A/N: Okay, you asked for it! And, as always, I'm overwhelmed by your support. I am honored to have had the chance to share this with you, and I'm so glad that you all liked it. I appreciate everyone one of you more than I can possibly express in one little author's note. Thank you so much!

Anyways, just for you, I present my optinoal little epilogue. I really like the IDEA of the scene, but it came out a bit dry compared to what I had in my head. Still, I'm pretty pleased with it. I hope you all like it!

And virtual cookies to True Love Lives Forever, who was the only person who guessed close to what I'd written. (:

EPILOGUE: Concerning Peter

Peter took his time getting to his seat at the far end of the table. He didn't need to, but he wanted a chance to really look at the guy this time; first impressions were so fleeting when making an arrest. Caffrey had been no help; beyond the name, he'd been stupidly tight-lipped and it was driving Peter crazy. That was why he'd memorized what scant information the FBI had been able to dig up on Staton, why he'd arranged for this meeting without telling Neal. He wanted to form his own opinion on this man.

Sliding carelessly into the scratched plastic chair he'd been provided with, Peter took his time arranging himself and the fat FBI file that he'd brought along. It was filled primarily with case reports from the various agents who had been present for Staton's arrest, and topped off with the few pages of details that Diana had scrounged up for him on the man himself. It wasn't a necessary accessory, but it looked intimidating. Peter had learned very early on that in a case like this, appearances could be everything.

"Are you finished?" Nicholas demanded suddenly, slamming his hands down on the table.

Peter grinned. Good. He was ruffled. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting your busy schedule of chain-gangs and license-plate making?" he asked.

Staton glared at him. "I can see what you're doing, Agent. I've been on the other side of this table before, I know technique when I see it. You're trying to make me agitated, edgy; more willing to talk so I can get out. But see, I know what you're doing; it's not going to work on me any more than that pile of copy paper is going to scare me into thinking you know my life story. So why don't you cut the crap and tell me why you're really here?"

"Okay." Peter closed the folder and put it aside, folding his hands on the table in its place. "I want to know why you're here, and who you are."

Nicholas shrugged. "I know that your debonair friend with the ankle jewelry already told you my name."

Peter snorted "And we're going to pretend, just for kicks, that 'Nicholas Staton' is your actual name."

Staton rolled his eyes as he continued, his voice droning a way that suggested his words had been over-rehearsed. "I came to the city on personal business – all legal – and I am licensed for my piece."

"Not anymore," Peter reminded him. "You forfeit that right when you pulled it on a dozen FBI agents."

"That was an honest mistake," Staton insisted. "Where I come from, there are a lot of gangs, and I didn't know if Neal had invited friends to the party. Turns out he did, just not who I was expecting."

"Yeah, apparently. But you're suggesting that you didn't trust Neal. Why meet with him?"

There was a half-second pause before Staton's answer, and Peter noted it with interest. "There's only a certain level of trust you can give anyone in his line of work," he explained. "And Neal has no reason to cut me any slack."

"Really?" Peter leaned forward. "Why's that?"

"I did him a wrong turn back in the day," Staton admitted with a shrug. "He never forgave me."

An uncomfortable feeling was beginning to grow in the pit of Peter's stomach, like he knew this man; but he pushed it aside. There would be enough time to puzzle that one out after he'd finished here. "That's a funny thing, see? Caffrey told me that he knew you by reputation only; and if I had to chose, I'd be inclined to trust him. Unless, of course, you could provide some pretty detailed evidence of whatever crazy heist you two pulled together 'back in the day'."

"I never said we worked together," Staton corrected. "A job isn't the only way to do a kid wrong."

Peter narrowed his eyes, stared into Staton's brilliant blue ones as he tried to unravel what that could possibly mean. It was somewhere between the word 'kid' and registering the shade of blue that things clicked into place.

Staton saw it. "Any more questions for me, Agent Burke?" he asked softly.

In an abrupt motion, Peter shoved his chair back and stood up. "That'll be all," he said stiffly. His head was spinning as he left the prison.

Neal had lied to him. He had flat out lied, at the same time sending his own father to prison. It didn't add up. On the rare occasions where Neal's father had come up in conversation, Peter had seen longing and hurt in his eyes, not the kind of callous cold-heartedness it took to betray your own family that way. That was not the Neal that Peter knew; he wasn't capable of that kind of hardness. There had to be so much more going on between the two of them than met the eye.

He had to believe it, because otherwise he didn't really know the man at all.

ovo

Neal was already in the office by the time that Peter arrived the next morning. He smiled brightly, tossed his infamous rubber-band ball in the air. "How's it going?" he asked.

Peter caught the ball with a tight smile, and made a choice. "Fantastic," he said. "Just great. Now get your feet off the desk; we've got work to do."

Black shoes swung to the ground. A sharp, snapped-off salute. Blinding smile. "Yes sir!"

Peter shook his head and held his tongue.

This wasn't the time for that battle.

A/N: Well, there you have it, folks. WE ARE AT THE END. Thank you so much for reading! :D