Chapter 20 – The Right Kind of Friend

Many a man has been saved . . . by finding at a critical hour the right kind of friend.

— G.D. Prentice

In the time he'd been working with Peter, Neal had developed a habit of occasionally finishing the agent's sentences for him. Or jumping in to beat Peter to the punch of whatever he'd been about to say, when a space in the conversation created the opportunity. Neal couldn't deny that he derived an inordinate amount of pleasure from this. Sometimes he did it because he was trying (honestly) to be helpful; other times he did it to show off—or (secretly) to tick Peter off, depending on the circumstances.

Of course, Neal always watched for Peter's reaction, because observing that was half the fun (often, more than half). Sometimes Peter appreciated Neal's uninvited contributions; other times he was plainly annoyed by them—again, it all depended on the circumstances.

But there was no way Neal could jump in this time. Because, for once, he had no idea what Peter was going to say.

Waiting apprehensively for Peter to start, Neal's mind raced, wondering with a distinct sense of unease just how he was going to approach this. Peter abhorred talking about his feelings. And if the plan was to talk about Neal's feelings . . . well, for Peter, anything more emotionally complex than advising Neal to cowboy up would be a major challenge—not to mention a significant break-through.

Neal watched Peter, trying to pick up a clue as to where this was going, but all he could see was uncertainty.

Then a thought struck him.

This isn't about you, Neal.

This is about Peter. It has to be.

What was the standard procedure after an ordeal like what Peter had undergone yesterday? That it was best to talk about it, that it was a mistake to keep it bottled up inside. And if Peter really were trying to follow that prescription, it would explain his behavior. This cautious, tentative version of Peter that Neal saw before him—this must be Peter about to engage in some very uncharacteristic baring of his soul.

Or, at least, trying to.

And, Neal realized, with a flash of stark clarity, his role in this should be obvious. Neal, as Peter's friend, should help him.

Neal's mouth went dry.

Because there was one small problem with that: Neal had already decided he was A-OK with not knowing the details. More than okay with it, actually; he was downright grateful. This morning, Neal had realized that his limited recall of yesterday's events was a blessing—after all, you didn't have to try to forget what you couldn't remember in the first place.

After gaining their entry by picking the door locks, he'd abandoned Peter pretty quickly - something he now felt remorseful about, but at the time, he'd wandered away without a qualm. Peter was all for examining the premises methodically, but it was a point of pride with Neal that he didn't work that way. He was not the methodical type, never had been. Peter could handle the systematic stuff, but Neal thrived on inspiration and intuition and impulses he wouldn't dream of trying to explain.

(Also, what Peter was doing was, without a doubt, incredibly boring.)

So after making a few appropriately snarky comments to Peter, Neal had begun roaming idly through the building, looking for something, anything, that was even mildly interesting. Maybe he'd stumble on what they were looking for, and he could crow to Peter about how his ways were the best.

That initial burst of optimism had been quickly tempered by the reality that there was a hell of a lot of crap stored in this warehouse. Neal had been leaning down to read the print on one of the crates when, suddenly, he'd had a peculiar sense that someone was behind him. He remembered wondering why on earth Peter would be sneaking up on him that way, remembered turning slightly to see. Then, out of nowhere, his head had exploded with pain.

The first blow didn't take him down completely, but it did leave him reeling and dazed - realizing desperately, as he crumpled against the shelves, that he needed help. That he needed Peter. Except he couldn't speak; his mind was thinking the words, calling for Peter, but his voice had failed him. He'd reached out blindly for something to grab on to, to keep from falling, but his arms didn't seem to be working properly and there was no time, anyway. An instant later, the second blow brought shattering agony - and then darkness.

It hadn't been Peter behind him, after all.

And this time, acting on impulse and intuition had gotten him into some very deep trouble. (If Neal were being honest with himself, it wasn't the first time that had happened.)

Things got very vague and very jumbled after that—and everything was overlaid with a miasma of pain.

His sharpest memories from that point were those after he'd returned to free Peter, but Neal knew that Regal had shown him a very different side than what he'd revealed to Peter when Neal was unconscious. Even then though, a couple of times, Regal's true intentions had shown through. When Regal had frisked him (what a benign description of what that had truly been, Neal thought with a mental shiver). And Regal's response when Neal had asked, do you want to hire me or lock me up? The chilling smile on the bastard's face as he'd mused: does it have to be one or the other?

That, Neal remembered all too clearly.

Of the events prior to that, Neal had only some shadowy recollections: of a low voice and suggestive laughter, of snatches of words here or there, of pain in various places, of hands on his body - and a dim but pervasive sensation of choking, of gasping for breath. But if he didn't try to remember those things, if he very studiously didn't concentrate on them, Neal was pretty sure they'd stay buried in his mind, growing dimmer and dimmer until they became nonexistent. Just like his injuries and the marks on his body—the undeniable evidence of the abuse Regal had inflicted—would fade with time.

The problem was that Peter didn't have that luxury. Peter knew everything, had seen everything. He couldn't just forget. And maybe the remedy for that was that Peter needed to talk about it.

Even if it was the last thing Neal wanted to hear. Even if he secretly dreaded the thought of hearing the details of what Regal had said, and done, because of the memories it might wake, the fears it could trigger. But that wasn't important, Neal realized. Because who else could Peter use as a sounding board? Who would know better than Neal, who could understand better?

No one.

Neal swallowed hard and sat up straighter in the bed. He could handle this. He could. Because Peter was struggling, and he deserved to know that Neal could be there for him, for whatever he needed. Neal opened his mouth to say the words that would help Peter get started.

But Peter spoke first.

"Neal, what you went through yesterday was . . ." Peter paused, so unsure of what to say - and so obviously annoyed with himself - that Neal felt a pang of sympathy for him (Peter was no doubt thinking the same thing Neal was: you are really not good at this kind of thing.)

Peter took a deep breath and plunged in. "It—it has to be a lot for you to process."

Neal directed a sharp glance at him. Apparently he'd had been wrong; Peter was making this about Neal, after all.

Well, that figured.

"Not just for me," Neal said pointedly.

Peter ignored the comment, just kept going in that dogged way he had, the words coming out in a rush. Like he'd planned this out and now that he'd started, nothing Neal said would derail him. "And you shouldn't hesitate, if you need it, to . . . talk about it. With me, if you want, or with someone else at the Bureau, if that would be easier. They have people on staff who can help in the aftermath of—of a . . . trauma."

He stopped for a moment and when he resumed, his voice was firmer, more like his normal authoritative tone.

"And you have just as much right to use those services as anyone else. I don't want you to think for a second that because you're not an agent that you—that you're not entitled. You are."

"Not an agent? So my promotion didn't go through, for real?" Neal joked, hearkening back to his comment of yesterday.

Smiling faintly in acknowledgment, Peter shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Neal couldn't help being moved. This was the sort of conversation that Peter absolutely hated—like the plague. Yet he was concerned enough about Neal to forge ahead with it anyway.

"Seriously, I appreciate that, Peter. It's very generous."

"No, it's not," Peter shot back; Neal frowned at how sharp his tone was. "It's not some kind of . . . gift. It's what you deserve."

