Epilogue

Before they went underground, they stopped in a small town where Peter called Hughes from a convenience store. He gave him the short version of the story with a promise to explain things fully in person, and then asked him to call El for him. Then they left the Taurus behind and walked for ten minutes until they found Charlie, Diana's old bodyguard, who was already waiting for them in front of the local library with his own car. The man offered them sanctuary and took them to his home.

When they reached the apartment, Charlie had told them to make themselves comfortable, but none of them could shake off the tension of the past few hours. Instead, Diana had settled for talking with Charlie about her father and his vast contacts, trying to recall who she knew personally and who could be of most help in their current situation, while Mozzie somehow produced another phone and was alternately talking to someone and watching over Neal. Peter had made himself comfortable in an armchair even as he watched the apartment door in case they had been tracked here, and Neal… Neal was simply sitting on the couch with an unreadable expression, completely quiet except for the occasional one-word reply to Mozzie's inquires.

Around midnight, Charlie went to bed. Diana then spent some time talking to Peter before grabbing some blankets and making herself comfortable on the mat of Charlie's small dojo. However, Peter, Mozzie and Neal remained awake, each of them seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

At two a.m., Peter had given up on trying to fall asleep and picked a book from Charlie's bookshelf. It was about two hours later when he noticed Mozzie sneaking out of the apartment.

"Hey. Where're you going?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Oh, don't mind me. I'll be back in a moment."

"It's four in the morning; it's not safe out there. Come on, sit down with me."

Mozzie gave him a long-suffering sigh. Then he briefly disappeared into the kitchen before returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Did you just take that from our host's fridge?"

"It's a cheap and common brand. I'll replace it later."

Grabbing a chair next to Peter, Mozzie poured them each a glass of wine. Peter murmured his thanks. For a moment, they remained silent before Mozzie's eyes wandered to Neal, who had finally been conquered by exhaustion and dozed off into a restless sleep. Following Mozzie's gaze, Peter grimaced before taking a sip from his glass.

"It won't be all right, will it?" spoke Mozzie suddenly.

A pause.

"I trust Hughes and Bancroft," said Peter at last. "If we have faith–"

"Faith's not going to fix what they did to him, Suit."

"No," said Peter slowly. "But that's why we have to stop Greeves and his people. We have to believe that the system works, and if we reach out–"

"The system is what did this to him! How can you trust the government after seeing what they did?"

"You seem to forget I work for the government," replied Peter. He paused. "What the CIA did – I refuse to believe it was anything other than actions of a few corrupt individuals. There are people who will listen to us."

Mozzie shook his head. "'And all world is made of trust and pixie dust.' You talk about belief and faith and 'goodness', but … people suck, Peter."

"Look, Mozzie–"

"I would have left you there."

Peter stilled. "What are you talking about?"

Mozzie looked away. "At the facility, I knew that if they had caught us – I came there for Neal. When I saw how he was, I just.…"

"You bastard."

"I know." Mozzie gulped down the rest of his glass in one go. "When I was a kid and got adopted…. It changed everything. The universe – I thought it was giving me a sign. I was so sure that I was going to fix the world, do something good.… Now look at me."

Mozzie moved to take a swig from the bottle, but Peter stopped him. "Don't."

"Why not? … Let's face it, all of this is my fault. I should have never been a scientist. I wanted to find a new treatment for brain damage, and instead my best friend was kidnapped. The CIA hurt people because of me.… I should have just let them have me. If I hadn't called Neal–"

"Cut the crap, Mozzie. The self-pity doesn't suit you."

"What?"

Peter sighed. "You're not responsible for what the CIA did. No matter what happened to Neal–"

"They tortured him."

Peter felt an ice grip squeeze his heart.

"I talked to Sa-someone. She hacked into the CIA records. What they did to him.…"

Peter tried very hard to fight the sick feeling. "If we want to stop them, we have to come forward. I'm an FBI agent with almost fifteen years of experience, and if Diana and you back me up–"

"It won't help," interrupted Mozzie. "Even a blind person can see how loyal your agent is to you. And nobody will believe me. They'll just say I'm crazy."

Peter frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. I've run your name. You're a professor at a reputable university, and you seem to be respected in biomedicine circles–"

"It won't matter if they get hands on my medical files…. Paranoid Personality Disorder. I was diagnosed when I was fourteen."

