faithfully twice a week for two months. Now, it was simply something the other man was going to have to learn to trust and that was an internal problem. He heard a very faint sigh as he turned onto the bridge heading into Brooklyn and glanced over at his friend.

Neal glanced at him and gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. "I didn't ask," he said softly.

Reaching out, the other man resting his hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. "I noticed and I'm more proud of that fact than I am on how you did on this case."

"Really? Why?" he asked, puzzled.

Peter smiled. "The case you could probably do in your sleep, probably have thought of the same scheme yourself before." He chuckled when he saw Neal give a noncommittal shrug. "Not asking though … trusting … that's a new skill set, I think."

Neal glanced at his friend again, but remained silent, thinking about the words. "You think Elizabeth will be home already or are we in charge of cooking?" he asked, finally breaking the silence and moving back into safe territory.

Peter shrugged, allowing the conversation's topic to be changed and not pushing. "I'm not sure, but if she's not home, I'll give her a call. I know she was putting something in the crock pot when I was leaving this morning. Something with chicken."

"Something with chicken …" Neal said, "you know, you're just such a keen observer."

Glancing over, Peter smirked, "That's why I get paid the big bucks."

"More than me," Neal countered.

Peter laughed, "Well, being out of the work force most of your adult life does tend to limit the pay raises." Catching Neal's start of a protest, he quickly added, "Honest work force."

Next to him, the other man shrugged. "Excitement, travel, interesting people, interesting places versus a set 3% raise every year putting in time behind a desk …" He smiled. "Hard choice there, Peter."

OooOoo

Dinner turned out to be lemon chicken, rice and green beans and the evening passed uneventfully with the three of them sitting around the dining room table chatting about the day, upcoming events that Elizabeth was working on and plans for the weekend.

Taking a sip of her wine, she glanced over at Neal, "Do you know much about the Rockport Gallery down in the meatpacking district?"

He grinned. "I've heard that allegedly on the second floor, the third window from the west corner of the building isn't tied in with the security system because the tech cut the wire too short and was afraid to tell his boss."

Peter groaned, making a mental note to tell the gallery tomorrow. "You know, those sort of things could be shared at any time. You don't have to wait to be asked."

Neal smiled at him, "I don't know anything for a fact. I'm just repeating what I've been allegedly told. You don't want me repeating every little rumor I hear, do you?"

Elizabeth laughed, glancing between the two men. "What I meant was more along the lines of, do you know the owner? Clients? I've been asked to bid on a job for them, but no one I know has worked with them and some of their art is rather … unique. I'm not sure if it's exactly the right fit for Burke Premier Events."

"Unique how?" Peter asked, his voice cautious.

"Last year, when they opened, their big exhibit was a collection of taxidermy," Neal said, making a face.

She shook her head. "Nothing that extreme right now."

Peter shrugged. "Not my thing, but a lot of people have deer heads and whatnot on their walls."

"Yeah, but this was like …" the other man paused, trying to think of a good example. "This was like the body of a fish with the head of a rabbit and antlers from a deer. Very bizarre stuff – the artist said he was making a statement about the inter-connectivity of all species. He did all the killing, stuffing and mounting himself supposedly."

The other man shook his head, turning to his wife. "Not that I would ever tell you not to take a job, but …"

She smiled, reaching out and touching his hand. "Don't worry, honey, I was thinking of passing anyway."

OooOoo

Rinsing the last of the dishes thirty minutes later, Elizabeth glanced at her husband. "Neal seems good tonight," she said easily.

He nodded, leaning back against the counter as he dried several forks. "We had a good day and caught a major break on a case because of him."

"I was thinking more personally," she said with a smile. "He's eating better than a couple of weeks ago and he seems more relaxed, but he still looks tired."

Peter nodded, thinking back to his friend's behavior. "Yeah, I think he is more relaxed finally. He's starting to lose that tightness he's had since Kate died." He glanced around the kitchen, "I think this is a big part of it. You, this routine, everything. Tonight, finally - for the first time since he moved back to June's - he didn't ask if he was still invited to dinner, act too surprised when I brought him back here, or make a comment about going to June's after work."

She smiled, turning toward him "Excellent – a trifecta." Handing him the last plate to dry, she shook her head. "It's about time though; we've been doing this for two months now."

Her husband laughed, taking the plate from her, "Two months is excellent for Neal, I think."

"Well, I'm just happy he's stopped lurking on the sidewalk on Sundays now. It was making the neighbors nervous."

Drying the plate slowly, he nodded. "Yeah, slowly, but surely. Give him another six months and he'll actually start to believe he's welcome." Glancing up as the back door opened, Peter shook his head and said dryly, "Perfect timing. The dishes are all done and this is the last to be dried."