"Hmm," Neal said thoughtfully. "So you're talking about a shrink."

Peter suppressed a smile at Neal's comeback, which was exactly how Peter had responded when Elizabeth had raised the topic.

Sometimes he and Neal could be frighteningly alike.

"A professional, Neal," Peter answered, trying not to think how amused El would be if she knew he was repeating her, literally word-for-word—and keeping his face serious, because this was serious. "A counselor. In some cases, agents and Bureau personnel are required to see them, you know."

Peter thought Neal was going to ask if he had ever seen a Bureau therapist, but instead, Neal eyed him appraisingly and (because he was Neal), asked the much more incisive question.

"Is that something that . . . you would consider?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

Peter looked away, which he knew was an obvious tell, but he couldn't help it. He thought about Hughes, that knowing look in his eye as he said, take some time; you may need it more than you realize. He thought about his various nightmares. About waking up in a cold sweat, About Elizabeth staring at him in horror, frightened awake by his outbursts. About that hated, recurring voice inside his head that he couldn't seem to silence, no matter how hard he tried.

About that horrifying flashback at the breakfast table, when El had massaged his shoulders and he'd been consumed by thoughts of Regal . . . .

The pause in the conversation had gone on entirely too long, long enough to be awkward, and Neal, of course, had missed nothing. As Peter brought his gaze back over to meet Neal's, he saw his consultant watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah," Peter heard himself saying. "Yeah, I, uh, I think I might." He caught Neal's faint flicker of surprise and added, "El suggested it."

The surprise faded. Affection and approval shone on Neal's face. "Ah. Of course she did." He paused for a moment before noting, "Your wife is . . . ."

"Smart as hell," Peter agreed.

That Peter would consider seeing a counselor (it sounded better to Neal than therapist) was simultaneously encouraging and worrisome. Encouraging because it did seem to be a common prescription for people dealing with trauma. Surely it couldn't hurt.

And worrisome because, for Peter to consent to talk to a stranger about his feelings, things must be pretty damned bad.

Still, Neal couldn't help feeling relieved (and a little guilty about that relief) that Peter didn't want to talk to him.

"I—I think that's a great idea," Neal began, but now he was the one searching for words to express himself. He and Peter had an unspoken understanding that they just didn't talk about these kinds of things. They weren't big on introspection or open displays of emotion (exasperation and sarcasm being notable exceptions).

Also, one of the hidden perils of being a con artist was that you spent so much time playing roles and concealing your emotions that it became second nature. And over time, the better you got at it, the harder it was to separate deception from reality. Even for yourself. It was possible, Neal had discovered, to get out of practice with expressing your own feelings—as strange as that might sound.

So, how did Neal say how sorry he was that Peter had been forced to watch Regal threatening him, hurting him? How did you say that it made you sick that Regal had used him as a prop, essentially, to terrorize Peter?

How did you say how maddening, how galling it was that, thanks to Regal, Peter might now think of Neal as a . . . a victim—as someone Peter had to protect, because he wasn't capable of protecting himself?

And that didn't even scratch the surface of whatever Regal had said about Elizabeth. Neal would never forget Peter's stricken expression as he stared down at his wife's picture, removed from that bastard's pocket. While Neal had been unconscious, Regal must have searched Peter's wallet and plucked out that photo of her, specifically.

What else had he said, what else had he done, to put that heart-stopping look on Peter's face?

Neal didn't want to even think about that, and he couldn't imagine ever, in a thousand years, asking Peter about it. The very idea made him blanch. He was pretty sure Peter would consider the topic strictly off-limits. Yet . . . didn't Peter need to talk about it with someone? Surely he wouldn't talk about it with Elizabeth, would he? No. But would he talk about it with the therapist?

Yes, Neal thought. He would.

Neal hoped he would, anyway. Because he would readily admit that he didn't have the guts to ask Peter about it directly.

Then, of course, there was everything Peter himself had endured. He'd been handcuffed, held at gunpoint, pistol-whipped, and generally been forced to confront the very real possibility that he could be shot, execution-style, at any moment.

How the hell did you talk about any of those things, Neal wondered. Should he even try?

"Well, I—if you ever want to talk about it, about anything, I'm here, too," Neal finally said. He hoped Peter understood that he really meant it. "I know how rough it must have been for you, and I'm a pretty good listener, so . . ." his voice faltered and he gave a little half-shrug.

It wasn't enough—it wasn't nearly enough—but at least he'd tried. How infuriating that, just when he needed it most, Neal's usual eloquence had completely deserted him.

There was warmth in Peter's eyes that he rarely let show, so maybe he did understand after all. "I appreciate that, Neal. It means a lot."

"And I am sorry," Neal said bluntly.

He watched as confusion flooded Peter's face. "For what?"

"For getting us into that mess in the first place."

Peter sighed. "Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault. You're not the apologizing type." At Neal's look of mild surprise, Peter added, "Yes, I've noticed that about you."

"Fair enough," Neal allowed, "I'll stop apologizing, but only if you stop blaming yourself, too."

Looking down at his sling, Peter busied himself by carefully, pointlessly smoothing one of the straps with his left hand. "None of that should have happened, Neal."

Neal groaned. "We've already been through this. Did you just hear yourself? Stop blaming yourself for things that aren't your fault."

His fingers still fidgeting with the sling, Peter glanced up at him again. "Easier said than done," he admitted.

"Well, I don't blame you, so you shouldn't either," Neal asserted. "Just . . . remember that, okay?"

At least that drew a nod from Peter. Better than nothing, Neal thought.

He took a deep breath. "Since we're talking about this, I . . . want to ask you something."

Peter's expression turned ever so slightly wary, but he didn't hesitate. "Sure."

"You know I can take care of myself, right?" Neal said abruptly.

Whatever Peter had been expecting him to say, that was clearly not it. He stared at Neal for a long moment before answering. "I think we covered some of this yesterday. But yes, Neal, I do know that."

Neal really wanted to believe it was true—he needed to believe it. But, deep inside, he couldn't help wondering.

"You hate it when I say that you worry too much—but you do, Peter."

"Most of the time, I have my reasons," the agent muttered.

"I know, I know, but I want you to think about this for a minute," Neal said, his voice resolute. All of a sudden, it was very important to him that Peter get this. "Suppose the worst had happened, yesterday. I mean, not that he killed you," Neal added quickly, looking disturbed, "but that he did manage to get away, somehow. You know what would have happened?"

Peter considered him, plainly not liking the turn the conversation was taking. "He said he would—he was going to drug you."

Hughes' words rang out in his head: he was carrying quite the portable pharmacy.

"So you said. And maybe he would have," Neal admitted. "Or maybe not. But even if he had, then eventually, I would have woken up. And then I would have convinced him that I was on his side—I was already doing that." Neal sounded almost desperate. "Because that's what I do. I would have ingratiated myself and eventually figured a way out. Because that's also what I do."

The thought of anyone—especially Peter—seeing him as a victim made Neal's skin crawl. True, he wasn't an FBI agent. He wasn't going to intimidate anyone in a physical confrontation. He didn't carry a gun—and didn't ever want to. But he had other weapons at his disposal. He wasn't some weak, delicate flower. And he certainly wasn't helpless.