Damn it!

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I'm fine. And would you have believed me about Neal if I told you before?" Mozzie sighed. "Anyway, I'm telling you now, so…."

"Great. This is just great."

Agitated, Peter stood and started pacing the room.

For a moment, he contemplated keeping the information secret, but if the CIA found out….

They probably already knew.

Peter felt if as his hopes of a peaceful, right solution were slowly shattered to pieces. He swallowed. "If we want to have any chance of being listened to, we'll need Neal to give a statement."

Mozzie jumped up from his chair. "What?! Have you seen him? Peter, he's barely holding up; he's in no shape to give a statement–"

"I know! But without any evidence–"

"Oh, we have evidence all right," said Mozzie mirthlessly.

Peter paused. "What are you talking about?"

Mozzie hesitated. "I think it's time I told you about my hacker friend…."

o - o - o

In the morning, Diana and Charlie visited Mr. Berrigan, a once-time diplomat and a current advisor of one of the US senators. In the meantime, Peter met with Hughes, while Mozzie went to see Sally about the documents that she had managed to download while she had had access to the CIA database.

The three of them spent the next week going over everything Sally had managed to get her hands on. Between Peter's experience, Diana's investigative instincts and Mozzie's vast scientific knowledge, they eventually assembled a strong case to prove the CIA conspiracy.

Peter was pleased with their progress, and was slowly regaining faith in their ability to expose the CIA's wrongdoings. He had repeatedly met with Hughes and Bancroft and even spoke once to Mr. Berrigan. Together, they were working on a legal solution. Bancroft and Berrigan seemed confident that they would be able to get Peter and Mozzie a meeting with the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. At the same time, Mozzie threatened to put the evidence online if the Senate didn't hear them out, and Peter had to talk to him about the advantages of patience and waiting, stopping the scientist from doing anything rash.

Yet despite all of his determination, Peter felt like he was being torn apart.

He hadn't seen Elizabeth in days; in fear of being found, they were moving from place to place, and Peter had only talked to El a couple of times on the phone and exchanged a few messages through Hughes. And then there was Neal, who was a mere shadow of the man Peter had once known and admired.

Though he followed them to whatever place they were currently hiding, Neal still barely spoke a word to anyone, including Mozzie. The once so-charming con man was barely going through the motions, and Peter couldn't fail to notice the way Neal flinched whenever someone made a loud sound or approached him too quickly. He was barely eating, and more than once, Peter had found himself awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of Neal's screams. However, when he tried to talk to Neal or clumsily comfort him after a nightmare, the other man just brushed him off, giving him his con smile that was so obviously fake that Peter wanted to hit someone.

It wasn't right.

Christmas Day had come and passed. Separated from their loved ones, none of them felt in much mood for a celebration.

On the eleventh day since they had rescued Neal, Peter finally found himself cracking under the pressure. He had a yelling argument with Mozzie that had sent Neal hiding who knew where, and then almost snapped at Diana who had spent the day cozying up to some senators and was only doing her job. Mentally exhausted, Peter slammed the apartment door behind himself and went running, trying to clear his head so he could focus on the job.

An hour later, Peter found himself in a park, thinking of how things had gotten so out of control. They were all tired, tense and edgy, but there was no point in taking it out on each other.

He was going to fix this. He didn't know how yet, but he was going to fix it all. With his purpose renewed, Peter found his way back to their apartment.

The meeting with the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs could not come soon enough.

o - o - o

Once again, Mozzie found himself in the bathroom, throwing up until everything that he had had for lunch ended in the toilet.

One hundred and forty-seven. That was how many deaths there had been during the course of "Project Lethe".

Every day, seeing Neal's newfound fear was incredibly painful. And yet, Mozzie was now thinking that his friend had still been lucky – as much as you could speak of luck anyway.

When the CIA first began adapting his procedure, they hadn't been careful enough as they messed with people's brains. Therefore, a third of the initial "test subjects" had died of strokes, aneurysms, drug overdoses and even brain tumors before the procedure had been "optimized". Even afterwards, there was still an occasional case that somehow went wrong, though they had become few and far between. According to the files, the CIA had managed to test their procedure on over one thousand people.

