A/N: Hey, this has been fun, thanks for the kind reviews. This story was really finished with the last chapter but I suppose Peter deserved a happy ending so I added this bit of nonsensical fluff. Thanks to those who pointed out the baby name snafu; it never occurred to me; I just like those names, anyhoo, I righted that. White Collar had my soul-I mourn its demise.

Peter was over the moon, blinded by joy, high as a kite and every other happy cliché you could think of. He didn't know how Neal pulled it off but at the moment he didn't really care, his friend was alive and Peter's world made sense again. Once he put two and two together (and he had to admit he was slow on the uptake on this one), it had taken him all of a day to make the necessary arrangements at work, book a ticket to Paris, throw some things in a suitcase and kiss his little family goodbye.

But somewhere over the Atlantic, when the euphoria dialed down to mere jubilance, the questions began forming, the how's and why's, and he became reflective; there was a lot to process, a lot to digest. There was more he didn't know than he did. Doubts started creeping in. He got a strange sense of déjà vu, jumping onto a plane to find Neal halfway around the world without a moment's hesitation, letting his emotions rule the day. What was he hoping to accomplish if and when he found him and how long was he prepared to look for him…maybe he didn't want to be found; so many questions. Peter had texted Mozzie just before leaving with a brief 'on my way', but the odds were slim he received it and even if he did there were no guarantees he'd share it with Neal.

By the time he disembarked the plane he was skittish and almost prepared to board the next flight back to New York. He had done a good job convincing himself it was enough to know Neal was alive and well; maybe that's all that was intended when he discovered the storage locker. Let the man live his life and wish him well. Except he knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't truly be able to do that until he saw him with his own eyes, in the flesh. Seeing is believing.

He made his way to the luggage carousel with all these thoughts assaulting him. He leaned against a railing waiting for his suitcase to make its appearance and looked at the throngs of people arriving and departing, when a certain coiffed head in the distance caught his eye. "Quit doing this to yourself Peter, it's not him," he admonished himself. But then, like something out of a movie, it suddenly was. Neal. Alive. Breathing. Not dead. Peter was grateful for the railing keeping him upright because his legs were starting to buckle. Any doubts and traces of anger were immediately forgotten. He stood paralyzed, unable to move, afraid this was just an illusion, yet another instance of seeing Neal's face everywhere, convinced if he moved towards him, he would vanish like a mirage. He could see Neal searching the crowd. Do something Peter, he thought, yell his name, wave, don't just stand here, but he was immobilized. It took another minute but Neal eventually spotted him, their eyes locking, blue meeting brown once again. Peter was still half-convinced he was seeing a ghost, except the ghost was moving, fighting the crowds, never taking his eyes off of him, frantically moving closer, until he bowled right into him. Not a ghost then.

Arms wrapped around Peter in a death grip and in a reversal of their Cape Verde reunion, it took Peter a full 10 seconds before he had the presence of mind to grip him back. He was real, warm, trembling, alive. Yup, this was worth the trip. "Let me look at you," and he pulled away to hold Neal at arms length, then cupped his teary face in his hands. "Hi," he said softly.

Neal choked out a half sob, half laugh, "Hi", then he bit his lip and reeled Peter back in for another hug. "I'm sorry, don't hate me, it was the only way, I can explain everything," Neal sputtered into his shoulder.

Peter nodded against him fighting against a fresh wave of tears. He had watched him die, cried over his body in a morgue, buried him, grieved and mourned in ways he swore did some permanent damage to his psyche, and now he was in his arms. He was exhausted, physically, emotionally and felt very old, but really he'd never been better.