Peter gave a little half-nod. Not denying, but not exactly confirming, either.

Because, in his mind, that unwelcome little voice had returned to whisper, but what would he have made you do, Neal? Involuntarily, his gaze wandered down, just for an instant, to the livid bruise that ringed Neal's neck, before returning to look Neal in the eye once more.

"Or—" Neal began, but he hesitated.

"Or I would have found you." This time, it was Peter finishing the sentence. "Because that's what I do."

"Exactly!" Neal said, looking (for once) delighted by the prospect. "And don't forget: I survived prison, Peter. Not exactly a walk in the park. And I escaped prison, not that I have to tell you that."

"You certainly don't," Peter said, sighing. He scrubbed at his forehead resignedly.

"Over the years," Neal declared, more confident now, "I've dealt with my share of unsavory characters and difficult . . . challenges and I always land on my feet. With one," he paused to elaborately clear his throat and throw a pointed look at Peter, "very notable exception. Who happens to be sitting in this room."

That brought a smile to Peter's face (just as Neal had hoped it would). He opened his mouth to speak, but Neal cut him off, a warning note in his voice. "Please don't gloat, Peter. Not becoming."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Peter said gravely, and he meant every word. "Not today."

"Well, okay, then," Neal said, satisfied. He smiled back.

"But I think you're kind of missing the point," Peter remarked.

Neal's smile faded, replaced by confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is about you not being . . . competent?" Peter scoffed. "You haven't had one day of formal training, but I'd stack you against any experienced operative, anywhere, anytime. I'm probably going to regret saying this—but I could send you to Quantico tomorrow and plenty of those instructors would have nothing on you."

"Ookay," Neal said slowly. While praise from Peter was always welcome, Neal could sense a but coming.

"I got all too familiar with your competence, during the three years I spent chasing you," Peter said, grimacing as Neal tried not to smile. "Not to mention the up-close-and-personal view I've had more recently."

"But—"

"And yes," Peter continued, "you can look out for yourself. You've been doing that your whole—" he stopped awkwardly, just in time, because, really, he had no business airing his private theories about the colossal disaster that must have been Neal Caffrey's childhood. "Well, for a pretty long time, I know."

Neal nodded, but this time he was quiet, a guarded look on his face.

"This is not about you being capable, Neal—far from it. This is about two things. One, that Regal is a sick, twisted son of a bitch."

"I know, Peter," Neal hastened to say, "and I'm not trying to trivialize that. I understand you had very legit reasons to be—" he'd been about to say freaked out, but then thought better of it—"to be concerned."

Peter nodded back, his expression grim.

"Okay, we agree that Regal was a first-class son of a bitch. And we've also established that I'm the most naturally talented, amazingly proficient operative you've ever worked with," Neal said briskly, looking gratified, "Now—"

"Uh, that last bit? Not exactly what I said," Peter pointed out - merely in the interest of accuracy, of course.

Neal waved a hand airily. "Semantics. Let's just say I'm pretty damned good and leave it at that. Now, what was the second thing?"

"The second thing . . ." Peter hesitated. "The second thing is that, yes, you are talented. And proficient. I know you can look out for yourself, that you've spent a lot of time on your own doing just that."

He stopped and Neal nodded encouragingly. "But?" he prompted.

"But that was then. And this . . . this is now. You're not on your own anymore, Neal. Now, I'm here to look out for you. And when I don't do that—for whatever reason—it becomes . . . a problem for me. It's not okay. If you - if you get hurt on my watch, that's never going to be okay."

Neal's throat closed up as he locked eyes with Peter and saw the emotion there, the quiet intensity burning in Peter's eyes.

"That's how this works, Neal," Peter added. "I look out for you. It's no reflection on your skills; it's got nothing to do with that. It's just . . . part of the deal."

"Yeah. Okay." Neal's voice was husky, all of a sudden.

Peter didn't see him as a victim. Peter was just being . . . Peter. Normal, protective, Peter.

Which, Neal had to admit, wasn't a bad thing, really.

"But I get to do the same for you," Neal added. "That's part of the deal, too."

Peter's smile was wide. "After yesterday, I think that's crystal clear. Not that it wasn't already."

Peter watched him, watched Neal take that in. He didn't think he'd ever stop worrying about Neal (unless Neal stopped giving him reasons to worry—a possibility that Peter considered highly unlikely). But he appreciated that Neal was sensitive to his concerns—and cared enough to try to assuage them.

"By the way, you didn't really answer my question," Peter observed, circling back to the beginning of the conversation, since Neal seemed to have gone very quiet all of a sudden.

Neal frowned, not remembering a question. This was damning, depressing evidence of the fact that his brain was still not hitting on all cylinders: he didn't even recall whatever it was that Peter was accusing him of trying to evade.

Peter gave him a look. "Do you—do you want to talk with someone? About . . . everything."

"Oh. That. Well, technically," Neal pointed out, remembering Peter's words, "you didn't ask that as a question."

"Fine, Alex Trebek," Peter sighed. "I'm asking it now."

Neal fiddled with the spoon lying on the tray table in front of him, wishing he could turn the conversation back to safer topics, like Jell-O. He knew Peter wouldn't let him skate on this, though. No, his innate persistence (a nicer-sounding word, Neal thought, than obstinacy) meant he was going to demand a reply.

"Peter, I don't really remember that much."

"That's not an answer."

"Well," Neal muttered, "it's the only one I've got right now. Things are very hazy."

The agent's gaze was unwavering. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true," Neal said, looking at Peter steadily.

"You mean that? You're not just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"

"I swear it's true." Neal considered breaking out his standard line about how he never lied to Peter, but somehow this didn't feel like the right moment for it.

Eying him skeptically, Peter looked like he was about to say something, like maybe he was going to argue the point, but a ringing phone broke the silence. They both glanced at it. Neal grunted and turned to reach over.

Peter sighed inwardly, watching Neal try not to wince in pain at the movement. At that moment, one of the hospital staff entered the room. "Just need to get some vitals," she said brightly.

Neal nodded a yes at the aide as he picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh, hey, Mozz." Neal frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Mozzie sounded impatient—not unusual for him. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh, maybe because I just talked to you?" Neal said, keeping his voice reasonable.

"So now I need a reason to call you?"

Neal rolled his eyes.

"And how are we doing?" the aide asked Peter as she readied her kit. He saw her react to the ugly bruising on his face.

"Hanging in there," Peter answered. She gave him a sympathetic smile. Working in a hospital, Peter reflected, you probably had to have a ready-made reaction for all the poor bastards you ran into (like him) who looked like they'd been beaten within an inch of their lives. "At least, I feel better than I look."

"Hey, is that the Suit?" Mozzie demanded, his voice ridiculously loud. Neal stifled a groan and moved the receiver further away. He was experiencing the early stages of a pounding headache as it was, and the sound of Mozzie shouting in his ear was not going to improve it any.

"Look, Mozz, I gotta go," he said quickly, "Uh, the nurse is here."

