Author's notes: Look Ma, I wrote a 100,000 word story!

So this is it, my friends. Apologies for the tardiness of the last chapter, but we were on the go all the time in Iceland - I really recommend it for a vacation destination - then, 30 minutes after arriving in England, we were rear-ended by a hit and run driver which has resulted in copious forms needing to be filed.

Thank you for sticking with me. I'm so happy that Peter and Neal live on in the hearts and imaginations of their fans. In particular I want to thank Nonny who, despite having no time to spare, managed to stay ahead of my posting schedule and did a wonderful job inserting commas, pointing out confusing relative pronouns and questioning perplexing metaphors. Thank you!

I also want to thank my son for always being willing to answer bizarre questions or assist my failing memory, and all my family for their support.

Thank you to all those who took the time to leave me a review or a personal message. After four years writing this, the feedback is so welcome and inspiring - thanks especially to Happy Reader, Pechika, Reag, Adoptarescue, Swiftalon, Wishful Writing, Daisiesndaffidols, Sblack, Rosayago, Doting Fan, Steve, Maryt, LuvsBruce, Long live Brucas who all stuck with me to the end. I hope to continue writing about Peter and Neal. I have a rather different short story in mind, probably three chapters, so it'll probably only take me three years to write!

In conclusion, Nonny said that this chapter had a very final feel to it and that is true. This is how I wished the show had ended (and there's a shout out to Jeff Eastin's original ending)

Enjoy!

Subterfuge Epilogue

An indeterminate span of time passed, punctuated sporadically by brief periods of befuddled consciousness and amorphous feverish dreams. Neal drifted, cushioned in a velvet darkness that demanded nothing, but washed him languidly around the depths of oblivion before an incoming tide swept him ashore, depositing him gently on the sands of perception.

His brain came back online slowly, wading through the muddy waters of drugged confusion. He didn't need to be fully cognizant to recognise the rhythms of hospital occupation. The hum of background conversations was overlaid by the persistent beep of a heart monitor, and the unique bouquet of blood and disinfectant assaulted his nostrils. His throat was bone dry, and an effort to swallow merely reinforced the taste of blood and dust on his tonsils.

The tug on his arm suggested an IV was attached, and there must have been a generous amount of medication running through his veins because his head felt thick, his mind lethargic. However, the only pain he was feeling was a slight ache around his side, so it was also effective. Dragging his eyelids open a slit, he could see wires and tubes strung up around him, iatric spider webs delivering, draining and monitoring.

His brain kicked into second gear, and he experienced the spatial awareness of another presence in the room. Shifting his gaze beyond the bed, he surveyed the area of the room he could see without turning his head and discovered Hughes sitting nearby, legs crossed and a file balanced precariously over a knee.

He was the last...no, Neal ran a quick mental tally...maybe the eighth person he expected to see, but that was pretty low down on his list of non-criminal acquaintances. His instinctive reaction to the SAIC's presence was that he was in trouble. It would be nice if there were nothing on his conscience to substantiate that suspicion, but a slight twitch of his leg reminded him that once again his anklet was missing, and the memory of removing it was lamentably clear in his mind.

For now, Hughes seemed unaware of his scrutiny, and Neal tried to ascertain if it was his own file that had the SAIC so engrossed. It was thick, with vividly colored post-it notes sticking out at various places. Hughes wrote a few words on a page before turning it over and reading the back.

Neal contemplated feigning continued unconsciousness, but that strategy had the definite disadvantage of losing the opportunity to have his pressing questions answered. Details were decidedly fuzzy, but he definitely remembered with visceral certitude that Peter had been in trouble. The spike of fear-induced adrenaline generated by the memory caused a treacherous series of warning beeps from one of the monitors.

Instinctively, Neal glanced up, meeting Hughes' gaze directly. Only the ease granted by long practice enabled him to keep the guilt off his face. Under normal circumstances, Hughes could make a marble statue seem animated, but currently he was more inscrutable than usual, merely staring at Neal as if waiting for something. There was something about that blank stare that unnerved Neal.

"Peter?" he croaked. The nebulous memories that haunted him and Peter's absence combined to make him fear the worst. The desolation of the thought choked him. He could feel the tightness squeezing his throat, pressure coiling uncomfortably behind his chest and his brain shuddering to a halt.

"He'll be fine," Hughes reassured him, although the sentiment seemed a little mechanical. There was an awkward silence as he regarded Neal with mild expectancy. The CI was uncertain if his fears were actually assuaged, and stared back irresolutely.

Hughes hiked an eyebrow upwards by a fraction of a millimetre, a dramatic concession to surprise from him. After a moment he offered, "This is usually where you fall asleep again."

