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Chapter Twenty Seven

"Peter Burke," June seemed glad to see him, but he knew the joy in her eyes was not because he was standing at her door, but because the evening before it had been her most favorite houseguest, Neal Caffrey.

"Hey, June," He replied as she stepped aside and he entered. He glanced up toward the second floor. "Is he here?" He hadn't seen the car on the street, but Mozzie could have again absconded with it. It was a sweet ride.

She shook her head. "No, he's not back yet. He said if you got here before he did, to ask you to please take his things on up. He also said that you didn't have to wait for him if you had things to do."

Neal had said he'd be by the house to pick up his things, but Peter had offered to bring them on over himself. He wanted to see June; the last time he'd seen her had been under less than pleasant circumstances. He also wanted a look at a Nathan Clay original.

"Nothing but Saturday chores," Peter answered, following her up the staircase with Neal's bags in his hands, "so I'd just as soon be here. Were you surprised to hear from him?" He would feel sorry about having kept Neal's secret from her except for the fact that she'd kept it from him as well.

"Not to hear from him," she replied, "but I was surprised he was here. I'm afraid I made him uncomfortable with my gushing yesterday, but I couldn't help it. It was just so good to see him."

Peter had driven Neal over the afternoon before but hadn't witnessed the reunion; he had waited in the car. He'd gotten the impression that Neal expected the reunion to be emotional and didn't want an audience. But the entire visit hadn't lasted more than twenty minutes, and Neal had been back at the car.

"Well?" Peter inquired when he volunteered no information.

"Well, what?" Neal's reply was short; he sounded more out of breath than the walk should have merited.

"How did it go?" Peter sensed that, for some reason, it hadn't gone well. "What did she say?" He couldn't imagine June being anything but happy to see Neal, or thrilled that he might be staying with her. But Neal didn't look happy or thrilled in the least; in fact, he looked a bit pale.

"She said I can lease the place for five weeks, five months or five years as far as she's concerned."

Sure now that something was wrong, Peter took his hand off the ignition and waited, eyes intent on Neal's profile since he refused to look at him. Neal was making an effort to control his breathing, inhaling purposefully through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. Peter had used the same calming technique himself.

Panic attacks were debilitating. They left the most confident person shaken to the core. Peter waited, and after a moment, Neal glanced at him. His expression confirmed Peter's concerns; there was distress in the blue eyes.

"You okay?" It was a stupid question. Neal's hands were tightly clasped in his lap, had they not been, Peter was sure they'd have been shaking.

"I will be." He looked away quickly. "It was just strange stepping back in there."

Strange to the point of panic, Peter thought. When Neal had left the apartment that last time he'd never expected to see it again. Just being back in the city caused him nightmares and seeing the apartment had clearly shaken him.

"I guess so," Peter said, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.

Neal didn't say anything else, and after a few moments of silence, Peter tried to initiate conversation. Whether Neal knew it or not, talking about how he felt would help and five weeks was a long time. He wasn't a therapist, but he had ears.

"So," Peter ventured. "What did you tell her? Five weeks, five months or five years? Or," he paused, "are you going apartment hunting this weekend?" Neal didn't immediately respond, and Peter continued. "There are lots of places in New York to rent; you don't have to stay there."

"Yes I do," Neal retorted, "that's the whole point, Peter. If I'm going to spend time in New York, I have to be able to walk where Neal Caffrey walked without feeling a tracking device on my ankle." He sounded both determined and frustrated.

"Walking where he walked is one thing," Peter said, "but living where he lived is another." And working where he worked? How hard would it be for him to walk into the White Collar offices? "New York is a big city, much larger than a two-mile radius. You can start fresh," He suggested, "and change everything. June would understand; I would understand."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You withdrawing your offer to work at White Collar?"

"No," Peter said, "not withdrawing it, just making sure you know that I'd understand if you'd rather work with Agent Elliot. They call you Boy Wonder over there, you know," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

"Really, Boy Wonder?" It worked; Neal sounded better.

"Yes, and Mr. GQ. You've made quite an impression on the DEA crowd."

"There are some serious style contradictions there, but I appreciate the sentiment." Neal paused, "But if I do decide to work with the Feds again I'd just as soon it be with ones I already know."

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't?"