"No, put him on. I want to talk to him."

"It's a she, Mozz. And she's busy." He could hear Mozzie starting to splutter, not appreciating the faux misunderstanding. "I think—hey, you know what, you're breaking up," Neal lied. "Look, I gotta run. Talk to you later, okay?"

Mozzie was still talking—and not happily— as Neal hung up and smiled at the nurse. "Is this really necessary? I feel great."

"Quit trying to charm her out of her doing her job, Neal," Peter groused.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Neal said, looking deep into her eyes (which actually had quite a lovely green-gold sparkle, now that he was really focused on them) and giving her his most brilliant grin.

"Oh, I don't blame you," she assured him, smiling back but not stopping what she was doing.

Not as easily charmed as he'd hoped; so much for the black eye garnering any extra sympathy.

"What did Mozzie want?" Peter inquired. With a mouth full of thermometer, Neal could only give him a who knows? gesture, to which Peter nodded sagely.

Just then the phone rang again.

"Aahh," Neal said, still not able to form any words and motioning no at Peter instead.

"Oh, you're busy, I'll get that," Peter assured him, with a wicked little smile.

The aide finished taking Neal's temperature and was now bringing out the blood pressure cuff. Lifting his arm so she could encircle it, Neal watched Peter helplessly. " 'S okay, Peter, you don't have to—"

Too late.

Peter had already grabbed the phone. "Hello? Oh. Hi, Mozzie." To Neal he said, sotto voce, "It's Mozzie."

"Great," Neal said, sighing. Like he couldn't have figured that out on his own. "I'll take that."

Peter ignored him. "Yes, it is. Neal's busy at the moment."

Neal sent a withering glare at Peter. "No, I'm not. Give me the phone."

Waving him off, Peter kept talking. "She's taking your blood pressure." To Mozzie, he said, "Neal? He's feeling well enough to try to charm the nurses."

Neal sighed, shaking his head and watching Peter listen to whatever Mozzie was saying.

Now Peter was scrutinizing him, a thoughtful look on his face. Neal eyed him warily. "What? Peter, what is it?"

"'How does he look?'" Peter echoed. "A little ragged. Truthfully, I would say," he declared, still ignoring Neal, "that he looks like a guy who got run over by a truck. Which is kind of fitting, since—"

Her tasks completed, the aide smiled at Neal. He managed a quick thank you to her before she left and then burst out, "Peter!"

"Oh, Neal didn't tell you that part? Well, I'm sure he'll fill you in when you get back. When will that be, by the way?" Peter inquired in his most innocent voice.

Mozzie's voice was now loud enough that even Neal could hear it. "As if I'd tell you that, Suit." There was a pause. "Wait. Did you just say that he—he really got hit by a truck?"

"Excuse me, I'm right here," Neal said, sounding and looking aggrieved.

Peter nodded, still not answering Neal. "Yes, he really did. But I don't want to spoil the story."

Mozzie lowered his voice then, so Neal couldn't hear the words. But whatever he'd said brought a grin to Peter's face that was almost affectionate.

"I know. I'll do that," Peter answered, voice turning serious as he regarded Neal. The grin was gone, as well. "I always do, you know."

He paused to clear his throat. "And, uh, speaking of Neal, he's apparently very eager to talk to you."

Peter held out the phone, which Neal grabbed rather forcefully. "Mozz, seriously? Why are you calling?"

"It's a sad day when I have to rely on the Suit—the Suit, of all people—to give me the facts about what happened, Neal," Mozzie blustered, sounding disgusted. "You do realize that this is a new low, right? This is—"

"When you come back, I'll tell you all about it," Neal cut in, glowering again at Peter, who merely raised his eyebrows at him serenely.

"Why not right now?"

"Because right now, I . . . I'm just tired, OK?" Neal let a plaintive note bleed through into his voice.

Mozzie was unmoved. "You forget that your lies don't work on me, Neal."

"Whatever, I'm fine, see you soon," Neal sighed and hung up.

Peter was looking far too amused. "He really does care about you. A true friend," he added solemnly.

"What was the point of that?" Neal asked, almost rhetorically, staring up at the ceiling. "He wanted to know how I look? I already told him that."

"I guess he wanted an independent, third-party appraisal," Peter suggested.

"What am I, a piece of real estate? Now I'm like a . . . a Lower East Side condo, or something?"

"Well, if you were, you'd—" Peter stopped abruptly, in mid-sentence, and closed his mouth.

Neal stared at him. "Go ahead, finish it. You were going to say that if I were a piece of real estate, I'd be a fixer-upper. Right? Admit it."

Peter hedged. "But . . . one with lots of potential."

"Ah, don't bother to sugar-coat it," Neal said, letting his head fall back on the pillow dejectedly. "I know right now I have a face that would frighten small children." He closed his eyes. "Probably some adults, too, come to think of it."

"Hey, some kids would think you look pretty cool," Peter tried valiantly.

Neal didn't even answer, just lay there looking morose. Normally, Peter enjoyed ribbing Neal about his narcissistic streak, but not today. His CI's inherent vanity was a huge disadvantage at a time like this.

Some quick gear-shifting was in order, Peter decided. If Neal had been the one steering the conversation, he would have effortlessly engineered some clever segue to accomplish this, but Peter wasn't Neal, so . . . .

"Hey, I meant to tell you: ERT found the stolen art," Peter announced. "Plus some other stuff that's on its way to evidence."

Neal opened his eyes and gave him a look which indicated he'd marked the clumsy change of subject, but he played along willingly enough without comment. "Like what?"

"Some artifacts that may match items that disappeared from the Brooklyn Museum a few months ago. And a painting that appears to be an Alechinsky."

"Wow. That's more than just stuff, Peter," Neal chided. "An Alechinsky? The Guggenheim has several of his pieces; I saw them when I was there last year. And the Met, too. You say it's an original? Which one?"

Peter shrugged, secretly pleased at how easy it had been to shift Neal's focus. He should have known that art would function as the perfect shiny object to distract him. "Don't remember the name."

"Alechinsky's work is intriguing," Neal said eagerly.

Not for the first time, Peter wondered whether there was any artist, obscure or otherwise, that Neal didn't know about.

And where the hell had he learned all this stuff?

Peter listened (well, maybe half-listened) while Neal expounded on Alechinsky's fondness for Japanese calligraphy, the role of abstract expressionism in his works, and his membership in something called Cobra (whatever the hell that was—it sounded like the bad guys in a James Bond movie, but the real explanation was probably a lot less interesting, so Peter didn't dare ask). Still, he nodded attentively and tried to look interested, heartened by the fact that while Neal sure as hell didn't look like himself, at least he sounded more like himself. And he wasn't obsessing over his battered face.

Even better: they weren't rehashing the events of yesterday, which Peter much preferred.

When Neal had finished pontificating, Peter said, "Well, scuttlebutt is it might be a forgery. We're not sure any Alechinskys are missing at the moment—gonna have to have an expert take a look at it."

"I know where you could find one of those," Neal said hopefully.

Peter grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. "Thought you might. So you're an expert on Alechinsky?"

