This is the final chapter of this story. Thanks to all for reading and for all who took the time to post a review.

Chapter Seven

"He failed to spin the ball and let the laces out..." Neal opened his eyes; blue light flickered on the ceiling of the room. "..so the Sooners miss the opportunity to capitalize on the turnover." His eyes found the television mounted on the wall; a burgundy-clad team lined up against their orange and white adversaries. "Ohio State takes over at the 30-yard line with three sixteen left in the third quarter."

Football.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it was long enough for the pain medication he'd taken at noon to be wearing off. His shoulder was throbbing; he imagined it had been pain and not the football game that had awakened him. The last thing he remembered was lying on the bed, listening to the doctor talk to Peter and Elizabeth. He didn't know how much time had passed; there was no sign of Elizabeth and the light outside the hospital window had waned into twilight. Peter was still there, awake and pale in the low light from the fluorescent strip above his bed. Leaning against several pillows, he was sipping from an oversized cup with an NYCH Logo; he looked much better than he had earlier. If one substituted a recliner for the hospital bed and a brew for the plastic cup, put Peter in sweats and gave his complexion a bit of color, it could be just another Saturday afternoon. Peter was a creature of habit; he found contentment in structure, so it wasn't surprising that, shot or not, he was keeping to his usual routine and watching College Football.

There was a time when Neal had seen structure as an impediment to circumvent and routine as a liability to be avoided but working with Peter had changed that to some degree. His life was now very structured, and since his routine, for the most part, aligned directly with Peter's, it was very predictable. But as much as it felt constrictive and confining, he'd come to realize there was a certain comfort to be found in a stable, predictable life. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Part of him, encouraged by dire warnings from Mozzie, felt it was a trap, something that was dulling his edges and making him soft. He'd survived in life by being observant and versatile and by trusting no one but himself. Even when a job had required him to work with others, he had been keenly aware that truth was fluid and honesty went only as far as it served a purpose. And it wasn't just criminals; Neal had lost count of the number of those who claimed to uphold the law but could be blackmailed, bought off or convinced to look the other way. Everyone had a price; you just had to find out what denomination of currency they required. It was just the way it was.

Or at least he'd thought that until he'd met Peter Burke.

When he'd realized the FBI agent on his trail was smart, intuitive and posed a real threat, he'd looked into his life to determine where his particular weaknesses lay. He'd checked the official profile as well as the more difficult to access Federal Bureau of Investigation Personnel File. It was extensive; Peter Burke was an excellent agent and had been involved in several high profile cases. There were no blemishes on his record, no hint of questionable behavior. Finding nothing there, Neal moved on to the personal aspects of his adversary's life. He'd checked his bank accounts, his credit cards and analyzed his spending habits. Again, there was nothing to suggest the man had any dirty secrets. He paid his taxes, lived within his means and had no unexplained, extra income nor any suspect expenditures. Neal even hit up his contacts on the street, people who'd crossed paths with Agent Burke in any capacity or knew people who had. Still, there was nothing to cast a disparaging light on the man's character. There were no gambling problems, no women on the side, no cash taken under the table or any instances of Quid pro quo. According to a vendor in Federal Plaza, Agent Burke wouldn't even take a free cup of coffee. From all appearances, Peter Burke was entirely above reproach. He was a good agent, a respected co-worker, an honest man, and a faithful husband.

Neal had been dumbfounded. He'd never encountered anyone like that in his life and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. Wanting to see this anomaly for himself, he'd tossed caution to the wind and, instead of putting distance between him and the agent pursuing him, had waited outside the bank, spoken with him and handed him a green sucker.

Engaging with the agent had been an impulsive, reckless thing to do. The last thing he'd needed to do was draw the man's attention but that's precisely what he'd done. And he hadn't stopped there; over the next several years, he'd continued to look for ways to interact with Agent Burke. He'd told himself it was just a game he was playing with a worthy adversary but on some level, he knew there was more to it than that. He wanted Peter's attention, wanted to be more than just another case file, another criminal. He wanted to stand out, to be unique. He wanted to impress the agent, to show him he was smart and daring, quick-witted and entertaining. He wanted Peter Burke to know him, not necessarily his name, but who he was.

