For some reason, this last chapter was really hard to write. I plan to take my time with the next story, so don't expect anything real soon. I am working on Bonjour Encore, the sequel to Apres moi, and whatever else inspires me between now and then. Thanks for reading and reviewing. :)

Chapter Eighteen

Father Morelli wasn't normally pleased by the appearance of a person in a hospital bed, but this time was an exception. The man he now knew as Neal Caffrey looked much better sitting in one than he had lying on the cellar floor of his church.

Morelli had gotten the call from Detective Carter the day before updating him on the man's condition. When he had asked if the man was safe now, the trouble cleared up, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. A special report had broken on the news only half an hour earlier, indicating that a major criminal ring was being dismantled. Information was stretchy, the announcer had said, but the word was that the FBI, in a joint operation with the NYPD, had taken down some key player in an organized crime ring. The case was still developing with several arrests being made and additional ones expected.

Father Morelli had been forced to smile when a great deal of credit had been given to the NYPD, in particular, the OCCB, for their part in the operation. Father Morelli didn't know much, but from what he had heard in the basement of the church, he was well aware that the NYPD had not been a part of the original operation. Nothing had been said about Mr. Caffrey's role, but of course Father Morelli hadn't expected there to be.

Caffrey was propped up on pillows, chatting with a rather pretty young lady in printed scrubs who had come to remove his tray. When she turned away tray in hand and saw Father Morelli, a small blush stole across her face. With a word of subdued greeting, she exited the room, and Father Morelli stepped in to officially introduce himself to the young man. Even though Caffrey wasn't a member of his church, somehow he felt a responsibility for him all the same. Maybe it was the numerous prayers he had sent up on his behalf, but for some reason, he felt his work with the young man was not finished. He hoped a visit with him would put his mind at ease and allow him to put the incident behind him.

"Father Morelli." The man greeted him as he entered and seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

"Mr. Caffrey," Father Morelli returned the smile and approached the bed. "It's good to see you in such good spirits."

"Call me Neal," the man replied, "Sorry I can't shake your hand, but well," His eyes were bright; so unlike Morelli remembered them. "My shaking hand is temporarily out of order."

"I'm surprised you recognize me," Father Morelli mused, "and I am pretty sure my name never came up when we met before."

"Agent Burke told me your name," the man explained, "He also told me you saved my life."

"Well, I don't think I can take that kind of credit," Morelli corrected, "I just did what you asked and called him."

The smile was small, "That translates into you saving my life. So thank you."

"You're welcome, then," Morelli said. "I'm glad you are doing well. The last time I saw you, you were in pretty bad shape. Do you remember any of it?"

"Not much," Caffrey admitted, "I kind of remembered you, but I thought I might had just imagined it. I don't normally have much contact with," the man smiled, "men of the cloth."

"That's unfortunate. Given your line of work, I would think you would seek spiritual counsel on a regular basis."

The change in the man's mood was subtle, but Morelli picked up on it. The smile remained but left the blue eyes; there was a slight tenseness in the man's body that hadn't been there before. When he spoke his tone was conversational but the earlier warmth was gone. "My line of work?"

"Working for the FBI," Morelli explained, "I saw firsthand the danger that puts you in. It never hurts to have a bit of divine intervention on your side from time to time."

His smile had its intended result; the man relaxed, and after a moment of what looked like uncertainty, he spoke:

"I have a confession to make," Caffrey smiled slightly at the phrase. "I do work for the FBI, but probably not in the way you think."

He shifted, a bit painfully by the expression on his face, and managed to kick his foot from beneath the sheet. His expression guided Morelli's eyes to his exposed ankle. Morelli had seen ankle monitors before and knew their purpose. He smiled.

"So, he does always knows where you are." At Caffrey's curious look, Morelli explained, "That's what you told me in the cellar: Peter always knows where I am."