"I am an expert on sooo many things, Peter. And don't try to argue the point because you yourself said as much. Just a few short moments ago, as I recall."

Damnit, Peter realized. I knew I'd regret telling him that . . . .

Neal's eyes brightened with pleasure and a toned-down version of his infamous what-I-wouldn't-do-to-get-that look. "That's fantastic. Can't wait to see everything. You—you will let me see it, right?"

"It's the least I can do," Peter assured him.

"Because if you didn't—"

'You'd probably just sneak in, anyway," Peter sighed. "Yeah, I don't need that."

"Me neither," Neal said. "I've had my fill of sneaking around warehouses for a while." He thought for a moment, a faraway look creeping into his eyes. "Though it's always more fun to contrive a way in."

"I would never have guessed," Peter said, gently sarcastic. "Kind of like how it's more fun to pick a lock than to use the key?"

Neal stared at him. "Someone has really been paying attention."

"I always do. Also," Peter observed, "you and I have very different ideas about what constitutes fun."

"I would never have guessed," Neal said, mimicking Peter's line, but doubling the sarcasm and accompanying it with a smart-aleck grin.

"Only you would refer to using the key as 'handcuffs for dummies,'" Peter said reminiscently.

"But it is, Peter," Neal said, completely earnest. He paused and then added, "Be honest: you liked that line."

"It's very Neal Caffrey," Peter said. When Neal kept staring at him expectantly, he finally admitted, with a shrug, "Yeah, okay. It was a pretty good line."

Neal smiled in satisfaction. "It's a game, really. But it's not about whether you can do it—the fun part is working against the clock, you know?" he said, effusive now. "Using different tools and seeing how quick you can pick them. I mean, with something like a paper clip, or a nail file, I'm down to seconds."

'Yes, I'm aware," Peter muttered, then thinking, a little sourly, of how long it had taken him, using that safety pin. "Wait, when you're cuffed in front or behind?"

Neal looked bewildered, like Peter's question made no sense whatsoever. "Does it matter?"

To you, probably not, Peter thought, sighing.

"You know what, never mind," he shot back, exasperated. "And speaking of that, I'm aware of your . . . skills demonstrations, by the way. All those probies—out all that money."

Neal shifted uncomfortably. "You, uh, you knew about those, huh?"

"Well, since I'm not blind and deaf, yeah."

"Look, it's not my fault they underestimate me." Neal shook his head sadly. "And nobody's forcing them to wager their hard-earned money." His expression brightened. "Frankly, you should be thanking me. My demonstrations are the highest form of public service, and your overly-gullible young agents are learning invaluable life lessons. Hey, remember what you said earlier about the FBI instructors having nothing on me? Think of me as an extension of your training program. Like . . . Quantico North."

"God help us," Peter mumbled. Privately, he thought Neal was right—the probies should know better—not that Peter was going to admit that to Neal. "I do have to ask, though—going back to the matter of the evidence warehouse, how would you get in?"

"Into a storage site?" Neal waved a dismissive hand. "The obvious way is to create a distraction. Pull a fire alarm or something. To divert the security staff."

"Pulling a fire alarm? You call that a plan?" Peter asked.

They both stared at each other. Neal started to chuckle first, and then Peter joined him.

"That line is really getting tedious, Peter. And I'll have you know," Neal said, sounding superior, "that a variation of that particular plan worked very well . . . once."

"See, now I can tell you're still off your game," Peter noted in a voice laden with sympathy. He shook his head in disappointment. "You forgot the allegedly."

"Peter, stop making me laugh. It hurts."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Because I'm the one who should be laughing—since your plans are getting progressively more pathetic."

Neal scoffed. "As if I'd tell you my real plan."

"As if I wouldn't figure it out anyway," Peter retorted confidently. "You should know better than to underestimate me. Meanwhile, there's something else we need to discuss."

"Fine, go ahead and change the subject," Neal said, a tinge of pity in his tone, even as his inner antennae went up at Peter's phrasing. "What is it that we need to discuss?"

Back from her meeting (yes, she'd cut it short, so what?), Elizabeth entered the room, pleased at the sight of both of them smiling at each other, heads turning toward her as one upon registering her presence.

"Hi there, you two," she said brightly. "Neal, you're looking much perkier today."

Peter and Neal exchanged a glance. Neal looked like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, while Peter was trying to smother a smile.

"What?" she asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not," Neal said, breaking into a rueful little grin. "It's just—do you two always have to be on the same wavelength, all the time?"

Peter chuckled. "That's what ten years of marriage will do for you."

"Guess so," Neal answered. To Elizabeth, he said, "Anyway, I'm feeling better—thank you."

Elizabeth nodded. "Glad to hear it. And did you—did you sleep well?"

At that, Peter glanced sharply at her; Neal registered it but didn't react. El didn't even look at Peter; her eyes were fixed, very deliberately, on Neal.

"Pretty well, but then again, I had some pharmaceutical help," Neal explained.

"Well, I hope you're feeling not only better, but also hungry," Elizabeth said, lifting the bag she carried. "Because I come bearing gifts."

She went to set the bag on Neal's tray and then made a little moue of distaste. "Ugh. Is that Jell-O? And why do hospitals always serve lime?" With one finger, she slid the bowl out of the way and set the bag down.

Neal and Peter exchanged another glance, Neal looking smug and Peter looking exasperated. "That is, apparently, your husband's favorite dessert," Neal said. "Also, he swears it's melon."

"It is not my favorite dessert," Peter said defensively, "and I thought Neal might want a snack."

El laughed. "That's a nice thought, honey, but—Jell-O? Really? I mean, come on. It's Neal."

"And the reason hospitals serve lime," Peter informed both of them, now sounding superior, "—if in fact it is lime—is because people like it. It's a very popular flavor. Also," he added, as an afterthought, "red is not a good color in hospitals."

Now Neal and Elizabeth were the ones to exchange a knowing glance. Peter could practically see the thoughts in bubbles over their heads.

Just don't argue with him.

You're right, it's easier that way.

"All right, enough with the Jell-O," Neal said, examining the bag with interest. "Because that's . . . that's from Thai Gourmet."

"Indeed it is," Elizabeth remarked.

"Your favorite Thai," Peter chimed in. "Or, at least," he added in a sly tone, "that's what your cell phone records say."

Neal stared at him. "You . . . snooped into my phone records to determine my favorite Thai takeout?"

"No," Peter said patiently. "I snoop into your phone records because I want to know who you're talking to. Discovering your takeout preferences is just an added bonus."

Suddenly Neal's face had turned into a thundercloud. "Good to know Big Brother is alive and well," he muttered.

Then he noticed Elizabeth smiling—and Peter following suit. "What?"

"He's trying to make a joke, Neal." Elizabeth explained, sending a mild glare Peter's way. "And not doing a very good job of it."

Peter sighed. "Seriously, Neal. Like I don't have better things to do than worry about your phone habits. And anyway, why would I bother with that when I can just look in your fridge?"

Neal looked suspicious for a moment, but it quickly faded. "Oh. You checked out my leftovers."