Neal gave an honest smile. "Elizabeth told me to take the Satch for a walk and that you didn't need help with the dishes." He glanced between them as his smile widened. "Plus, gives you a chance to talk about me."

"You're not the center of the universe, people aren't always talking about you," Peter said automatically.

"Ears burning?" Elizabeth said a half second after her husband and then laughed. Giving the younger man an embarrassed smile, she winked. "If we're talking about you, it's all good."

The younger man laughed again. "Oh yeah, I'm sure that Peter has nothing but good things to say about me. Ever."

"If you'd ever behave," the other man countered, "that would be true, but …."

Neal laughed, bending down to unhook the dog's leash, "Until then …." There was no anger or accusation in his voice, just simple good humor at the established joke and teasing. "I'm going to take my coat upstairs so you both can finish your conversation, whatever it was about."

They ended up in the living room fifteen minutes later, PBS's Mystery on the TV. Elizabeth had claimed the chair, the coffee table pulled up in front of her while she sorted through menus and ads sent to her company from various caterers. It was chore she had to do ever few weeks or the pile got so big it was overwhelming. Peter and Neal sat on the couch together watching the show and discussing how the FBI handled things different than Interpol. Or, more accurately, as Peter discussed and Neal quietly filed away the information for future use.

"Interpol always seemed like they were slightly overwhelmed," Neal commented. "Not bad or worse than the FBI, but you're dealing with so many different countries, so many different cultures. And it just doesn't seem like any police force is too interested in sharing, no matter what the brochures say."

Peter glanced at him. "They have a nice little file on you, you know."

Neal shrugged. "Didn't help, did it?" Then he laughed. "And besides which, everything in there is alleged. I'm innocent of everything they might possibly suspect me of." Looking down at the sofa for a minute, he looked back up and grinned, "You know, Lyon is a nice enough town, I took a tour of their headquarters one time."

Peter swore under his breath and shook his head.

"It was interesting and completely above board - me, several families and a nice tour group from Omaha!" Neal protested with a laugh. "Besides which, it was winter and after a month of museums and churches, I needed a change of pace."

Reaching over, Peter tapped him on the head. "And the best idea that this brain could come up with was taking a tour?"

He shrugged and then grinned. "I bet you'd like it. I haven't been to France in almost five years – I'm a wonderful tour guide. Maybe …"

"Watch the show," Peter ordered with a shake of his head, interrupting, "and don't even think about it."

"But …"

Peter held up his hand, cutting off the other man, "Enough talking. I really don't need more stress because of you."

"Neal," Elizabeth said, looking up from her paperwork, "please don't give Peter an ulcer."

He smiled at her, "I was just suggesting a nice vacation in France."

"Oh, France would be nice," she said, grinning. "I haven't been in ages."

Peter shook his head and glared slightly at his wife. "Don't encourage him, honey."

She laughed and turned back to her paperwork.

"Lyon is really nice," he said, turning back to Peter. "It's cool on its own and sort of in the center of everywhere, plus wonderful food. There's this great restaurant that even you would like. Like two blocks off the main square area so easy to find, but not overrun with tourists. You like sausage, right? They make some of the best sausage."

Glaring at him, Peter shook his head. "Watch the show," he repeated.

The younger man held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, I was just saying …"

"No."

"I'll get you some sausage for Christmas; I bet that'll change your mind."

"Yeah, you do that," Peter said, turning back to the show.

Neal glanced at Elizabeth and saw her trying not to laugh. In a faux whisper he said, "After he tastes the sausage I get him for Christmas, he'll change his mind."

Giving up the battle, Elizabeth laughed out loud. "I can't wait, sweetie." She laughed louder as Peter glared at her.

"What did I just say about not encouraging him?"

OooOoo

Putting down his book, Peter turned to his wife lying next to him in bed. "Did you notice if Neal's knuckles were scraped on Sunday?"

She glanced up from her own book. "I don't know – I just saw them tonight at dinner. I almost asked, but thought it might be something between you two."

He eyed her. "What? I'm whacking his knuckles with a ruler now or something?"

She giggled and shook her head. "No, I was thinking more a case that was a bit rougher than you told me about. I was going to ask you, but it slipped my mind until now. It doesn't look serious." Studying him, she asked, "What are you worried about, honey? I don't think they're going to get infected."

"No, it's not that …" His voice trailed off as he tried to figure out what had him worried. "I think it's just that something new or unexplained with him always puts my radar up."

"Did you ask him?"

"Do you think he'd tell me the truth?"

She shrugged. "He might, or at least give you enough of an answer to point you in the direction of the truth."

Kissing her, he picked up his book again and said, "Or at least tell me what didn't happen."

"That too."