Flushing the toilet, Mozzie tried to stand up on his feet. He wavered when a strong hand caught him mid-fall and kept him upright. "Hey…."

Cleaning his face and looking up, Mozzie finally looked at his companion. "Hi."

With a grimace, Diana looked him over. "How long have you been at the files this time, Handerson? When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine–"

"You're unraveling. You're no good to anyone if you have a breakdown."

"If you're going to tell me to cowboy up–" started Mozzie warningly.

"Stop torturing yourself and take a break," said Diana. "Read a book, cook dinner, go out – I don't care. But you won't help anyone if you drive yourself to the ground."

"They killed people," croaked Mozzie. "I invented this and they killed people–"

Diana sighed. "Come on, sit down with me."

She poured them both a shot of scotch.

Mozzie frowned. "What…?"

"Sit down and listen."

Reluctantly, Mozzie accepted the seat opposite her. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Diana began to talk.

"My second case as a probie was a disaster. Even though Peter told me it wasn't my fault, I still blamed myself for what had happened…."

o - o - o

The first thing he noticed as he came to himself was that the world was shaking. There was a bowl with vomit in his lap, but the quivering hands that were holding it felt disconnected from the rest of his body. Slowly, he realized that someone had an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright. He felt like they'd smashed his skull and ripped out his brain.

A steady hand removed the bowl from his lap and cleaned his face.

"Better?"

"N-no."

"It's a common side effect after the procedure. We already gave you something to manage the migraine. It should become bearable in a few moments."

The earthquake wasn't from the outside; his own body was trembling. Slowly, taking deep breaths, he managed to get the shaking to subside. He realized he was in hospital gown, sitting on a bed, staring at a linoleum floor.

What…?

"Do you remember your name?" asked the same voice again.

His name…. "Neal Caffrey," he said at last.

"Good. What year is it?"

"I…." Neal hesitated. "2012?"

"Correct. Now, do you remember where you are?"

Lifting his head Neal tried to look around for clues while he racked his mind to remember….

"Neal?"

The voice was familiar…. Looking up and sideways, Neal stiffened when he recognized the familiar face. "Davis."

"So you remember. That's good to know." The agent removed his arm from around Neal's shoulders and stood up.

"You … my head…." The last thing he remembered was talking to Davis about something … but when had that been? How did he get here and what had they done to him in the meantime?

"What's going on?"

"You don't remember?" asked Davis.

"I…."

"You signed a contract, Neal. We gave you a new brain so we could fix you. You're a CIA agent now."

"WHAT?!"

Suddenly, Davis turned into Adams, who frowned at him. "You're still flawed. Move your ass, Caffrey. The board is waiting for you…."

NO!

With a scream, Neal shot up in the bed. Trembling all over, he scrambled up, knowing he had to get away, run, hide…. Then he almost tripped over something, and he realized it was Mozzie in a sleeping bag on the floor.

What was Mozzie doing there?!

In horror, Neal moved to wake Moz up … and then he remembered. He wasn't in the facility anymore.

Of course. He had gotten away, thanks to Moz and Peter. He had heard that Diana, Sally and some of his other friends had helped too, but it had been Peter and Mozzie who had really rescued him from there. Neal still couldn't believe that Mozzie had been the mastermind behind most of it. He loved Moz, but his friend hadn't planned a real con ever since he'd been twelve years old.

The CIA couldn't touch him. He'd gotten away. He was safe here.

Neal didn't feel safe at all.

Stepping over Mozzie's body, he made his way to the kitchen. Trying to stop the tremors in his hands, he washed his face again and again…. It wasn't helping. They had used him, broken him; they had violated his mind and soul and nothing Mozzie or Peter said made it any better. He was dirty and so goddamn scared, and he had thought that he was so smart but they had found his weakness and kidnapped him. They had stripped him of his charm, his silver tongue, his courage and his sense of self, and Neal tried to fake it but it wasn't working, because he had betrayed Moz, and he might not have wanted to but he had still done it–

He should have protected Mozzie, but instead it had been him who had needed to be rescued.

