Neal was at the office before Peter - and before everybody else, too. The place was deserted, except for Neal at his desk near the door. Security must have let him in, Peter thought automatically.

Or not. Never met a lock he couldn't pick . . .

Peter purposefully dragged his mind away from thoughts of Neal's illegal skills - and the mischief the man could get up to in an office devoid of agents to keep an eye on him.

He'd meant to get in earlier today, really he had; the wrapup of the Wilkes case was going to keep all of them busy.

But it hadn't been a normal night. Normally, Peter Burke slept the sound sleep of the just. But he'd suffered through a mostly sleepless night, interrupted with stupid dreams of Neal looking at him earnestly while he told Peter the most absurd lies - and then looking childishly hurt when Peter didn't believe them. Of Neal disappearing, leaving behind only his anklet on Peter's desk with a red bow wrapped around it and a note that said, Here's your big chance to go three-and-oh! xoxo Neal. Of Neal with Wilkes, being tased over and over again. Of Neal walking away, Alex leading him by the hand and saying, You don't mind if I borrow him, do you? Of hearing a loud boom through the walkie-talkie - followed by silence. Of Jones' audible fear when he told Peter that Wilkes had shot Neal in the chest - why the hell hadn't he forced a vest on Neal at the airport? - that Neal was in the ambulance and Peter needed to meet them at the hospital right away.

Of rushing into the ER and seeing the stricken look on Jones' face, the blood on his shirt, his hands, that told him he was too late, that Neal was gone, gone . . .

Jesus. Enough. He forced his thoughts back to the here and now. Neal was fine. None of those things had happened yesterday. Except . . . yes, Neal had been tased. And of course, Neal had lied to him about "forgetting" the anklet, but that wasn't worth losing sleep over. Peter didn't like Neal's prevarication, but he accepted that it was a part of their routine - like drinking coffee. Or bickering. In truth, Peter didn't think Neal could stop lying anymore than he could stop breathing. And after Peter's disjointed, disturbing dreams of the night before, he didn't want to contemplate that scenario. He could live with the lies and half-truths - to a point anyway - because he didn't like the alternatives.

Which brought him back to the question of exactly what Neal was doing in the office so early - and whether Neal would tell the truth if asked.

Peter felt an odd sense of guilt. Neal had been through a lot the past two days . . . maybe he'd had some nightmares of his own last night. Yet here he was.

Neal wasn't the early-bird type. Peter often was, subscribing to the belief that the boss ought to set a good example. And, of course, he loved his job. Whereas Neal's custom - on the days Peter didn't pick him up, anyway - was to saunter in right before the workday started. Not late and yet not early either, as if to say, I'm here because I have to be, but I'm not excited about it. All part and parcel of Neal's governing philosophy - that is, to never appear to be trying too hard. At anything.

Right now, though, his consultant gave every impression of being hard at work, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, typing diligently. He didn't even look up as the elevator chimed and Peter opened the door.

Neal was in a rhythm, keys singing under his fingers. Once you got into the spirit of it – that is, as an exercise in self-aggrandizement - report-writing wasn't really that bad. It was fun, seeing how good he could make himself look in his version without going overboard. After all, who was going to contradict him, Wilkes?

He was pretty sure his theory of report-writing wouldn't quite dovetail with Peter's, but it would be awfully boring if he and Peter saw everything the same way, wouldn't it?

He heard the elevator ding and someone push the door open, but he was in the midst of a particularly eloquent sentence and wanted to finish his thought.

"You're here early."

A familiar voice. No doubt awaiting Neal's witty riposte.

"Well, what can I say, the guy I work for is a real slavedriver," Neal said, leaning back in his chair and raising an eyebrow.

Peter, never good at hiding his emotions, couldn't help the look of surprised disappointment.

Neal burst out laughing. "So sensitive! Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Maybe a little," Peter said, sounding miffed.

Neal rolled his eyes. "To quote someone I know, 'cowboy up.'"

"I never said you had to be here at this hour."

"Peter, take it easy. It was a joke." The agent just looked at him. Neal sighed. "Do I have to apologize for making a joke?"

Peter still looked stung. For once, Neal was at a loss. Usually Peter was easy to read, but there was an undercurrent here that he couldn't quite divine. Neal chalked it up to the agent still being annoyed over his quick trip off the reservation the night before.

But he certainly wasn't going to bring that up if Peter wasn't.

"Well, it's not that funny," Peter informed him. Neal made a face.