"Uh, yeah," Peter answered. "FBI, remember? Trained to notice every detail. They put their name on the cartons."

"Well, as long as you've got a firm command of what's important," Neal said sarcastically.

"Hey, don't knock it—my keen powers of observation got you your favorite Thai."

Neal chuckled. "So they did. And thank you. Both of you. It's very thoughtful."

"Well," Elizabeth remarked, "Peter was afraid you'd starve to death in here." She glanced surreptitiously at her watch.

Peter noticed it. "Hon, do you need to go?" he asked. "If you have something else going on—"

"No, no," she said quickly. "No, it's just—I lost track of time on the drive back here."

Peter didn't seem to have observed it, but to Neal, Elizabeth seemed slightly flustered, like she'd been caught out. There was something going on under the surface with her, but he couldn't quite discern what it was. Neal wondered idly if maybe she'd had a fender-bender or something, and didn't want Peter to know.

"Look, if you're in a hurry, we can leave now," Peter assured her, smiling. "Neal can get along without us, I'm sure."

"Don't be silly. I just got here. Anyway, Neal is going to eat. Right, Neal?" At her pointed look, he nodded quickly.

Something in her face made him feel he didn't have much choice.

". . . and maybe he'll need some help," Elizabeth added firmly.

Neal shot a look at her, careful to keep his face expressionless. She held his gaze until he let an easy smile break over his face and said, "Sure. The one-armed bandit thing is already getting old."

Just then, Elizabeth's phone buzzed. Neal noticed that she'd already had it in her hand.

"Hello? Oh, hi! Yes, he's here. Just a minute." She held her cell out to Peter. "It's Diana. She says—she wants to talk to you."

Peter looked surprised. "She's calling on your phone?"

"Well, you don't have one," she reminded him as he took the phone from her. "It's no big deal, honey."

"Right. Thanks, El," Peter said. "Hey, Diana. "What's up?" He paused. "At the hospital with Neal." Another pause. "Yeah, he's good . . . in a little while . . . yeah."

Neal was watching Elizabeth, but careful to hide that he was doing so. Meanwhile, Elizabeth was watching Peter (and doing a much poorer job of hiding it).

She also seemed oddly tense.

"Um, Peter, do you mind—can I get in there?" Elizabeth blurted out. "I want to help Neal with the food. And tell you all about this totally out-of-control vendor, this is such a funny story," she said, her voice louder, now looking at Neal.

"Oh. Sure." Peter stood up, hesitated. "Why don't I—I'll just go outside."

Elizabeth smiled warmly. "Thanks, hon." She watched him walk out into the hallway.

Once Peter was out of sight—and out of earshot—Elizabeth's smile vanished and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Thank God. I thought he'd never leave."

Neal went very still, studying her with narrowed eyes. His gaze flicked over to the doorway where Peter had just exited, and then rapidly back to her face. "I don't—"

She talked right over him, in a very un-Elizabeth-like fashion. "We don't have much time. I'm not sure how long Diana is going to be able to keep him on the phone, and—"

Neal raised an eyebrow, looking impressed. "You planned this? Secretly?"

"Yes, of course," she said impatiently. "Now, how does Peter seem to you?"

"How does he seem? In what way?" He didn't try to hide his confusion, but he was careful to keep his voice low, as she had.

"Just generally . . . does he seem like himself?"

Neal hesitated. He was unsure of what she was looking for, and it made him wary. "Uh, he seems like . . . well, like Peter. More or less. Maybe a little distracted," he added, recalling how Peter had failed to notice that his wife was acting strangely. He thought for a moment. "And I did tell him he looks tired—"

"Yes," she said, voice triumphant. "Of course he does, because—"

She stopped abruptly. In a flash, her expression had transformed from satisfied to apprehensive.

"What?" Neal still didn't know what she was getting at. (All he'd been able to deduce so far was that his fender-bender theory had been way off.)

Elizabeth wrung her hands, a tense, convulsive motion. "He—he's gonna kill me for telling you this."

"I doubt that." Reflexively, he broke out his most encouraging smile, the it's okay, you can tell me smile (one he'd had great success with over the years).

"Okay," she amended, still looking worried. "That's a little extreme. But he'll be angry."

"Oh, come on. Peter can't stay angry with you," Neal reassured her. "Anyway, it won't be an issue because he doesn't ever have to know that you told me . . . whatever it is. I won't say a word—unless you want me to, that is."

He just hoped this secret (whatever it was) wouldn't put him in an awkward spot. Most of the time Neal tried hard to not place himself in a position where he had to keep things from Peter. But Elizabeth seemed so anxious that he didn't even hesitate to make the offer.

She looked at the doorway, and the distress on her face was so obvious that now he was feeling worried, too, without even knowing why.

"Peter was . . . a lot more affected by what happened yesterday than he's letting on," she began. "Even to me."

Neal frowned as he nodded, waiting for her to continue.

"He hardly slept last night. He—he had terrible nightmares." She stopped and returned her gaze to his face.

Neal froze, his heart plummeting into his stomach. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of ever since he'd heard about Peter's three a.m. phone call. Still, he schooled his expression so most of the worry didn't show. Elizabeth was upset enough as it was.

When she didn't continue, he prompted neutrally, "Peter doesn't seem like a nightmare kind of guy."

"He's not," she said, sounding frustrated. "He never has been, but this was . . . this was really bad. I woke up both times and he was just so . . . upset, so desperate. It was like he—he wasn't himself." She shook her head. "And it scared me, Neal. It scared the hell out of me."

"Did he say what the dreams were about?" The question was automatic, but he already knew what her answer would be.

"No. He didn't say, and I knew better than to ask. I . . ." she hesitated and Neal's gaze sharpened. "I could just tell . . . he wasn't ready to talk about it."

That, he'd expected. But her next words shook him.

"But I heard things, Neal. Before he woke up. He . . . he said things." She hesitated again. "He called your name. Yelled it, really."

Neal grimaced and looked away. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"I was afraid of that. Peter had to watch while Regal was . . . well, he's a sadistic bastard. Pardon my language," he added quickly. "A lot of what he did, I don't even remember, but unfortunately, Peter saw it all."

She nodded, face filled with sorrow. "It must have been horrible. For both of you."

"Honestly, I think it was worse for Peter," Neal said. "We both know what he's like."

Again Elizabeth nodded. "Yes. But . . . but there's something else." She took a quick breath and exhaled slowly. "It wasn't just you. I was in the dreams too—well, in one of them. At least, I think he was talking about me."

Neal felt a cold chill flood through him.

"I—I didn't tell him that I knew. It would only upset him more, but . . . Neal, I have to ask you. Do you know—do you have any idea why Peter would be having nightmares about me?"

Her fear, her worry was palpable. And heart-breaking.

He stared back at her, careful to look and sound shocked. "You? You're sure?"

Elizabeth nodded mutely, her lips pressed tightly together. Neal could see the tension in her face, her posture, in every inch of her.

Shit, he thought. Now things were starting to slot into place. His mind raced as he wondered how much Elizabeth knew, what he could safely say. Did she know Regal had seen the two of them at the Stanzler gallery? Did she know Regal had grabbed her picture? Again he thought back to Peter reclaiming the photo from Regal's pocket, that haunted, horrified look on his face that said there was so much more to this than Neal knew, things that must have happened while he'd been unconscious . . . .