"Something like that," he chuckled, "And I told June I'd be back tomorrow. If I'm going to live in New York, for five weeks or five years, this is where I'm going to be."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

June opened the door to the apartment, and Peter stepped inside. This time was so much better than the last time Peter had been here; two years ago he'd been here to pick up some things that had belonged to Neal Caffrey. This time, he was bringing in things that belonged to Nathan Clay.

He sat the bags down on the small dining room table and stepped into the open area that was the living room.

Just as Neal had said, very little had changed. But one thing had: a rather large painting hanging above the fireplace. Peter was sure it had not been there before. June followed his gaze.

"That's how he let me know," June volunteered, nodding towards the framed piece. Although the painting itself was not familiar the scene, it depicted stirred Peter's memory. "A year after Neal's death, a package arrived from the Nathan Clay Gallery in Paris. It was that painting.'

Now even more interested, Peter instinctively stepped closer. This, he assumed, was a Nathan Clay original.

Peter now knew why the scene was familiar. He recognized it as the view from the terrace looking west down the street toward the park. It had been some time since he'd enjoyed that view. Even when Neal had called this home, Peter hadn't spent much time here. It was just one more thing that Peter had regretted; another missed opportunity to have strengthened the friendship instead of weakening it. Another error he hoped to have the chance to rectify.

"I recognized the subject matter immediately, of course," June continued, "and when I read the enclosed letter, I knew it was from Neal; I knew he was alive."

"What did the letter say?"

"That this was an original piece by Nathan Clay; the first painting he'd ever done from his heart and that he wanted me to have it in appreciation for being such a good friend to him." She paused. "And that he was sorry for hurting me."

Peter had always known Neal was a talented artist. He'd seen his impressive copies of Monet, Matisse, and Degas, sometimes done for fun-it's not a forgery if you don't intend to pass it off as an original, Neal had told him- and sometimes as a prop for a job. He suspected there were scores of pieces in museums and private collections worldwide that were forgeries, the alleged work of Neal Caffrey.

Just a few nights earlier, sitting on the bed in the Burke guestroom, Neal had said that he'd been whoever he was needed or expected to be; and one of those things had been a master forger. But as Nathan Clay, he had chosen a different way to use his talents, and this piece was an example of that. Peter had never seen a Caffrey, but he supposed this wasn't a Caffrey; it was a Clay. Done from his heart and it was breathtaking.

"This is really good." Peter could see the individual petals on each bloom on the cherry trees that lined the street; the slight variations in the bark of the trees. There was a lady walking her dog, a small terrier, and wisps of dark hair were wind blown across her face. The painted depicted a breezy, spring day and the detail was unbelievable. Peter wondered how long it had taken Neal to complete it, and what he'd been thinking as he did so.

"Yes, it is. When I got this painting, I knew he was alive," she restated, "but when I saw the title of it, I hung it here because I knew one day when he was ready, he'd be back."

"The title?"

"Le Vue de la Maison," she answered. At his look, she translated. "The View from Home. This is home to him, Peter, and once he was able to admit that, I knew it was a matter of time until he came back to us."

"So," Peter turned to look at June, "do you think he is back, I mean, to stay?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "He said he'd lease the space for six months, but would only commit to actually staying here until he's cleared to travel." She frowned, "What happened to him anyway? All he'd say was he was doing some undercover worked and failed to duck and cover."

"He didn't try to duck and cover," Peter said. "He took a bullet saving someone's life."

"That doesn't surprise me," She said, shaking her head. "That's the kind of man he is, the kind he's always been."

"I know," Peter acknowledged, "but he has changed, June, more than just his name. He's-" He paused, trying to put into words what was so different about his friend. "more self-aware, I guess. He knows who he is, who he wants to be, and he's acted on it. He's made a new life for himself."

"As Nathan Clay in Paris," June said, "but he wants to come home, Peter."

"I know he does," Peter agreed, "but he has to figure out how to do that. It can't be like it was before," Peter echoed Neal's words. "It has to be different because he's different."

"He asked if he could change the apartment," June recalled, "Redecorate, so it wasn't like it was before. He tried to hide it, but he was upset when he left here, Peter, I half expected him to call and have changed his mind."

Peter didn't mention that he'd tried to get Neal to do just that; to consider finding somewhere else to stay.

"This is where he wants to be," Peter assured her. "Whatever he has to figure out, he wants to do it from here."