"The other day, you yelled at me because I was late. Today you're annoyed because I'm early. You might want to consider the virtues of consistency, Peter."

"Well, the only completely consistent people are dead," Peter informed him absently. He was scanning the top of Neal's desk.

"Look at you with the quotes - nice! You're channeling Mozzie," Neal said in an approving tone. "Let me guess: Oliver Wendell Holmes?"

"Aldous Huxley," Peter answered absently. He lifted his gaze to meet Neal's.

"There's nothing nefarious to see down there, you know," Neal said. He glanced down, then back up at Peter. After a beat he added lightly, "I already hid the incriminating stuff."

Peter didn't laugh at that joke either, Neal noted. On the contrary: he looked positively dour. Not to mention exhausted. Everybody's favorite FBI agent had certainly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed today.

"So - you don't have to be here," Peter persisted. "But you are - why?"

"Why? I am doing what most people here do - I am working." Neal drew out the last word, enunciating slowly and carefully like you might to someone who didn't speak English. "Is that so unusual that we need to make a federal case out of it?"

Now Peter was the one to roll his eyes.

"I know you've had a rough 24 hours," Peter said stubbornly. "You didn't need to be here at the crack of dawn. Hell, you could have taken today off if you wanted to."

"That's not what you said last night," Neal said, then wished heartily that he'd kept his mouth shut. He hadn't wanted to raise that topic.

Peter actually looked chastened. "Well, I – I was annoyed last night. I'm sorry – I probably should have said it."

The last sentence was said such a low voice, and so quickly, that for a moment Neal thought he'd misheard. In fact, though, Neal had excellent hearing, honed by years of listening for the tread of security guards on polished floors, the far-away sound of a tripped alarm, the satisfying click of the tumblers falling into place as a lock was picked . . . .

No, he hadn't imagined Peter's words, or misheard them. Neal felt his own eyes widen in spite of himself, then looked away to cover his shock. Under normal circumstances he'd have had a clever comeback, but instead all he could manage was, "Not necessary."

When what he really wanted to do was check Peter for some kind of secret-but-serious head injury.

Peter had just apologized to him.

Peter hardly ever apologized. Even when by rights he should. Like when he'd refused to believe Neal about being framed for the jewelry heist. You let me down, Neal, he'd said, in a solemn, self-righteous tone that made Neal want to grab Peter and shake some sense into him.

That moment had scared the crap out of Neal. And it wasn't Peter's lack of faith that scared him: rather, it was his own reaction to it. Neal had spent plenty of time around Peter and being chased by Peter and being frustrated by Peter. Yet no matter how close the call, how tense the confrontation, how heated the disagreement - he'd never imagined physically going at Peter until that moment. He'd had to fight the urge to reach across that table, grab Peter by the shirt, and say, I told you I didn't take it. Could you just, for once, believe me?

You let me down, Neal, Peter had said. Like hell. Thinking about it still pissed him off, all these months later.

Neal thought he might have been owed an apology after that, even if only a pseudo, half-hearted one, but nope.

Considering what Neal had done last night, it was odd that Peter would choose today of all days to say he was sorry. Neal had disappeared - sans anklet. And Peter had made it quite clear that he knew Neal had met with Alex and was conspiring with her to steal the box.

And still, after all of that, he'd apologized. Distinctly un-Peter-like behavior, and it put all Neal's senses on alert.

On the bright side, though, this must mean Peter's current mood didn't stem from Neal's antics of the night before. If it did, Peter surely wouldn't be asking Neal's forgiveness - for anything.

Okay, so he must be annoyed about something else.

Peter wouldn't let it drop. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question - why are you here so early?"

Eager to defuse this situation - though he had no idea why it even was a situation - Neal smiled his most charming smile, the one most people couldn't resist. True, Peter wasn't most people, but Neal figured it was worth a try.

"I did answer it, if you recall. Remember - working? You see, I just knew you were going to want a full report about everything that happened with Wilkes. Which means I've got a lot of writing to do. Figured I should start early."

Neal waited for a smart-aleck comment about how Peter had finally gotten him trained to do paperwork. He'd served Peter up a big hanging curveball and fully expected the agent to knock it out of the park. But Neal was left wanting. Instead, Peter gave him a long, searching look that ended with a curt nod. Then he walked up the steps to his office without saying another word.

Neal watched him go with narrowed eyes, still mulling the conversation over in his mind.