Neal ignored the implication that he was the sole participant in a rerun of Groundhog Day. "He was hurt," he insisted urgently. He wanted to add that it was his fault, desisting more because he didn't want to muddy the issue than because he doubted its truth. "They were trying to kill him," he added as that little detail reemerged in his mind.

"Look, if you're going to stay awake, I'm going to summon a nurse." Matching the action to the words, Hughes reached over and pressed the call button. Resuming his seat, he pinned Neal with an authoritarian stare. "None of Peter's injuries were life-threatening. He had some severe bruising, a broken rib, and lost a lot of blood from a couple of bullet wounds in his arm. That's why he isn't here. He's strong enough for a follow-up operation to stabilize the bone. They're prepping him for surgery right now."

Relief swelled in the pit of his stomach and radiated out like a warm ray of sunshine, but the arrival of a nurse forestalled any response Neal might have made. He submitted to her intrusive prodding and questions. She reassured him that although his fever hadn't completely broken, his temperature was now down to a safe level. After inquiring about his pain level, she demonstrated the use of the pump to increase his dose if necessary.

Still discomfited by the presence of the SAIC at his bedside, he welcomed the distraction she offered, but eventually she departed, leaving him alone with Hughes.

Frayed around the edges and threadbare in the middle, Neal was in no mood for equivocation. He needed to know what consequences he would be facing. "So are you here to tell me I'm going back to jail, or merely to replace the anklet?"

The eyebrow definitely crawled a little higher. "I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension," Hughes said mildly.

Respect for the man, not his position, and certainly not the organization he represented, caused Neal to swallow his natural skepticism and restrain the sarcastic comment that threatened to escape.

Hughes was regarding him steadily, and when Neal said nothing, the SAIC elaborated, "You are no longer seen as a flight risk."

It was said with a deadpan expression as if it were the most commonplace, prosaic sentence ever uttered.

"Come again?" Neal queried politely.

"You are no longer considered a flight risk," Hughes obligingly repeated.

Apparently, repetition did not assist comprehension. Neal pinched himself in the hopes that pain would sweep aside the cloying effects of whatever was dripping into his veins. When that proved unsuccessful, he tried squinting and tilting his head to bring the situation into focus. Reaching out for the glass of water that the nurse had helpfully placed beside his bed, he took a few brief sips to irrigate both his mouth and his mental processes.

"They do know that I cut my anklet again?" he asked plaintively. As soon as the words were uttered, he realized that the drugs were affecting him even more than he initially suspected. His judgement must be considerably impaired to break his cardinal rule of denial. He never confessed.

"Of course they do," Hughes confirmed easily. "They know you cut your anklet at Peter's request and with my express approval."

It took a while for Neal to process this information, and the silence stretched out, yawning uncomfortably between them. He shook his head hard, waiting for verification to work loose from the cotton enclosing his brain. It was quite possible that his recollections were faulty. However, the more he poked and kneaded his memory, the more certain he became that his actions were autonomous, but he retained enough acuity to not dispute this version of events.

"OK," he said agreeably, not committing himself one way or the other, but trying to look as if the story wasn't new to him.

Hughes gazed at him inscrutably, but there may have been a twinkle in his eye when he added, "Sadly, Assistant Director Tomkins was killed in the shootout with Abramov and his mob, but before he died, he promised you a new commutation hearing, and we are in the process of setting that up."

Neal narrowed his eyes thoughtfully before lifting a hand with careful deliberation to depress the call button. The same nurse bustled in, exuding busy solicitude. He cast her a look of earnest concern. "Tell me…" his eyes dropped to her ID badge, "...Eilene. Is it possible that my injuries could cause hallucinations?"

He ignored the snort from the chair next to the bed. The nurse looked nonplussed, then asked cautiously, "What kind of hallucinations?"

"VIsual mostly, but also auditory."

Her confusion turned to worry. "I think I should call the doctor."

Hughes cleared his throat. "Excuse me nurse, if I may. I believe the injury to which Mr Caffrey is referring affected his sense of humour, and the symptoms are simply annoying."

She offered a game smile, clearly not understanding, but willing to go along with the joke.

Neal was too stunned to be repentant. This was so antithetical to what he had been expecting, that his mind literally couldn't encompass the concept, especially when there was a cocktail of drugs befuddling his mind. It had to be a practical joke, or a misunderstanding. There is no way that Tomkins would have recommended a new commutation hearing...unless Peter blackmailed him.

He decided that his best approach was to accept it as an improbable fairytale, and hope that it would resolve itself into a comprehensible narrative with the benefit of more sleep and less drugs.

"That's nice." It was a weak understatement, and he added with an unusual burst of honesty, "And not what I was expecting."