He dreamed of forgetting his own name, and he dreamed of Mozzie being tortured, and sometimes it was Neal who held the cloth to his face. He dreamed of shooting Peter, and didn't want to but then Davis held his hand and Neal did it and then walked away. Some days, he dreamed of his mother, Ellen, and June, and his mother didn't care but Ellen and June were disappointed that he was a pathetic failure. But most times he dreamed of the cold cell and the waterboard and the mind device, and he begged to be left alone but it never worked, because they always came back, always found him….

He didn't know who he was anymore.

Neal's stomach clenched in hunger, so he opened a cabinet and found some bread, but despite or maybe because of the pain he couldn't make himself eat more than half a slice. He knew he hadn't been eating much, but everything tasted like ashes in his mouth. He sometimes pretended when Mozzie was around, but he knew his friend wasn't being fooled. Moz tried to talk to him, tried being gentle, tried the hard approach, tried conning him or even begging with him, but Neal couldn't find it in himself to care. Everything was bleak and gray, and in the end, even hunger seemed like a better distraction from the world around him. At least the physical pain sometimes took him away from the mess in his head and gave him focus, even for a few minutes.

He wanted to run, but even more he wanted to hide somewhere; to fall sleep and never be found again.

Peter, Mozzie and Diana were all focusing on making a case against the CIA. Neal had seen them going over the documents that Sally had stolen when she had hacked the CIA database. In five days, Peter and Mozzie were going to present their case in front of the Senate committee, and Neal had heard that Mozzie had secretly met with one of the FBI psychologists and Hughes' friends who had given a written statement to confirm Mozzie's sanity. Neal had been watching them from afar, but he hadn't volunteered his help. Instead, he had been making his own plans.

Peter believed that they could expose the CIA and then everything would return to normal, but he was wrong. Deep down, Neal knew the Senate was never going to believe them, and then he would either be arrested, or the CIA would find a way to bring him back to their lab.

He couldn't stay here.

The first few days, there had always been someone keeping their eyes on him; Mozzie, Peter or even Diana, but now they were all tired and their attention had slipped. Neal worried about waking them up, but then he had always been good at sneaking away unnoticed. Tiptoeing around the apartment, he collected a small rucksack, which he filled with clothes and some barest necessities. He paused at the door. Given the nature of his escape, Neal had few things that belonged to him, and the weather outside was going to be cold. Hesitating for a moment, Neal put on Peter's coat and Mozzie's scarf.

With one last glance, Neal looked at Mozzie, Peter and Diana's sleeping forms. The he slipped out of the apartment.

o - o - o

Peter had prepared for this. He had spent countless hours talking to Hughes, Bancroft and Diana's dad, then almost as long talking to his lawyer, finally writing his speech and talking with Bancroft and Mr. Berrigan again. It was the second week of January, seven weeks since he had tried to arrest Neal, four weeks since he, Mozzie and Diana had rescued him from the CIA. Yet as he sat behind a table in a small office of the Senate Building in Washington DC, wearing his best suit and an expensive tie, Peter couldn't help the chill that ran across his spine.

He'd been warned that this would take a while, but he hadn't expected the wait to last nearly two hours. He was strongly aware of the security guards who were watching him, but tried to keep his calm and focus and not let that affect him. He had done his best and more; he had practiced what he would say in front of Diana, Hughes, Mozzie and anyone who'd listen; he had thought of possible objections and the way he would counter the inevitable disbelief or disdain.

He hadn't seen Elizabeth in four weeks, though he knew she was in an FBI safe house somewhere, no doubt upset about their separation and not being able to handle her catering business. On top of that, Neal had disappeared two weeks ago, and even Mozzie swore that he didn't know where Neal was, though supposedly he had left a note that he had gone of his own volition.

Suddenly, the door opened and Bancroft walked out. "They want to speak to you now, Peter."

"Thank you, sir."

Standing up, Peter cleared his throat, then clenched his fists, then unclenched them again. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the door to the chamber where the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs was waiting for him.

It was time to stop the CIA and get their lives back.

o - o - o

The bed sheets that had been kicked away long ago were lying in a heap on the floor next to the bed. Despite the snowstorm outside, the room was hot, reeking of sweat and sex. Too tired for any more action, Mozzie placed a kiss on the side of Sally's neck, then watched her naked form as she sat up and pushed her legs over the edge of the bed. He admired her perfectly shaped breasts and her neckline as Sally bent down to pick up the sheets, and then smiled at her when she covered them both with a single blanket. Then they cuddled as their bodies slowly began to cool down.