More specifically, he wanted him to like him. He didn't know why it was so important to him; like him or not, Peter Burke's sole purpose was to put him in prison. And three years later, he did just that. But four years after that, Peter accepted his offer to help him catch the Dutchmen and then arranged for him to work out the remainder of his sentence in his custody as a CI.

Why had he done that? Why had he taken such a risk?

Because, he'd said, he liked him.

It had taken seven years but there it was; a word of affirmation from a man who's opinion meant more to him than it should. Neal remembered how he'd felt, how his heart had sped up and he'd been unable to keep from grinning. He'd had to remind himself that Peter might like him, or at least like the skills he brought to the table, but that was as far as it could ever go. Peter was FBI and he was a CI, a criminal on work release. That was a barrier that, no matter how much he wished otherwise, could never be breached.

But yesterday afternoon, as they sat huddled together in an abandoned house that reeked of death, it had been. Peter told him he was a good man and called him the best friend he'd ever had. Neal had felt that way about Peter for some time but never dreamed it would ever be reciprocated. The direness of the situation prompting the disclosure in no way made Neal doubt its veracity. When faced with the possibility that their partnership was coming to an abrupt end, he too had said things he would never have otherwise. He'd admitted, even to himself on some level, just how important Peter Burke was to him.

God, he thought, recalling those last few moments of consciousness, he hoped Peter didn't remember any of that. Having control over his physical being was bad enough but Peter knowing the emotional hold he had was something else altogether. The man already had too much power over him and he didn't need him to-

"Hey." He hadn't made a sound, hadn't moved a muscle, yet Peter had sensed his return to consciousness. "How are you feeling?"

I'm okay," Neal croaked, startled by the unexpected attention. Peter's ability to read him was nothing short of uncanny but, thank goodness, his skills didn't extend as far as mind reading. Even so, Neal could feel color flooding his cheeks and hoped the dimness of the room was somewhat concealing it. "How long have I-" He started to raise up but his breath caught as pain cut through his side.

"Okay, huh?" Peter's brows raised skeptically as Neal sank back to his original position.

"Well," Neal amended with reluctance. "Mostly okay." Wishing to spare his ribs further strain, he opted to allow mechanics to help him achieve a more dignified stature. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Just a couple hours," Peter replied, still eyeing him doubtfully. "But you were really out of it. Didn't even wake up when they came by to get my statement."

"Agents Ross and Barnwell," Neal supplied, having met them himself earlier in the day. "Inspection Division."

The two men had explained that any time an agent fired his weapon outside of training or was involved in an incident such as this, the FBI's Inspection Division had to compile a report reconstructing what happened. This was done by studying the scene, interviewing witnesses, and reading all medical, ballistics and autopsy reports related to the occurrence. Even though Neal had known he was a witness and not a suspect, his heart had still raced when the two men had flashed their badges. It was a force of habit, he guessed, a reflexive instinct of years spent on the wrong side of the law.

"Yeah, they told me they'd already talked to you."

"I got the impression it's just a formality." Now that pain in his side was less intense, Neal again was aware of the increasing pain in his shoulder. He shifted slightly, hoping to ease his discomfort. "It's not like anyone could dispute that you acted in self-defense."

"Well," Peter returned, "it's their job to investigate it all the same but I agree, its pretty straight-forward. Should wrap up fast without any issues."

"What translates as fast in the FBI?" Bureaucracy moved at a snail's pace. Neal had found sometimes that worked to his advantage. Other times, not so much.

"Granted fast is a relative term," Peter admitted, "but in this case, I think by midweek at the latest. Not that it matters," he added. "I'll be on desk duty for the foreseeable future. We both will."

Neal had taken pain medication at lunch so it had to be getting close to time for the next dose. Usually, he didn't like anything that dulled his senses but right now, it would be worth it as long as it dulled his pain as well. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Did you hear me?" Peter was staring at him.

"Yeah," Neal replied, having been momentarily distracted weighing the pros and cons of diminished capacities. "I heard you. Midweek."