Hughes couldn't resist a last dig. "So, if you could refrain from taking any impromptu island vacations…" He relented quickly. "However, the reason I wanted to talk to you is to thank you for your commendably brave actions and also to apologize."

He deftly captured Neal's hand as it strayed once more towards the call button. "Hear me out."

Neal obediently subsided into his pillows. Despite the demand for an attentive audience, Hughes seemed in no hurry to launch into an explanation. He stared pensively at the file in his lap as if uncertain how to proceed. Finally, with a sigh, he looked up.

"I didn't like this operation from the beginning, although I had no idea as to the depth of corruption it would involve. Despite being Peter's immediate superior, I was completely cut out of the chain of command. Despite pulling strings, I could get only minimal information about the progress he was making. The whiff of mismanagement turned into a stench of subversion. I began to really fear for Peter's safety, so I let slip the information to you about the Chechens in the hopes that you'd do what you do best."

"Run?" Neal posited doubtfully.

"No, that you'd have his back, the way you do everyday."

Unaccustomed to praise from the big man, Neal tried to play it off with another feint at the call button, but he desisted when he pulled a slight smile from the SAIC. "You were able to accomplish what I could not, and you did it with inspiring capability and bravery. I apologize for using you without your consent, but your service to this department and this city has been exemplary, and you deserve your freedom. My report will state exactly that."

Overwhelmed by the accolade for actions he didn't consider meritorious and dazed by the abrupt reversal of fortune, Neal mumbled his thanks. He really needed to see Peter. Only a visual inspection would reassure him as to Peter's condition, and he fervently wanted to discuss these developments with his friend. Even if this wasn't a crazy, wish-fulfilment fever dream, he couldn't allow himself the hope of freedom without confirmation from the one man he truly trusted.

Peter would be able to verify the story and give him a realistic appraisal of his chances of passing the Board. Pleading exhaustion, he closed his eyes to feign sleep, but the pretense quickly became reality because when he opened them again, the hard planes of the senior White Collar agent had morphed into El's soft curves.

Their friendship had solidified and flourished in Peter's absence, and his smile at seeing her was one of delight. "Did Peter…" he started immediately, not quite sure exactly what he wanted to know but craving reassurance anyway.

She grasped his hand in hers. "He's fine. In fact, he sent me to check on you. The operation went well, although he probably has enough metal in him to set off all the alarms at an airport. He should make a full recovery, but it's going to be a long haul with a lot of physical therapy. It's probably going to be a couple of months before he's back at work."

"I bet that doesn't sit well with him."

"Actually, given recent events, for the first time he seems ready for a real vacation." She squeezed his hand more tightly. "You brought him back to me, and I cannot thank you enough for that."

It was ironic that Neal had never received so many compliments at a time when he felt his actions were far from laudable. He refused to let the blood rise to the capillaries in his cheeks. "I think it was the other way around," he blurted out. "He brought me home, at least to the hospital,even if I didn't stay there…"

El didn't let him continue any further. "Peter made it quite clear that he wouldn't have survived to that point if it wasn't for your courageous intervention. I know for certain that without your unconventional demolition with the truck, I wouldn't have had time to…" She broke off, grimacing, dropping her gaze to her lap. All of this thoroughly intrigued Neal, and he wasn't about to let it pass.

"Come on, spill," he coaxed. "We're sharing here."

She tilted her chin up defiantly. "I got Peter's gun out of the safe and covered him from the bedroom window." Her cheeks pinked slightly. "I shot Abramov."

Neal stared at her in awestruck wonder. "Elizabeth Mitchell Burke, will you marry me?"

She giggled, the red rising higher in her face, enjoying his admiration and accepting his words as the compliment they were intended to be.

"So you saved us both," he pointed out.

"It was a group effort. Don't forget Mozzie. If he hadn't brought the cavalry in at the eleventh hour, we'd all have been toast. However, Mozzie and I were last minute additions to the rescue business. I think you just have to accept that you and Peter saved each other. You're a team, each of you better for the other watching his back."

"Hughes said something very similar," Neal admitted. The thought warmed him, seeping into the interstices of the neglected spaces of his heart and those areas hardened by enforced self sufficiency. "He also said that Tomkins had promised me another commutation hearing, which seems a little perplexing under the circumstances."

"It's true," El insisted. "And I will swear under oath or on a lie detector test."

Neal scratched his ear. "However, I'm sure it wasn't as simple as that," he nudged.

El tucked her legs under her in the chair, making herself comfortable. "Perhaps not," she eventually allowed.