As they stared at each other, holding hands, Mozzie cleared his throat. "Does this mean you forgive me for skipping on you earlier?"

"Don't do it again," said Sally firmly.

"I'm not an idiot," replied Mozzie.

"Good."

For a long while, they remained lying there in silence.

It had been a week since Peter and Mozzie's appearance in front of the Senate committee. Despite all their preparations, despite Peter's brilliance and his speech skills, despite all the overwhelming evidence, Mozzie had been sure that they wouldn't be believed. When the Committee had promised to look into the operation, Mozzie had felt that his fears had been justified, and started planning on leaking the evidence to the public, no matter the consequences to himself. Then two days ago, Peter had called him with the unofficial news from Diana's dad that the operation was being shut down entirely and that Greeves was facing a disciplinary hearing. Peter and Diana faced no repercussions for their actions, Neal had been cleared of all charges in the Mondrian case, and Mozzie could go back to his university and his research, free to resume his life and take his job back as if nothing had happened.

The first thing Mozzie had done was to call his dad and Mr. Jeffries, letting them know that he was all right and that he would see them soon. However, he still had to tie up several loose ends. One of them was the gorgeous woman that was currently lying next to him in bed.

As it turned out, Sally's place might have been perfectly protected against hackers, spies and intrusive governments, but it lacked in matters of proper window insulation.

"I think we better get dressed," said Mozzie reluctantly when yet another shiver ran through Sally's body.

"Fine."

Pulling apart, they began to put their clothes on. Later, they reunited in the kitchen, where Mozzie had already started to make them a pot of Hot Toddy. Wrapping her arms around him, Sally gave Mozzie a peck on the cheek before sitting down on a bar chair by the kitchen counter. When he was done, Mozzie split the drink into two large mugs and took the place opposite Sally.

With a smile, Sally accepted her mug. "Thanks, Mozzie."

"'We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.'" Mozzie hesitated. "Sally, I…. what you did for me and Neal…."

"You mean how I hacked into the CIA database?" asked Sally with no small amount of pride. "I didn't mind. It was fun."

"Just ... thank you."

"You're welcome."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "I, err … can I ask you a favor? The Senate promised to shut down the operation, but I'm not sure if … well..."

"You want me to keep an eye on the CIA for a while," surmised Sally.

"I can't let them do this again," said Mozzie.

Sally nodded. "They're changing all their encryptions and codes, but…. I can still try."

"Okay."

Mozzie smiled at the pleasing news. Of course, he was already working a few other angles himself, in case Sally had said no and because it never hurt to keep one's options open. At the same time, Mozzie was well aware that the Vulture was the best hacker in the whole US. It was good to know that Sally had his back.

With the CIA situation under control, he had to figure out what to do next.

Mozzie knew he could easily just step back into the shoes of Paul Handerson. His university job was still there, his absence explained away as a courtesy of the government. But even if it wasn't for the controversy about his research, Mozzie didn't know if he could go back to his old life. Over the last three months, he had been on the run, had rediscovered his criminal skills, fallen in love and faced the FBI, the CIA and a Senate committee. Suddenly, going back to the laboratory seemed boring, no matter how much Mozzie enjoyed doing research.

But his decision could wait. First, Mozzie had to take care of his family.

o - o - o

It was late in the evening. The bar was full of people, with most guests sitting around drinking their beverages, while a few couples danced to the live music of a local jazz band. In the background was a pool table, where men were hustling and trying to take each other for a couple of twenties or the occasional fifty.

Of all the players, the most talented was a handsome man with a charming smile and incredibly blue eyes. Dressed in a cheap suit and a ridiculous hat, he looked like bad imitation of someone from the old Rat Pack group. However, whenever his hands lifted the cue, his touch was steady, his game perfect as he delivered one ball after the other into the pockets.

Finally, the young hustler put the eight-ball into the called pocket and gave his competitor and the audience a megawatt smile. "Good game. Anyone else fancy a rematch, gentlemen?"

"Against you? There's no point," one of the bystanders snorted.

"Don't worry, Dino. You'll find a new sucker next time," said the man's competitor with a friendly smile and patted his shoulder, ignoring how the other man flinched and pulled away.

