5

The fifth time, Peter almost cried with him. The truth was, the occasion was very bittersweet.

Peter had owned Neal for four years, and those four years had been a rollercoaster ride. And even though it hadn't always been easy, they had certainly been some of the most interesting years in Peter's career—as well as his life.

And now that those four years were over, for the first time, Peter realized just how much he was going to miss Neal's presence at the desk in the bullpen, quietly studying their next case with a rapt attention few people gave an FBI case file, or in the conference room, suggesting another harebrained caper with the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Or even in the car, when he would annoyingly fumble with the car computer, trying to find an agreeable radio station or get "the map thing" on the screen.

Diana had organized a party of sorts on Neal's last day. They had spent hours the night before, putting post-its all over his desk so that they covered every square inch of it, interspersing the pale yellow ones with bright blue ones that spelled "Farewell, Neal". There were balloons and streamers stuck to walls and computer screens, and they'd decorated the little bust on his desk with fake glasses and a party hat. Peter had made sure there was champagne in the fridge and he'd even asked El for an ample supply of proper glass flutes for the occasion.

Neal had been genuinely touched. There were hearty laughs and claps on shoulders, hugs, and just camaraderie all around. Neal had made friends here, and after four years, people hardly saw him as the convicted con artist anymore. Peter had watched it and taken it in with his heart swelling just a little. Neal had done well. Really well.

With all the farewell party festivities over, Peter cleared away the last dishes and stray items in the conference room. He saw Neal sauntering up the stairs, stopping in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. Uncharacteristic melancholy shone in his features. "You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm gonna miss this place."

Peter gave him a small smile but kept his voice honest. "I never thought I'd say this, but we're gonna miss having you around, too."

Neal shifted his position. He lifted up his left pant leg. "Before we break out in teary farewells, can we get this last thing taken care of?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure."

They both went into Peter's office that was conveniently adjacent to the conference room. Neal lifted his left foot to place it on the desk. Peter got out the key. The anklet emitted a short beep as the LED turned from green to yellow when Peter slipped it off Neal's ankle.

Neal gave the thing an almost doleful glance that Peter found just slightly amusing. "Don't tell me you're gonna miss this too."

"No," Neal said quickly. "That thing, I'm definitely not gonna miss."

"So..." Peter looked at him. "I guess that means freedom."

"Yeah." Neal let it hang in the air for a moment. "Wow. What am I gonna do with all that territory out there to explore? You know, legally."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll get used to not having a radius to stick to all too quickly. Oh, before I forget..." He bent down and opened his desk drawer, getting out an envelope that he held out to Neal. "This is something I wanted to give you. Consider it my farewell gift."

"Peter..."

"Come on, open it."

He did, and Peter watched as first comprehension, then awed surprise spread over Neal's face. "Chicago? The Art Institute? Are you serious?"

"You've been raging about the Matisse exhibition ever since last Christmas. See, sometimes I do listen."

"No, Peter, I can't possibly accept this."

"Yes, you can. El had all these air miles collected, so the flight didn't even cost us anything. And in case you hadn't noticed, it's Economy."

Neal chuckled. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" He sobered. "Thank you, Peter. This really means a lot."

"Now, don't get any ideas while you're there. I'm sure the museum won't take kindly to having one of their masterpieces swapped out with a forgery," Peter teased.

"Now that you mention it," Neal grinned, "that's not a half bad idea. I've always wanted an original Matisse."

"Yeah, well, I think you know who our prime suspect will be, once the museum files charges."

"Does the FBI have a White Collar office in Chicago?"

"Oh, you bet they do."

"Do they have someone as good as you?"

Peter's mouth curved into a lopsided half-smile. "That I'm not so sure of."

Neal waved the envelope in the air. "This is going to be great. I'll send you and El a postcard."

"Just like old times."

"Just like old times," Neal echoed. "Speaking of which..." He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out a black leather wallet. Neal's FBI Consultant ID. He looked at it fondly for a long moment, then held it out to Peter. "I think you'll want this back."

Peter's gaze lingered on Neal's hand before he took the badge. "This is it then, I guess," Peter commented, sounding more sentimental than he'd intended.

"Thank you, Peter," Neal said, his voice solemn. "For everything."

Peter met Neal's gaze, and saw his eyes were brimming with unshed tears. One of them dislodged when he blinked, and Neal wiped it away quickly with the back of his free hand.

"Geez," he said in what came out half laugh, half embarrassed admission. "Here we go with the teary outbursts."

Peter was just barely keeping his own emotions in check. He took a step closer and drew Neal into a heartfelt hug. "I'm gonna miss you around here," he choked out into Neal's shoulder.

Neal returned the hug and wiped at his eyes again when they separated. "This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I'm holding you to that. I think El will be very mad at you if you don't come visit at regular intervals."

"Uh oh, I better not mess with Mrs. Suit."

"No, she is definitely not to be messed with." Peter gave Neal a good-natured clap on the shoulder. "Now get outta here. Before someone hands you a file and asks you to consult."

"Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted. See you around."

"Yeah."

Peter remained standing in his office, watching Neal walk down the stairs in slow, deliberate steps, his gaze on the by now mostly empty bullpen. Neal picked up the cardboard box with his personal belongings from his (now former) desk. In the glass doors to the elevator area, he remained standing for a long moment, surveying the office one last time. From the distance, Peter couldn't quite see but well imagined the emotions on the young man's face.

Yes, he would be missing Neal, and he already knew it would be strange to let his gaze wander down into the bullpen, finding an eager-to-please, just-out-of-the-academy agent occupying Neal's desk. Life would go on, and Peter would eventually get used to having Neal there as a friend and no longer a colleague.

And for just a minute, he pondered how amazing it all was. As skeptical as he had been then to engage in the deal Neal had proposed four years ago, the more grateful he was now that he'd managed to persuade Hughes to agree to it. Neal had enriched the lives of the people around him, and Peter had a feeling that they had formed a friendship that could very well last for life.

THE END.