"I was obviously mistaken that time," the man laughed, "but as a rule," he glanced at the monitor, "He does. It's kind of like a work-release program," a slight blush brought color to his face, "Instead of serving my sentence in prison, I serve it working for the FBI. Agent Burke is my handler."

Caffrey's decision to tell him his true association with the FBI was refreshing. Morelli found himself wondering why the man had been sent to prison in the first place. Of course, work-release with the White Collar Division of the FBI gave him some indication of what kind of criminal the young man had been and he must have been quite good to have been granted such an unorthodox arrangement.

"Your handler, I see," Morelli said quietly. But Agent Burke's concern for the man's well-being had been more than professional, it had been personal. He genuinely cared for this young man, and Morelli knew the feeling was mutual. He reached down and re-covered the tracking device with the sheet. "But I could tell the two of you mean a lot to one other."

"Well, yes," Caffrey's smile was easy. "He needs me to keep his closure rate up, and I need him to stay out of prison; you could say it's a mutually beneficial relationship."

The man's downplaying of the friendship puzzled Morelli until he realized the openness he had seen in him at the church was not his normal state. Since Morelli had entered, Caffrey had referred to his friend as Agent Burke; in the cellar of the church he had only been Peter.

Of course in the cellar he had been suffering from cold, blood loss and delirium. With lowered defenses, he might have shown feelings of attachment to his handler that he usually kept to himself. Now, back in control of his emotions, he seemed determined to minimize the man's importance to him. But Father Morelli knew the truth.

"It might have begun that way," Morelli watched the man closely, "but it's clearly grown beyond that. Now you are friends. Very good ones, from what I saw."

"I doubt he sees it that way," Father Morelli didn't buy Caffrey's indifference. "We work well together, but in the end, he wears a badge and me," he met Morelli's eyes, "Well, I wear a tracking device."

The man's words gave Morelli illumination. It was the role each man played that made the idea of friendship troublesome for the young man. He had seen similar dynamics when one friend was promoted over the other at a job, complicating and often straining the existing friendship. It was hard to work for a friend, knowing they had the power to take away your livelihood if you didn't live up to their expectations. This situation was even more complicated; Caffrey depended on Burke for his very freedom. An emotional attachment would only increase his feelings of dependency and be especially difficult if Burke didn't return the sentiment. That, Morelli decided, was why Caffrey resisted admitting the friendship; he wasn't sure the feeling was mutual. But Morelli knew that it was.

The friendship had been clear by Burke's treatment of Caffrey in the cellar. The concern and the gentle, almost father-like way he had spoken to the injured man showed he valued his CI for more than his criminal expertise; he valued him as a person. But it was an encounter that Caffrey didn't remember.

Maybe Caffrey wasn't the only one whose defenses had been down in the cellar. Agent Burke, shaken by the condition of his friend, may also have been more expressive than he usually was. Neither man, Morelli was coming to believe, was very open about their feelings.

Dedicated to his duty as an FBI agent, Agent Burke was one to follow protocol and obey the rules. A friendship between an FBI handler and his CI was probably discouraged; it could easily create a conflict of interest. For that reason, he was likely as troubled by the friendship as Caffrey was. What if, by some turn of events, his job dictated that Caffrey's work-release be terminated? Would he have to send a friend back to prison? Both men had a lot at stake in a friendship that, he suspected, neither man had expected.

Father Morelli was a firm believer that things happened for a reason. Somehow and for some reason, two men from very different worlds had become friends. Maybe the reason he had needed to come today was to reassure Mr. Caffrey, in a time of doubt, of that friendship.

"He sees it that way," Father Morelli said with a smile. "You might not remember when he found you in the cellar, but I was there. Even if it began a bit unconventionally and has certain complications," he hand rested on the covered tracking device, "what I saw was friendship; a mutual one. One you can trust."

The look he received was a wary one. "It's not that simple," Caffrey stated, "In my experience, trusting only leads to trouble."

"But you trust Agent Burke; you told me he was the only person you trusted," he reminded him.