It soon became apparent that the other people of the group shared that sentiment. When he realized that he would have no more luck in that club that night, Neal collected his winnings and said goodbye to the group. Then he put on his coat and exited the bar, bracing himself against the cold of the winter night as he headed into the streets.

Feeling the cash buried deep in his inner pocket, Neal watched his surroundings as he walked quickly towards his apartment.

He jumped at the unexpected honking of a distant car, pressing his back against the wall of a closed shop. When he realized there was no danger, he continued walking, but kept looking over his shoulder. When he saw a loud group of drunk men walking over the street in his direction, he hid behind the nearby corner and waited until they passed. By the time he finally reached his apartment ten minutes away from the bar, he was sweating, his hands were shaking again and he felt like he had just run a marathon.

Finding his keys, Neal unlocked his door and then stepped inside. He closed the door again and then collapsed against it, taking heavy, harsh breaths. When he played pool surrounded by warm light, jazz and drinks, he could put on the façade and almost pretend that he was still the same man as before. However, as soon as the door closed behind him, his mask slipped off and he was once again drowning; a broken shadow of his former personality.

With the last bits of strength, Neal pulled away from the door and went further inside his apartment. The place was a mess, a perfect reflection of the inside of his soul. The kitchen sink was filled with dirty plates, the trash was overflowing with empty food packages and the corner of the room had a damaged easel and several torn canvases.

Neal collapsed onto an empty chair, put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

He had run away, thinking that he would feel safer in his anonymity, but it hadn't been enough. He still felt like the CIA was just an inch behind him, that they would grab him any moment now and drag him back to his cell. He thought about leaving town, but then he realized that it wouldn't be enough; they would still be able to track him down.

No, what he needed was a new start. He would leave the country and go far, far away, somewhere where even Greeves and Davis wouldn't be able to find him. He'd need new papers – he didn't think he could handle them himself, but he still knew how to find some of the old competition and he had made enough playing pool over the last few weeks to be able to afford a new passport and a new identity.

Tomorrow. He was going to get them tomorrow.

Neal tested the decision in his head, and found that it didn't bring him any peace or relief. But he didn't really have a choice.

Standing up, Neal was about to grab something for dinner when he stiffened.

Someone knocked at the door.

They had found him.

There was a window and a fire escape –

The knocking got more persistent. "Neal? Neal, it's me."

Neal stilled when he recognized the voice. "Moz?" he called tentatively.

"Right here, man. Listen, can you open the door, or do I have to pull out my lock picks?"

For a moment, Neal hesitated. Then he went to let his friend in. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"You told me about this safe house a few years back, remember? Of course, it took me three weeks to find the exact address, but I knew I'd find you eventually." Unfazed, Mozzie stepped inside. "Wow. I love what you've done with this place…. Neal–"

"I'm fine, Moz," replied Neal automatically, not liking the expression on Mozzie's face. "Are you sure you weren't followed? The CIA–"

"They can't bother you anymore. Peter and I, we went to the Senate. They shut the whole thing down."

"It's a trick," replied Neal immediately.

"No, it's not, and believe me, I was skeptical." Mozzie took a deep breath. "Diana's dad is keeping us informed about the Senate, Hughes is in touch with his NSA contacts and Sally is watching the CIA and listening to rumors. They shut down their 'research centers'. Greeves's been fired and everyone else involved in the project is being suspended and under investigation. The CIA even admitted framing you for stealing the Mondrian…. Neal, it's over."

It couldn't be right. He would have known…. It had to be a trick.

Wordlessly, Neal just shook his head.

Mozzie gave him a sad smile. "Listen, kid, I think we need to talk…."

o - o - o

Sitting in the kitchen, eating dinner with Elizabeth and watching Satchmo as he wiggled his tail in his bed, Peter once again exhaled in relief and released the tension that he hadn't properly acknowledged until he felt it let go of his heart.

The last few weeks had been horrible. First the CIA, then being in hiding, not being able to see El, then nearly losing his job…. He had gotten his badge back two weeks ago, but even now, a part of him still expected OPR to return and suspend him for what had legally been a break-in into the facility of another government agency.