Neal didn't push her to continue this time, sensing she would resume under her own steam. "I don't think he was a bad man," she mused softly. "No one realised just how much his brother's death affected him. He wanted that sacrifice to mean something. I guess I can sympathize with his goals while thoroughly disapproving of his methods. He knew if Peter stayed in the Bureau, he would find a way to bring him down, but he couldn't bring himself to kill him, and me I suppose, in cold blood." She moistened her lips and eyed Neal consideringly. "Look, I'm not sure if Peter would want me to share this with you."

"I'm sure Peter wouldn't tell me himself, but I think it's important that I know, don't you?"

"I think you're right. I told you when Peter left, that I wished you were with him because I knew you'd do whatever was necessary to protect him, but you should know that the converse is true. He would do the same for you.

"Tomkins had some papers with him - an arrest warrant for you on the charge of murder. If Peter didn't resign from the Bureau, he would have you arrested. It didn't matter that the charges wouldn't stand up in court. It would mean you would be back in jail."

The remembered claustrophobia of prison was a tangible force, pressing coldly on his chest and clogging his lungs with the stench of desperation. His adrenaline surge registered on the monitors, and El patted his hand reassuringly. "Peter isn't get to let that happen," she stated firmly. "He agreed to resign as long as you got a commutation hearing and were allowed to go free."

"Peter would quit the Bureau for me?" Neal queried disbelievingly. He knew exactly how much Peter loved his job. It provided the perfect blend of intellectual challenge and emotional gratification. His team was his surrogate family, and he led, guided and nurtured them in turn. It fulfilled his innate need to protect and seek justice. It was staggering that Peter would be willing to sacrifice all that for him.

"Oh, sweetie," El repeated the pat on his hand. "You must know there is almost nothing Peter wouldn't do to keep you safe, including riding you hard to prevent your own worst instincts from landing you back in jail. There are other jobs, maybe not the same, maybe not as satisfying, but there's only one of you. He'd never let the truth of the matter pass his lips, but he treasures your friendship. You've brought so much to his life."

"Not all of it good," Neal pointed out self-deprecatingly.

She paid him the courtesy of not dismissing the idea immediately, but considered it thoughtfully. "You'd be surprised," she said at last. "You've made him more flexible, provided a lens to help him see between the black and the white, to temper his more rigid ideas of justice. He's a better person for knowing you."

The honesty that Peter had worked so hard to instill in him compelled him to admit, "You must know that if we are attempting some karmic weighing of scales, I owe Peter infinitely more than he owes me. You told me once that he was the best thing that ever happened to me, and while I'd rather eat a deep-fried devilled ham sandwich than tell him, you were right."

"What do you think would happen if you told him?" El prodded him slyly.

"I'd lose plausible deniability and my membership in the macho man club," Neal returned promptly.

"Sweetie, you wear a fedora, that ship has sailed," El teased him.

"Ouch," Neal mimed a critical hit, then doffed an imaginary hat, the flourish stifled by medical paraphernalia. "Now my pride has as many bruises as my ribs."

"Your honor, I'd like to retract my previous statement. The hat is the crowning glory on a masterpiece of studly beauty."

"De Vinci beautiful or Picasso beautiful?"

"Now you're just fishing for compliments!" She glanced at her watch and stood up. "Visiting hours are nearly over. I need to get back to Peter before they kick me out." She dropped a light kiss on his forehead in farewell.

Just before she exited the room, he asked casually, "So where've they stuck Peter?"

She gave him a knowing shake of the head. "If I told you, how long would it be before you were out of bed and in his room?"

"Better than wandering the halls looking for him," he wheedled.

The answer was obvious in her sympathetic frown. "Sweetie, you're in no condition to be on your feet. If you exert yourself too soon, you'll just be here longer. Please wait until the doctors give you the green light. We nearly lost you, and I don't want to go through that again. I'll pass along any message that you want."

He shook his head with a minimal shrug and a smile meant to deflect, unwilling to put into words how desperately he wanted to see Peter, to visually inspect his injuries and confirm his continued well-being with his own eyes. He needed to scrub his memory clean of the distressing images of Peter tied to the chair, his face swollen and bloody or pinned down under the implacably advancing guns of the mob. In the end, it wasn't his half-hearted promise to El that kept him in bed, but rather the entangling, and at times intimate, embrace of tubes and wires connecting him to the machines around him.

Ultimately, a painful extraction proved unnecessary. His eyelids glued themselves back down. In the time it took to open them, the hardest working chair in the hospital had managed to summon up another occupant.

"Peter!" He surged upward in delight, only belatedly remembering how his body disliked that maneuver when it issued a remonstrating stab. He fell back with a groan, pain lancing through his side.

Unfortunately his exertion and its reaction must have registered on a monitor because before he could recover sufficiently to acknowledge Peter, a nurse hurried in. Judging by Peter's expression of concerned chagrin, his presence wasn't exactly sanctioned.