"That's basically what he said today," she said. "He belongs here, Peter, and that painting tells me he knows that."

June excused herself and left Peter alone in the apartment. He stepped closer to the painting, looking at the bottom right corner; the place artists generally signed their names. This was a painting that could be signed with pride, but there was nothing there. With a frown, he looked closer and after a few moments, he saw them: the small letters NC. Had he not sought them out, they would have gone without notice, nearly obscure within the patterns of the cracked paint of a neighboring door stoop.

Peter had seen Nathan Clay's handwriting several times over the past months and had been amazed that it bore no resemblance to that of Neal Caffrey. However, these two letters were the same as they had always been; exactly the way Peter had seen them before.

Hidden either by habit, or as a nod to who he was, or had been. Neal Caffrey. Nathan Clay. It was ambiguous.

"N.C." he said softly.

"Of course," Neal had quietly entered the apartment and was standing beside him. "You know I always sign my work."

"A Nathan Clay Original," Peter remarked, keeping his eyes on the painting. "I'm impressed."

Peter expected Neal to jump at the chance to expound on his talent, to launch into some explanation of technique or medium, but he didn't. After a moment of no response, Peter glanced at Neal. The blue eyes were studying him and not the painting.

"What?" Peter asked at his look.

"Did you really not check the crime database when you found out I was alive?"

Somewhat surprised by the sudden change of topic, Peter hesitated.

"I really didn't," He answered. He hoped Neal wasn't about to make a confession he didn't want to hear.

"Why not?" Neal asked. "Were you afraid of what you'd find?"

"No," Peter replied, meeting his gaze steadily, "I didn't look because it didn't matter. I didn't care what you were doing with your life; I was just glad you had one. And I hoped you were happy."

"Even if happy meant I was conning and thieving my way across Europe?"

"Were you?" Peter raised his eyebrows.

"No," Neal replied, "but I could have been for all you knew. You know I have certain-" he smiled mischievously, "-inclinations." He turned his attention again to the painting. "I love the thrill of the steal, and you've no idea how many Degas and Van Goghs I've had access to during the past two years."

"And you didn't venture back to the dark side?"

"Nope, not even once." Peter sensed pride in the quick shake of Neal's head, but he paused before adding, "But I'll admit I was tempted a few times."

"Being tempted isn't a crime," Peter replied, "and it's what you choose to do with those inclinations of yours that matter." He looked at Neal. "I'd imagine that is why you'd be willing to come back and do some work for White Collar, or for Agent Elliot over at the DEA, for that matter. Gives you a way to enjoy the thrill of the steal without-"

"Those pesky consequences of illegal activity," Neal finished with a grin. "But I still can't believe you didn't check."

"Well, no matter what the database said, I'd never have chased you again." Peter shrugged. "So there was no reason to look."

"I guess I'm not the only one who's changed," Neal observed, "because that's what you do; you chase criminals."

"I do chase criminals," Peter stated, "but I don't chase friends. When I thought you were dead, I had a lot of regrets, and-."

"Look, Peter-" Neal interrupted, but Peter continued without pause.

"-when I found out you weren't, I made a promise to myself that if I ever saw you again, it would be because you came looking for me and not the other way around."

Neal was quiet a moment before he spoke. "And I did; I went looking for you in Venezuela."

"You did," Peter said, "And you found me, made sure I was rescued and sent back to my family. You saved my life."

"Well," Neal shifted awkwardly beside him, "Friends go where they're needed."

"I know they do," Peter agreed, "And I hope they find a way to stay where they're needed, too." Peter turned back to the art above the mantle. "I really do like this painting."

"Did you recognize the scene?" Glad the former topic had been abandoned, Neal now seemed willing to discuss his art. "It's the view from out those windows there; I painted it from memory."

"I did," Peter answered, "and June told me how she came to own it; and why she hung it here."

"She said she knew I'd be back," Neal's voice held wonder. "Even before I knew it myself, somehow she knew."

"She knew because you told her," Peter said gently, "when you named this painting and sent it to her."

"Le Vue de la Maison," He said almost under his breath. "It looks like it belongs there, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does," Peter kept his eyes on the breezy, spring scene. "Welcome home, Neal."

"That's what it is, too, Peter. It's home."

"Then both you and this painting are where you belong,"

La Fin