Looking at Elizabeth, Peter relaxed even more when she smiled at him. They had talked about the whole thing, but Peter knew El still wasn't okay with what had happened. He wondered how long it would take them to get completely back to normal, before they would stop calling each other just a bit too often, holding each other a bit too close or tossing in the bed restlessly at night.

But they had time.

Suddenly, Elizabeth chuckled.

"What?" asked Peter in confusion.

"You're staring at me," said El. "It's…."

"Creepy?"

El smiled. "No, it was – you looked – happy. It was actually kind of sweet."

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. "I love you so much, hon…."

This was them. And Peter had always loved the small moments, always knew how to appreciate the simple things, but now that he had come home, he felt it even stronger than before.

"You want to watch a movie later?" asked Peter. "Just you, me and Satchmo, some beer, no distractions…."

"Sounds perfect," said El with a smile.

He was the luckiest man in the universe.

They settled on a romantic comedy, and Peter was just about to put the DVD in the player when Satchmo rose up in his bed and someone knocked at the door.

Peter and El exchanged a look.

"I'll get it," said Peter. He went to the door, determined to get rid of the intruder as quickly as possible so he and El could return to their evening.

Pushing down his irritation, Peter opened the door – and stilled.

"Hey," said Neal softly.

Peter cleared his throat. "Hey yourself."

He waited for Neal to speak up, but the younger man remained silent. Looking him over, Peter felt a mixture of worry and sadness. Neal had clearly lost weight, and judging by the circles around his eyes, he was barely sleeping, but the thing that hurt the most was the haunted look in his eyes. Peter was once again reminded that the CIA might have been out of their lives now, but the effects of their actions would stay with them long after they had left the facility behind.

If he hadn't tried to arrest Neal….

But it was now water under the bridge, and Peter couldn't take it back even if he wanted. Besides, knowing how many future victims might have been saved by revealing the conspiracy, Peter couldn't regret doing his job, even knowing how much suffering they had caused in the long run – and to Neal in particular.

He wondered whether Neal blamed him for that.

"You left without speaking to me," said Peter the first thing that came to his mind.

"I didn't talk to anyone."

"Right."

The door was open as they stood there in silence. Behind Neal, snowflakes were falling from the sky.

"You want to come in?" asked Peter, breaking the silence again.

He watched the shudder that ran through Neal's body, but then Neal braced himself and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, Peter felt like he was treading a completely unknown territory.

"So, how are you holding up?" asked Peter.

Silence.

"I – they did something to my brain," said Neal at last. "Somehow, they – I can't paint. I can't draw, and I tried but I can't, and…." Neal cleared his throat. "Mozzie said that it was over, but…. You wouldn't lie to me. I need to know if…."

Oh God.

"It's over," said Peter resolutely. "They're done. The Senate ended the project. Your name has been cleared, too. You can go home, Neal."

"Okay."

Half-turning away, Neal looked as if he was about to walk out of the door.

It was wrong, thought Peter dejectedly. It was wrong and he didn't know how to fix it–

"Hon?"

Peter turned around when Elizabeth appeared in the hallway.

"Hey, hon," he said awkwardly. "This is Neal. Neal, this is El. I think you've met on some of your events before, right hon?"

"We have," said El.

Neal gave them a weak smile. "It's nice to see you, Elizabeth. Thanks for talking to me, Peter. I'm going to go…."

"Wait," said Elizabeth. She gave Neal a soothing smile. "Neal, why don't you stay for a while? We have some pot roast left from dinner."

Neal swallowed. "I don't think that's such a good idea…."

"I insist," said Elizabeth.

Very few people had ever been able to tell his wife no. Not surprisingly, Neal Caffrey wasn't an exception.

Peter hoped Elizabeth knew what she was doing, because he certainly had no idea. It wasn't like there was a protocol for inviting over a felon that you had arrested twice and then broken out of a CIA facility.

El gave Neal the rest of the pot roast before they all went to the living room. Peter and El settled on the sofa while Neal took the armchair, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

El put on her pleasant smile. "So, Neal, Peter told me you work as a security consultant. I heard that you run mock heists as a part of your job.…"

Neal shook his head. "I did, but … I was probably fired. My new boss sort of inherited me from the previous management, and he never really liked me. It's for the best, though…. I don't think I could do that anymore."