"Did I?" His eyebrow rose in question, but then with a sigh, he admitted as much. "Yeah, I trust him. Even when I think I don't, somehow I still do." He laughed. "That doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"It makes sense," Morelli affirmed, "It's called faith, my friend."

The man seemed to find his words amusing but didn't share the joke. He looked at Father Morelli curiously. "Don't you think it strange that I'm friends with the man who put me in prison, or that an uptight, a rule-following FBI agent is friends with someone like me?"

"Maybe, but things happen for a reason, Mr. Caffrey. You and Agent Burke were meant to be friends and things have, perhaps even miraculously, worked out so that you could be."

"Miraculously?" Caffrey looked skeptical. "I just thought I got lucky that my file crossed his desk instead of someone else's."

"I think people give luck credit," Morelli said, "when it's due in other places."

"Neal doesn't credit luck," Peter had only caught the end of the conversation, but he was aware of the topic. "He always credits himself; you know his skill and talent." He met Neal's look with a smile before speaking to the Father. "Good to see you again, Father Morelli."

"And you, Agent Burke," Morelli replied, the two men shaking hands in greeting. "I was just about to go," he glanced at Neal, "I just stopped by to check on Mr. Caffrey here. It's good to see that he is on the way to recovery."

"Thanks to you, Father Morelli," Caffrey repeated, "and thank you for coming to visit me."

"You are welcome, son," he said, readying to make his exit. "But it's not me you need to thank," he glanced suggestively upwards. "Feel free to come by the church and this time you can come in the front door."

After Father Morelli's exit, Peter stepped over to Neal. It did his heart good to see him looking so much improved.

"The desk nurse told me that you'd be out of here this afternoon," Peter said. "Surgery went fine, and even after your little" he paused, "field trip to the maintenance area last night, she said you are doing well."

"I know," Neal replied, "I saw the doctor this morning." He looked at Peter thoughtfully, "He said that just three centimeters to the right and McNeely's bullet would have hit a main artery into my heart."

Peter again felt the same tightness in his chest as he had when Carter had shared that news with him the day before. It was unnerving how close he had come to losing Neal during this case, in more ways than one.

"I know, Neal, Carter told me," Peter said. "We got a lot of lucky breaks this time."

"I don't know if I would call it luck," Neal ventured.

"Of course," Peter chuckled, "Not luck but skill and talent."

"Nope," Neal shook his head, "Not that, either."

Peter's eyebrow raised in surprise. "What then?"

"Divine intervention." His voice was firm and for a moment, Peter was at a loss for words.

"Did they increase your pain medication?" Peter joked, making a gesture of checking the IV bag still hanging from the rack above Neal's bed.

"No," Neal replied, Peter's response taking some of the confidence from his voice. "But Father Morelli got me to thinking about how lucky I have been, not just with this-" he gestured to his bandaged shoulder, "-but in a lot of ways."

Peter knew to what other ways he was referring. When he had entered, he had heard Neal say that he felt lucky that his file had crossed Peter's desk; and even though Peter didn't always admit it, he felt the same way. But now Neal was thinking there had been more involved than simple luck.

"Divine intervention," Peter repeated. Then with a smile, "So, you believing in miracles now?"

"Maybe I do," Neal's tone was serious, but then a tinge of color touched his cheeks, and he looked away. "I know, you prefer your miracles with a little more smiting and lightning."

He didn't answer immediately. For things to have gone so incredibly wrong, a series of things had gone incredibly right. If not for a few miracles, Neal wouldn't be here at all. Not the least of them, in Peter's mind, was that Neal, feeling betrayed, had reached out to him instead of running away. In the absence of trust, he had relied on faith. That, truly, had been a miracle; one Peter was grateful for.

"Not this time, Neal," he reached down and ruffled Neal's less-than-clean hair affectionately, "this time, I'll gladly take my miracles anyway I can get them."