"I said we were both going to be on desk duty for the foreseeable future."

He could tell Peter had expected a protest but the odd combination of pain and gratitude had kept Neal from launching one. No one hated desk duty more than he did and he was sure after a few hours of copyright infringement and mortgage fraud he'd be climbing the walls. But right now a little boredom didn't seem like the worse thing that could happen.

Not in light of how close he'd actually came to the worse thing. Neal could still picture Peter, lifeless on the plastic covered floor with the medics frantically working on him. He'd thought he was dead, that help had come too late. What that would have done to Elizabeth, to him...

A lump rose in his throat and he felt an all too familiar tightness in his chest. It was the same feeling had driven him from his bed last night, culminating in him on the floor, hysterical and demanding to be taken to Peter. It hadn't been his finest moment, and it was just one more thing he hoped Peter never learned about.

Peter was watching him, waiting for his answer. Neal swallowed, trying to regain his rapidly slipping composure. If he was this weepy without opioids, maybe he'd better pass on pain medication. He was fairly certain his defenses couldn't withstand further downgrade.

"Well," he began, finding it difficult to keep his voice steady, "To be honest I'm just glad we're alive to be put on desk duty."

Unable to hold Peter's gaze, Neal picked up his NYCH cup from the table near the bed, but the movement sent new ripples of pain through his torso. He stifled a grunt but couldn't keep his hand from trembling when, after taking a sip of water, he replaced the cup. It hurt, but the sharp sensation had an immediate, two-fold benefit. It jerked him from the edge of an emotional precip and provided something to which Peter could attribute his questionable behavior.

"You hurting?" Peter's brow furrowed in concern.

Neal didn't lie to Peter but he didn't always tell him the complete truth, either. He was good at deflecting, at employing a double entendre when possible and even at using a literal truth in place of giving a direct answer. It had worked better in the beginning; by now, experience had taught Peter to be more wary of his verbal acrobatics. Neal continually had to broaden his repertoire, to sharpen his skills, and step up his game. Of course, that was part of the fun of working with Peter.

The challenge.

However, at present, Neal wasn't up to a challenge and had no reason to deny Peter's supposition. There was nothing at stake in admitting he was hurting; not even his pride. He and Peter were in the same boat, or more specifically, in the same hospital room. Both were injured, facing weeks of recovery and monotonous desk duty. It even looked like they were wearing color-coordinated hospital gowns.

"Let's just say I'll be glad when its time for a couple more of those pills they gave me at lunch." His attempt at levity fell short. The sharp pain of movement had lessened but the overall discomfort that had awakened him continued to grow in intensity.

"Buzz the Nurses' Station," Peter directed in his usual authoritative manner. "And tell them to bring you something for pain."

Watching football and bossing him around, Neal thought irritably. Peter had quickly fallen back into his usual routine.

"I'm not doing that," Neal snapped. Admitting he was hurting was one thing but calling someone about it was another. "It's not that bad, really," he continued in a more conciliatory tone. "I can wait until somebody comes in." Peter didn't look convinced. "Really. I can wait." Hoping to move on, Neal nodded at the television. "Who's winning, anyway?"

He expected some push back but he didn't get it. Instead, after a moment of hesitation, Peter took the not so subtle cue and turned his attention back to the game.

"Ohio State right now," he answered, "but I wouldn't count out Oklahoma. They're a good team; they can find a way to win."

"Sounds like my kind of team." Neal didn't have a team but if he did, he'd want it to fit that description.

They can find a way to win.

"My kind, too."

The respite from Peter's attention was short-lived because, after only a play or two, Neal again found himself the subject of Peter's focus.

"You know," Peter began a bit tentatively, "you don't have to tough it out on my account. You have nothing to prove. Especially not to me."

It was a nice thing for him to say and Neal could tell he meant it. At least, right now. But he was Neal Caffrey and Peter was Peter Burke and, in his mind, there would always be something he had to prove. To Peter, to the world, to himself.

"I'm not toughing it out," he responded. "I'm Cowboying up." Peter's wince told him he'd scored a hit with that remark. "But just until someone comes in," he added. "Then I'll ask them to bring me something."