"Agent Burke, what are you doing here?"

Attempting to change his embarrassment to a air of authority, Peter stated somewhat bombastically, "I'm an FBI officer, and this man is my responsibility."

"You're off duty," she pointed out dryly.

"Believe me, nurse, if I hadn't come here, I can promise you that he would not have remained in this bed much longer."

She directed an inquiring gaze in Neal's direction, waiting for verification. He assumed his most innocent expression. "I wouldn't have thought of it," he stated blithely. "I understand the rules are there for a reason."

That virtuous declaration caused Peter to choke briefly, before raising his hand in a gesture of capitulation. "Alright, I'll go," he said, calling Neal's bluff.

"No!" Neal caught Peter's sleeve in an effort to prevent his departure. "Can he please stay?" Her eyes softened at his plea, but she remained adamant.

"This isn't the time for visitors."

"I'm not a visitor," Peter explained earnestly "I'm a fellow inmate... I mean, patient."

She was helpless against the twin expressions of entreaty. "Ten minutes," she relented, "I'll be back in ten minutes."

Neal drank in the sight of Peter, whole if not hale, beside his bed. The swelling in his eye had gone down, giving him binocular vision for the first time in days, but as the fluid drained, it left spectacular prismatic streaks and blotches.

"Wow, Afremov would have loved painting you."

"I'll pretend I know what you mean by that," Peter retorted.

"Look in the mirror. Your face is his canvas. Hughes said you'd been shot."

Peter waved a cast-enclosed arm in the air. "Apparently now I'm the Terminator. Well…" he said consideringly after scrutinizing it for a minute. "Maybe more like the Winter Soldier."

It occured to Neal that he wasn't the only one on mind-altering substances. If Peter was comparing himself to movie anti-heroes, he was clearly under the influence. "What medications do they have you on?"

"The pink ones," Peter confided.

"Oh, the good drugs." Neal nodded knowledgeably. This was clearly not the time to have a serious conversation. In vicodin veritas. There was a good chance Peter wouldn't be as guarded in his answers on sensitive topics as was his custom, but Neal wasn't going to take advantage. His side was still sore, so in the spirit of solidarity, he allowed himself another dose of analgesia, relaxing into its numbing relief, enjoying the muzzy bliss in the safety of Peter's company.

Despite the sedation, Peter seemed to follow his train of thought effortlessly. "I'm not high," he assured Neal, a fraction too solemnly.

"But not exactly low either," Neal supplied.

"Right." Peter pointed an approving finger before moving his hand in a soaring motion at chest height. "Just gliding at a friendly altitude. Not baked, but slightly toasted."

"Not blitzed, but the Germans are at the border."

They grinned at each other in loopy accord. "So what do two semi-stoned people stuck in a hospital do for…" Neal checked his wrist but there was no watch. With a shrug he continued, "...approximately five minutes."

"We plan for when we get out of hospital," Peter stated firmly.

That was a bad idea but Neal couldn't remember why. "Okay," he shrugged, his tone aiming for dubious, but overshooting by a considerable margin.

Peter didn't seem to notice, a determined little frown furrowing his brow. "When they release you, you're coming home with us."

Neal's insides took on the warm, gooey consistency of chocolate left on the dashboard on a summer's day. He'd spent many hours in the Brownstone in Peter's absence, but under those conditions, it had never felt completely inviting. The vision that Peter was offering with open-hearted generosity whispered with a tantalising allure of home.

"I don't need babysitting," he protested feebly, ingrained insularity instincts insisting he reject the tempting prospect.

"If I feel an irresistible urge to diaper your rear, I'll bear that in mind," Peter overrode the half-hearted objections. "June's still abroad isn't she? With the stairs there you would…"

The vocabulary proved elusive, so his fingers twirled in what was presumably meant to illustrate a fall, but looked more like the gyrations of an amorous drunk. "It's perfect. I'll be your legs and you can be my hands...hand...arm..whatever." He looked pleased with this solution. "Teamwork, we're good at that."

"What about El?" Someone had crammed his brain in a blender and hit liquefy, because he was still arguing against his own desires, but surely El would want to spend time with her husband after being deprived of his company for so long.

"She said…" Peter clicked the fingers of his one good hand as an aid to a bleary memory. "She said that way she could keep an eye on both of us."

"That would be…" Neal mentally scooped up an aggregation of adjectives, carefully picking through them to select one that would convey the appropriate amount of gratitude and gracious acceptance without betraying the eagerness he felt inside, but nothing met his exacting criteria. Luckily, the nurse re-entered before his lack of response registered with Peter.

"Ten minutes is up. You gentlemen need your rest."