"You'll figure it out," said Peter. "You're one of the most brilliant people I know, Caffrey…. Don't let it go into your head."

Neal gave him a weak smile, but didn't say anything.

Peter felt the frustration and grief rise in him again.

Elizabeth on the other hand remained persistent. "So, what is your favorite painting, Neal?"

Neal opened his mouth to answer, when it happened.

"Satchmo!"

Seeing the pot roast in Neal's hands, Peter's dog leaped on the armchair and tried to stick his snout into Neal's plate. Neal, who wasn't anticipating that, cried out and dropped the plate, which broke as soon as it hit the floor. Suddenly losing his interest in the meat, Satchmo settled his front paws Neal's legs and licked Neal's face instead.

Elizabeth stood up first. "I'll fix it," she said and moved to collect the broken plate.

"Satchmo, get down!" Peter shook his head and moved to pull the Lab off. "I'm sorry, Neal–"

But then he stilled when he saw what was happening.

Neal's hands were shaking a bit; however, he was smiling as he gently petted Satchmo's fur.

"There's a great Picasso at the Met that I really like," said Neal with a surprisingly clear voice.

Peter swallowed any sarcastic remarks. "Tell me about it," he said instead.

They sat in the living room, and talked about Picasso, Dalí and Van Gogh while Neal continued petting Satchmo, and then Elizabeth joined them again. At some point, Peter went to get them some beer and some wine, and their conversation turned to one of Peter's old cases that Neal may or may not have heard of before. They talked, and then they finished the wine, and finally Neal fell asleep in the armchair and El covered him with a blanket before she and Peter tiptoed to the kitchen so as not to wake Neal up.

"Elizabeth," murmured Peter as they got to the kitchen. "What–"

"Shhh." El kissed his lips. "Let's go upstairs."

o - o - o

Elizabeth had fallen asleep long ago, but Peter was still tossing and turning in their bed. Finally, he gave it up as a bad job and went downstairs to get a glass of water. He tried to figure what he would do tomorrow.

He was going to work of course, but before that, he was going to drive Neal to June. And then…. Peter sighed.

It was clear from this evening that Neal would need a lot of help to recover from his recent trauma. Peter knew that June and Mozzie would be there for him, and possibly also Hale and Sally. For the first time, he wondered whether he himself could play a part as well.

He and Neal had always liked each other, even when Peter was first chasing Neal, but their relationship had never moved past that fond admiration – until the CIA had gotten involved and everything had changed. Peter liked Neal and had risked everything for him, and Neal trusted Peter when he perhaps shouldn't have – it was a mess.

"Hey."

Startled, Peter turned around. Neal was standing a few feet away, obviously also tired and awake, but unable to sleep.

"Hi, Neal."

Neal cleared his throat. "Sorry I fell asleep. I can go if–"

"Don't even think about it," said Peter. He hesitated. "There's a guest room on the next floor, in case you don't want to sleep on the sofa…."

"I don't think I'm going to get much sleep either way," said Neal with a grimace. "Thanks, though. It means a lot."

"You should at least try," Peter pointed out reasonable. "Besides, Satchmo can keep an eye on you."

Neal gave him a hesitant chuckle. "Okay…."

Peter gulped down the rest of his water. "I'm going back upstairs now. If you want to look at the guest room…."

"The sofa will be fine," said Neal. He bit his lip. "Peter – thanks for coming for me. For getting me out of there."

"It's my job–"

"–to break into a CIA facility?" Neal quirked an eyebrow. "Must be an interesting job, then."

"I–"

"Peter. Thanks."

Peter cleared his throat. "You're welcome," he said at last.

Neal gave him a small smirk before returning to the living room. Peter stared at the empty place for a long time after Neal was already gone. For the first time, he contemplated whether perhaps something good might come out of the whole horrible affair. Then he shrugged, put the glass into the sink and walked back upstairs to El.

Only time will tell.

THE END

A/N: To quote another author at this website, I write because I enjoy it, I post because I love getting feedback. A special thanks to Wondo and thank you everyone else who had left a review :)

Also, let me once again mention my awesome cheerleaders and beta-readers – treonb, nywcgirl and mam711, who helped this fic come to life. I couldn't have done this without them.

Everyone who made it this far, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoyed the story :)

Lianne