"You promise?"

"What?" Neal laughed, "Are we in kindergarten? Want me to do a pinkie swear?"

"Maybe," Peter returned in good humor, "if you consider that a Binding Agreement."

Neal waved his pinkie at Peter. "Air Swear," he quipped, "because I'm not getting up."

"Perfect." Peter raised his own small digit and wiggled it. "Swear complete, agreement accepted."

He then picked his cup up and sipped through the straw. Then he took another, longer drink. Then, by the sound of it, he sucked up the remaining liquid on the third go.

"Looks like I need a refill," he announced. "Guess I'll have to buzz the nurses' station," he looked at Neal as he said it, a look of self-satisfaction on his face, "and get someone to come in."

Neal looked at Peter in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he finally mumbled, realizing full well he'd been played. "You conned me."

"Hey," Peter grinned, pressing the call button. "I learned from the best. Can you send someone in?" He responded at the prompt from the other end. "I need something to drink."

Five minutes later, Peter was sipping from his refilled cup and Neal was swallowing two Vicodin. Fifteen minutes after that, Peter was celebrating an Oklahoma win and Neal was celebrating sweet relief. Neal could feel the mind-numbing effect of the drug beginning to take hold. He wasn't hurting and Peter was going to be okay. They might be on desk duty for a while but the team of Caffrey and Burke would return.

And even if Peter didn't remember what he'd said the evening before, Neal would never forget it; Peter had called him a good man and the best friend he'd ever had. So for the moment, for this one brief moment in time, Neal felt complete contentment.

"Thank you." He was thinking it but didn't mean to say it.

"What for?" Peter asked, dialing down the volume of the post-game excitement on the television.

"Getting that refill." He was thankful for the pain medicine but there was a lot more he was thankful to Peter for. "And for looking after me," he added without thinking.

He regretted the words the minute they left his lips. Diminished capacities.

"You're welcome." Was Peter's sober, solemn reply. "I owe you a thanks, too, Neal."

"For what?" Neal asked, surprised Peter had let the slip pass without comment.

"For getting me back to Elizabeth." Peter's voice nearly broke as he spoke the name. "If you hadn't stayed with me..." He shook his head slowly as if at a loss. "I wouldn't have made it, Neal. You saved my life."

The sincerity of his proclamation and the emotion in Peter's voice caused a lump to rise in Neal's throat. He swallowed hard before responding.

"That's what friends do." His voice was strained but he held Peter's gaze. They were friends; Peter had said so himself. "But if you hadn't taken on Reich, neither one of us would have made it. So, technically," he added, "you saved my life first."

Peter regarded him thoughtfully. "Then let's just say it was a team effort."

"I like that," Neal replied. "Team Effort. A team that always finds a way to win."

That was he and Peter in a nutshell; a fantastic team that could find a way to win even in the direst of situations. Not just in the world of kidnappers bent on revenge but personally as well. They were an unusual pair, as different as night and day and yet they complemented each other like Yin and Yang.

"My kind of team," Peter stated, echoing Neal's earlier comment.

"My kind, too," Neal returned, closing his eyes. The hospital bed had suddenly become extremely comfortable. "Me and you; Caffrey and Burke."

They'd started out as adversaries but somehow, miraculously, they'd ended up as teammates. Peter might be his FBI handler, but he was also his friend and right now, as they shared this moment of camaraderie, he felt like a brother, or at least what Neal imagined a having a brother would feel like.

"Burke and Caffrey."

An older, know-it-all brother who was constantly telling him what to do and insisted on having things his way.

"Age before beauty, then."

Peter chuckled. "Go to sleep, pretty boy."

The End

At the Howser Clinic, Peter was given a rare glimpse of Neal without his filter and learned that he was the only person in his life Neal trusted. That proclamation of trust meant a lot to Peter but he never brought it up or reminded Neal that he'd said it. It gave Peter a confidence in their relationship that I felt Neal didn't get in the original series. The idea of this short story was to give Neal a similar moment. Hope you enjoyed it.