With a final pat on Neal's arm, Peter stood up, swaying precariously. The nurse hastily steadied him. "I'll escort you back to your room."

Neal was desperate to acknowledge Peter's offer, so as the pair reached the door, he called out, "Hey, Peter." Again his facile tongue deserted him. "Thanks," was all he could manage, but it was heartfelt.

Peter looked him with unguarded affection. "It'll be fun."

"Nobody shooting at us," Neal supplied.

"No claustrophobic containers," Peter added, getting into the spirit of this new game.

"Chairs without restraints."

"No hide and seek with murderous mobsters."

"No mobsters with guns."

"No FBI with guns."

"No everyone with guns."

They both sighed nostalgically while the nurse looked simultaneously amused and horrified. "I'd think you guys were exaggerating if it wasn't for the evidence on your medical records. My professional advice would be to consider a career change."

Neal expected Peter to object at this suggestion, but he merely nodded solemnly, teetering slowly back and forth. Taking this as a clear signal that the agent needed to get horizontal on a bed before involuntarily assuming the same position on the floor, the nurse hurriedly ushered him out. Neal closed his eyes, suffused by a feeling of well-being and hope for the future.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWW

Neal's recovery held no further setbacks, and he was released from hospital the day after Peter, albeit with a sheaf of papers containing instructions and cautions. He was promptly whisked away to the Burke's house, where he was greeted rapturously by Satchmo before being ensconced in the spare bedroom.

He still slept for considerable periods, and since El had temporarily ceded her business responsibilities to Yvonne, it was several days before he found himself alone with Peter again. With a big party on the horizon, El had been forced to return to work. She'd left them with the admonishment to not overexert themselves.

They were in the kitchen, bickering amicably while they employed their vaunted teamwork to make a light lunch.

"Hold the bread in place. I can't spread the mayo with one hand, it keeps escaping."

"My soup will be scalded if I leave it now."

"It's bortsch, it will probably improve the flavor."

"And your sandwich is devilled ham. If it falls on the floor and the dog licks it, it will definitely improve the taste."

"The dog wouldn't even deign to try your soup."

Although the soup ended up cooked to perfection and the sandwich was unmolested by canine tongue, both men picked at their food, their appetites not fully restored. There were so many things that Neal wanted to say, questions that rudely tumbled to the front of the line, then were knocked out of place by their successor before being voiced.

In the end, it was Peter who spoke first. His words were a little stilted, as if it were a speech he had carefully prepared, but his tone was earnest, so it was clearly important to him. "Um, the last time we sat here together, you told me I had to come home. There were many times over the last few months, and especially days, that I thought that wouldn't happen, but the truth of the matter is that I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you."

Neal couldn't help an irrepressible bubble of merriment from escaping at this solemn declaration. "What a wonderful Oscar-worthy speech!"

Peter looked marginally aggrieved. "El said that I should...," he started, but abandoned his disgruntlement quickly. "I should just have gone with my first instincts." He took a deep breath and launched into a much more satisfying tirade. " What the hell were you thinking? I dropped you off at that hospital and told you to stay there. But could you follow that simple instruction - no! Your instincts for self preservation are atrophied, shrivelled to a subatomic size. You just had to crash the party - literally! Where did you even get a garbage truck…no, never mind, I don't want to know."

Neal had been sitting back and enjoying the rant, but now he piped up. "You told me I had a dispensation to appropriate vehicles for FBI emergencies, remember?"

"I am certain I specified that was a one-time only occurrence."

Neal shrugged innocently. "My fever was so high at that point, it burned away that memory."

"Hah?" Peter pointed a triumphant finger. "So, you admit you should have stayed at the hospital."

Quickly shifting tactics, Neal backtracked."Let's go back to the thanking thing. I believe you were expressing eternal gratitude and devotion for my selfless service. Please continue as per El's instructions."

He propped his chin on his hand in a pose of expectant interest, but Peter's hand described a swooping gesture. "That ship has sailed."

The exchange had successfully dispelled the awkwardness between them, restoring the customary ease of their relationship.

"Well that's not a bad thing. I know how hysterical laughter tends to throw you off your oratorical stride."

"You're a pest," Peter said without rancour. Secretly he was relieved at the interruption which served a double purpose. He could claim virtuously to El that he'd attempted to thank Neal but that the ingrate hadn't allowed him to finish. However, he knew that his message had been received, and that Neal had interrupted more for Peter's sake than his own.

"I'm a sophisticated, highly proficient irritant," Neal corrected him with mock hauteur.

"Wearing a fedora does not upgrade you to an irritant." However, the words were said fondly. Peter abandoned the second half of his sandwich and got up to clear the lunch crockery into the kitchen, waving off Neal's offer to help.