Peter staring at the picture and saying, He took it to get to me. He talked a lot about . . . leverage.

Then, suddenly, Neal recalled something he'd heard, right before he'd crashed into Regal the first time—but had forgotten until now.

Regal's mocking voice rang out in his head. You have literally nothing left that I can't take if I desire it. Your consultant.

Your wife.

Jesus.

No, Neal decided. That clinched it. She couldn't know. Peter would have told her as little as humanly possible; he'd want to shield her. What sane husband would let slip to his wife that a vicious psychotic had lovingly tucked her picture away into his pocket? No, Neal had to assume she knew nothing and act accordingly.

It struck him, then, how Peter had responded to his off-handed comment about why the FBI couldn't have an agent come out to take his statement.

"They could," Peter had said, with that odd look on his face. "I didn't want them at—I didn't want them to."

Now Neal was pretty sure he knew what Peter had been about to say.

I didn't want them at my house.

And the reason for that was sitting next to his bedside, staring at him, luminous blue eyes filled with anxiety. Neal was sure of it; he'd never been as sure of anything in his life.

"He was frightened for me," Elizabeth said, her voice quiet. "I just . . . do you know why?" She looked away, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. There you are, lying in bed, and I'm being so selfish, I'm making this all about me—"

Neal shook his head. "El, don't apologize. You're concerned about Peter, and that's to be expected. I am, too. I'm glad you told me."

He looked her straight in the eye. "I don't know why part of the dream was about you," he lied smoothly. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much. In fact, if you think about it, it wouldn't be surprising for Peter's worst nightmare, always, to be something happening to you. With all the stress he was under yesterday, it probably just brought those fears to the surface."

"Do you think?" Elizabeth sounded hopeful. She wanted so much to believe him, he could sense it. She was desperate to believe him. Hearing that note in her voice filled him, suddenly, with a blinding burst of rage that Regal hadn't suffered more, made him wish Regal was here right now so Neal could do something to remedy that ...

Focus, Neal. She asked you a question, and you need to sell the hell out of this.

"Yes, I do," he told her, automatically imbuing every word with complete confidence, the way he would with any mark. "I don't just think so; I know it. You mean everything to Peter."

Well, the last part was true, anyway.

Under normal circumstances, Neal would have felt at least mildly guilty about lying to Elizabeth (unlike Neal's natural tendency, which was never to feel guilty about anything). But he had no misgivings in this case. This was one of those times when the end justified the means—and he was pretty sure that even straight-arrow Peter would have agreed.

Neal really hoped, though, that Peter didn't ever find out that Elizabeth knew about any of this. (And if Neal had anything to say about it, Peter never would know.)

Peter and Elizabeth were incredibly open with one another. Sometimes Neal thought it was kind of endearing; other times, he found their frankness excessive (maybe even bizarre)—but he couldn't deny that it worked for them.

This time, though, he was glad El had come to him instead of taking her concerns to Peter. Because if Peter knew that Elizabeth had heard him dreaming about her, he'd be appalled. Beyond appalled, no doubt.

And if Elizabeth knew why Peter had been dreaming about her, she'd be scared. Probably beyond scared.

This way, Neal could make sure neither of them knew . . . what the other one didn't want them to know.

Even if it did make him feel a little like some kind of creepy marital interloper.

Hoping to redirect things, he said, "You know, Elizabeth, Peter went through a lot yesterday; it's a lot to process." Which, he realized, was exactly what Peter had just said to him.

Neal found himself glancing involuntarily at the door, much as Elizabeth had earlier. He had the sudden fear that Peter was standing there hearing this whole conversation—and just how the hell would Neal talk them out of that?

Fortunately, Peter was nowhere to be seen. Diana must be talking his ear off, Neal thought gratefully. Well, she had been unusually talkative this morning.

"Yes," Elizabeth sighed. "Which is why I took the drastic step this morning of asking him to talk to someone. A counselor."

Neal relaxed. This, he could talk about. This was good.

"I know," he told her.

"You do?" She looked surprised.

"Peter told me."

"Wow," she said. "I—I didn't think he'd mention it."

"Well, you can relax." Neal wondered if this was okay to reveal, and then decided it was. "He did more than mention it. He suggested I should talk to someone."

She nodded. "I think that would be a good thing for you, Neal."

"And then," Neal added, "Peter said he thought that he would, too."

The smile that lit up her face warmed his heart. "Really?" she asked hopefully. "He actually said that?"

"He did," Neal confirmed. "And even better, he actually meant it. I know when he's just paying me lip service, and . . . he wasn't. Which makes sense, because, as I'm sure you'll agree, one of Peter's best qualities is his recognition of how very wise his wife is."

Elizabeth let out a relieved chuckle. "No argument here. That's . . . that's fantastic," she said, excitedly. "I just want so much for him to talk with someone. I think he—he really needs to."

"He will," Neal assured her. "Between the two of us, we can make sure of it."

Nodding thoughtfully, she asked, "And what about you, Neal?"

He should have been prepared for the question, but somehow he wasn't. Peter was right: he was definitely off his game. "Me?"

Elizabeth tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, giving him her best who are you trying to fool look. "Yes, you. Will you talk with someone?"

"You sound just like Peter."

"And you sound like you're trying to evade the question," she shot back without missing a beat.

Neal was conscious of his heart starting to beat just a little bit faster. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Peter: I don't remember a lot of it." He gave her a sheepish, little half-smile.

"So?" Elizabeth asked bluntly. She wasn't smiling, damnit.

"So . . . if I don't remember," Neal said, his voice perfectly even, "then what is there to talk about?" Maintaining his counterfeit smile was taking way too much effort. He could feel it flickering away like a dying candle flame.

She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "But that's . . . that's almost worse, isn't it? Having someone . . . hurt you while you're unconscious?"

God.

Something twisted painfully in Neal's gut. Leave it to Elizabeth to be so much more direct than Peter would ever dream of being.

Neal really, really did not want to have this conversation—and yet he didn't know how to gracefully avoid it. Before, he'd been worried that Peter would interrupt them. Now he was wondering what the hell was taking Peter so long to come back. Hoping he'd return soon enough to save Neal from his wife, who was clearly wasting her talents in her career as an event planner.

She would have made one hell of an interrogator.

Elizabeth was still gazing at him, a calm but steely look in her eye that was eerily reminiscent of June's, earlier. Waiting for him to say something.

Unrelenting.

Really, Peter should hire her as a consultant. She'd be able to crack the most hardened suspects in no time at all.

"The truth is that I—I don't want to know," he told her, finally. She wasn't giving him any choice. "I just . . . I don't want to think about it."

Instantly, her face softened. "Oh, Neal."

He couldn't help but think that she was pitying him, and, God, but he hated that. Just as he hated making this admission to her.

"Look, Elizabeth, I didn't say this to Peter, because . . ." because it makes me sound weak, he thought, chagrined. Neal just let the sentence hang there, unfinished, before resuming. "I feel like the more I know, the more I talk about it or . . . try to remember, the worse it'll be."