He paused as he reached for Neal's far from empty bowl. "Since we've agreed the dog would rather drink from the toilet than eat that, what do you want me to do with the remains? My personal recommendation is the garbage disposal."

Neal waved his hand in airy permission. "Whatever. There's still some left in the saucepan for El if she'd like some."

Peter muttered something on his way into the kitchen which Neal interpreted as an estimation of the likelihood of him kissing his wife if she contaminated her mouth with such dregs.

Neal propped his feet on the coffee table, mentally preparing the excuse that it was an easier position for his side, while he listened to Peter's clumsy one-handed attempt at packing the dishwasher. He appreciated his friend's awkward words but didn't need to hear them in their entirety to understand the sincerity that lay behind them.

When Peter returned bearing two steaming cups of coffee, it gave him the courage to introduce the related topic that rattled like a hamster driven wheel in his head.

Peter looked as if he was going to object to Neal's feet adorning his furniture, but in the end he shrugged and joined him.

"It's easier on the ribs," Neal offered.

"A medical necessity," Peter quickly agreed.

Neal strove to keep his voice casual. "So when I was in the hospital, I had a visit from Hughes." Peter cocked an eyebrow in his direction but his focus remained on the hot beverage in his hands. "I was expecting immediate arrest, handcuffs, blindfold, firing squad at dawn, but he came empty-handed, not even gifting me with my favorite blinking jewelry."

There was no mistaking the satisfaction on Peter's face, and it almost certainly had nothing to do with adding the perfect amount of cream to his coffee. However, he said nothing, so Neal continued lightly, "Apparently I'm no longer considered a flight risk."

"A mind-boggling concept," Peter agreed.

"What happened to 'Neal runs'?"

Peter shrugged. "Leopards change their spots, old dogs can learn new tricks."

"While I appreciate the aphorisms, Aesop, I'm not a zoological specimen or a family pet."

"No, you're a guy who's smart enough to know when he's on to a good thing and when there's no reason to run anymore."

Neal had reached that conclusion before the last commutation hearing. A roaming tumbleweed existence was for the young, and he had matured to the point of appreciating the roots and vines that tethered him to this city. Jones told him he had the dream job with an anklet attached. Now, not only had his shackles dropped away, but the invisible, yet dangerous, manacles to his past had also been removed, thanks to Peter.

He had been gifted with a clean slate; his reckless past could no longer hurt him. He wanted to ask Peter about the agreement he'd made with the FBI concerning the expunging of his record and how it had factored into the acceptance of his undercover work, but that could only lead to another stammering speech that would embarrass them both. His gratitude would be best expressed by becoming the man that Peter had always seen beyond the conman, the man he called partner.

"So," he said instead. "Another commutation hearing. What are the odds of them overlooking the previous fiasco and holding a similarly enlightened view of my ability to evolve?"

"Oh, they'll see things our way." Peter's voice held a dark edge that matched the glint of determination in his eyes. Neal understood the implicit threat that his friend was holding over the FBI. Peter knew where the bodies were buried and how deep.

Neal hadn't been following the news much in the last couple of days, but he knew that the terrorist alert was being called a training exercise, a polite fiction to save face. Peter could destroy that prettily constructed fairy tale, embarrassing the whole department. That could also make him extremely unpopular.

"Don't destroy your career on my account," he urged.

There was no relenting in the iron-clad resolve. "No," Peter insisted stubbornly. "This is the right thing to do. You've earned this. You've earned it ten times over. If you're going to risk your life for the department again, it'll be because it's a choice you make with no coercion or threat hanging over your head."

Having cut Peter off in the throes of a speech of thanks, Neal knew better than to launch into his own oratorical paean of gratitude, so he decided to steer in the opposite direction. "So, you're just going to cut me loose," he asked with a touch of belligerence.

His response was almost timed well enough to cause a spit take from Peter as he sipped on his coffee, but instead the agent mistimed a swallow and choked on the liquid. Patting on the back wasn't a safe option given the number of bruises adorning Peter's torso, so Neal politely handed him a napkin.

The coughs turned into a splutter of indignation. "That was not my intention. I just don't want you to revert to your dead bug impression."

Neal was sufficiently intrigued by the allusion to ask, "My what?"

"You know, 'oo, a sparkly shiny thing, must fly towards it' - zap! You have the survival instincts of a moth!"

"What lovely unflattering imagery."

"Accurate though," Peter pointed out smugly.

"I'd say there was less zapping and more flailing and missing."

"One zap is all it takes." A snap of the fingers accompanied the warning.

"Well, you can put your can of Raid away. Sparkly things don't hold the same allure they used to, not after experiencing the joys of stea...I mean retrieving objects for the FBI."

"Well, that's a good thing, because the Bureau is well aware of your value as a member of the team. I'm sure they will be offering you a position - a paid position - as a consultant."

"As your partner?" Neal asked sharply.

Peter inclined his head. "If that is what you want, I would be honoured to have you as my partner. However, you would be free to take other assignments at your own discretion."

Neal was fairly sure there was no one else he would trust to have his back in an undercover position. However, it wouldn't hurt to merely consult with other agents occasionally. He took a deep breath. It was a heady feeling being handed his future on a silver platter with no strings attached. He was trying to couch his acceptance in terms that didn't seem too eager when something about Peter's demeanor caught his attention.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked. He waved aside Peter's automatic confirmation. "I'm not talking about your partnership with me. I mean returning to the FBI."

Peter silence told him that he'd not only found a sore spot, but thoroughly poked it. The silence spoke volumes about Peter's state of mind. He was gently swashing the remains of his coffee around his cup, seemingly fascinated by the ripples. For once in his life, Neal was at a loss for words. Peter and the FBI fit together, the hallowed halls of the Bureau encompassing and amplifying Peter's protective and investigative tendencies - his personal motto of "Do the Right Thing" more significant when backed by a badge.

However, over the last few years, starting with Fowler and ending with Tomkins, it was clear that not everybody in the organization shared his integrity. In this very room, an Assistant Director had held a gun to the head of Peter's beloved wife, and Neal remembered the bone-white shock on Peter's face when he realised he was the sacrificial goat in the putative terrorist plot. All this had to have shaken his faith in the FBI.

"A few bad apples don't make the whole organisation rotten," he gently reminded the agent.

"I know that." Peter finally met his gaze. "At least, my head knows that. I know the Bureau still stands for something important, and I still love those ideals, but maybe I'm not the same person anymore. I can no longer blithely trust in the chain of command."

Neal nodded his understanding. "Well, as you pointed out earlier, we have choices. If you don't want to work for the FBI, we could do something else instead."

The use of the plural personal pronoun did not escape Peter's notice, and an incipient smile tugged at his lips. "Okay, I'm listening. What could we do instead?"

Neal threw his arms out in an expansive gesture. "The world is our oyster! WIth our combined talents, what couldn't we do - up to and including world domination! - not that I was thinking of anything illegal," he added hastily.

"Well, since I'm not ready to don a black cloak and grow a mustache for twirling, would you care to be more specific?"

"I was thinking something along the lines of Caffrey and Burke, Private Investigators."

Peter caught on to his enthusiasm. "Burke and Caffrey, Raiders of the Lost Submarines."

"Caffrey and Burke," Neal muttered sotto voce.

"No, it's definitely Burke and Caffrey. Age before Beauty, B before C. Besides a one syllable name works best first - Butch and Sundance, never Sundance and Butch."

"What about Starsky and Hutch?"

"We are not Starsky and Hutch."

"No, but it's never Hutch and Starsky."

"But it is Holmes and Watson."

"That's only because Watson was the sidekick. I'm not your sidekick." Seeing that the subject was about to be derailed at the first obstacle, Neal hastily changed the focus. "Let's quibble about names later. The point is that you have options too. If you don't want to return to the FBI, then don't."

Peter smiled at him with real affection. "I think for now I need to go back. But you're right, I need to know I have a back-up plan, that I can walk away when I choose. Here's my suggestion. We go back to the FBI for two years. If, at the end of that time, either of us is unhappy and wants to try something different, then we'll give Burke and Caffrey, Entrepreneurs, a chance. Deal?"

Peter held out his hand, and Neal clasped it. "Deal." He wasn't surprised when the older man pulled him it to a cautious hug, mindful of both of their injuries.

It was a win-win situation. Either way, they was guaranteed satisfying challenges and fulfilling work. He had everything he wanted from life - and people he loved to share it with. Who would have thought, when he handed a lollipop to the prowling FBI agent, that it would end like this, that their relationship would morph into this comfortable partnership. It had matured from an infancy of pursuit, through a childhood of jail and an adolescence of ankle monitoring. Now he was grateful for Peter's anchoring presence in his life.

He resumed his needling. "RIzzoli and Isles, Bonnie and Clyde."

"Well that's just desperation and disproves your case immediately."

"Let's play poker for the right to name our company."

"You cheat at poker - every time. Don't forget, I've seen you do it. I wouldn't bet the rest of your soup in a poker game. I'll play you at cribbage."

"You're kidding. That's for old women."

"Don't tell El that. The simplest solution is to toss for it - but my coin." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, balancing it on his thumb and forefinger, then flicked.

The coin span in the air.