He cleared his throat. "I'm glad I don't remember. Maybe that makes me a coward—"

"Neal. No." She reached out, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Don't you say that, don't you even think it. Peter told me how brave you were yesterday, what you did to save both of you." She paused, gazing into his eyes. "Look, everyone handles trauma differently. This is not about forcing you to talk about something you don't want to. It's just that . . . if you need help, if you ever do want to talk about it, you need to know that you don't have to handle it on your own."

He looked down at her hand, gripping his. "Thanks, Elizabeth."

"Thank you, Neal," she said, eyes just a little too bright. "For making sure Peter came back to me."

Neal nodded awkwardly and looked away, not knowing what to say. He could feel himself flushing, strangely uncomfortable with her unconditional gratitude. It felt wrong, somehow.

Again Elizabeth glanced at the door, expression changing to one of alarm. "Shoot. We better get these food containers open before Peter gets back here. You know how he is. You have to start eating or he'll be suspicious."

She pulled the containers out of the bag. Neal struggled to open one while she ripped the plastic off the utensils. She helped him get the carton open and Neal began eating hastily.

"This is great," he told her in between mouthfuls. "The hospital food is kind of . . . lacking. Thanks for thinking of me."

"Oh, no, it was all Peter." She smiled. "He was worried about you."

Neal groaned. "He worries too much."

"With good reason," Peter commented, walking back into the room. He gestured to the tray. "So, the food—you like?"

"I like very much, thank you." Neal smirked. "I mean, it doesn't compare to Jell-O, but . . . ."

"Great," Peter remarked, voice dry. "By the way, El, Yvonne beeped in while I was talking to Diana. I think you better call her."

"Oh, thanks, hon. I'll check in with her now."

Peter handed her the phone and watched her leave. Neal, observing, felt a strong sense of déjà vu that was confirmed by Peter's next statement.

"Okay, we need to make this quick," he declared. "I don't know how long Yvonne will be able to keep her on the phone."

Did Peter and El have to be so incredibly alike? Apparently that's what ten years of marriage did for you, Neal thought. This time, he wasn't at all surprised, and he decided he didn't have the energy to fake it.

"Let me guess," Neal said, figuring he might as well say something to move the conversation along. "Yvonne didn't really beep in, did she?"

"Sure, she did." Peter was remarkably pleased with himself. "Once I called her from the nurses' station and asked her to, that is."

Neal snorted. "The nurses' station? You badged them into using their phone?"

"Now, why would I bother pulling out my badge when I can just use my natural charm to get what I what?" Peter asked, shaking his head.

"Well, I'm glad you've at least learned something from me since we started working together," Neal retorted. "Okay, so you're very devious and charming. And the point is?"

"The point is that two can play the devious and charming game. So . . . did you guys have enough time to finish talking about me?" Peter asked, working very hard to keep his voice casual.

Damnit. Neal sighed inwardly. He knows. How does he know?

Neal wondered if Peter was actually devious enough to eavesdrop, or if this was just Peter's infamous 'gut' talking. Because Neal's response would depend on which one was true.

Neal let out a long, slow exhale and shook his head a couple of times, using it as a delay tactic. "Really, Peter. Not everything is about you."

"There's a certain irony to that—coming from you, of all people," Peter noted, but he smiled as he said it. "I just meant, if the two of you needed more time, you should have signaled me somehow. I could have gone to the men's room. Again. Or—"

"We talked about a lot of things," Neal interrupted. He rubbed his left wrist on the blanket; the bandage was starting to get itchy. "And, yes, Elizabeth is worried about you. It's a very natural reaction."

"What did she say?"

"What, you weren't listening outside the door?" Neal joked, but Peter's serious expression answered the question. "Okay, you weren't. You do have some standards. Have you considered that maybe you should ask El that?"

"Maybe, but right now, I'm asking you," Peter shot back.

"What if she swore me to secrecy?"

"She wouldn't." After a moment, Peter reconsidered. "Okay, she might. But . . . even if she did, you're not supposed to lie to me."

Neal sighed again. "Okay, fine. She told me she hoped you would get counseling. Which is hardly a secret because you told me that yourself."

"Oh," Peter said, relaxing a little. "Yeah. Right."

Neal didn't want to admit it, but suddenly he felt incredibly drained. Maybe this was just his injuries catching up with him.

Also, perhaps, the fact that the role of undercover marriage counselor was more taxing than Neal ever would have imagined it could be.

"You seem . . . tired," Peter said abruptly, his anxiety audible. "Maybe we should go—"

"No." Neal answered, quickly enough that Peter shot him a penetrating glance. "I mean, if you want to, of course," he backtracked a little, injecting some nonchalance into his voice ". . . but don't leave on my account."

"You should probably be resting. Sleeping."

"Oh, come on, Peter. There'll be plenty of time for that later," Neal assured him.

Peter still looked doubtful. "If you say so." He seemed ready for a new subject. "So," he said, "we should go back to what we were discussing when El came in."

"That's right, you said there was something we needed to talk about," Neal remembered. His fleeting worry that Peter was about to broach a topic Neal would strongly prefer not to discuss turned out to be for naught.

"Your hat."

"Oh, here we go again," Neal muttered under his breath, but he was smiling in spite of himself.

Peter's gaze was probing. "So you're really not going to tell me?"

"So you're really going to keep asking?" Neal asked, looking heavenward.

"After all we've been through," Peter intoned, an unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice—he was really laying it on thick, Neal thought—"I hoped that the least you could do would be to satisfy my curiosity about your hat."

"I can't believe we're back to that again."

Peter didn't reply, just looked back at him gravely.

Neal sighed. "What would you say if I suggested that you should embrace a little mystery in your life? That maybe, just maybe, it would be a nice change of pace if you didn't have to know everything, all the time?"

"I'd say that you were avoiding the question. And I'd say how disappointed I was that you feel the need to continue to keep this secret from me."

Neal shot him a quizzical look. "Secret, huh? This, this, is the one you're worried about? Peter, do you have any idea how many secrets I—"

"Oh, I don't want to know about all your secrets, Neal," Peter said hastily. "Trust me on that. I'm only asking about the one. For right now, anyway."

"You really are fixated on this," Neal said, shaking his head in wonderment. "Which means that, however disappointed you are now, you'd be even more disappointed if I told you the real reason."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Guess." When Peter didn't answer right away, Neal added, his face the picture of innocence, "Didn't you say earlier that you could figure out all of my plans?"

The glare on Peter's face could almost be felt.

"You'll be very disappointed," Neal continued quickly, "to learn that there is no reason."

"No reason what?"

"There's no reason I didn't wear a hat today. I don't wear one every day, you know. I assume," he added, "that the always-observant, trained-to-notice-every-detail Peter Burke has detected that fact."

Neal paused; when he resumed, his voice was lower, like he were musing to himself. "Or perhaps you've been too busy surveilling the take-out cartons in my fridge to notice anything else . . . ."

"But—" Peter looked confused. "Then why'd you make such a big deal of it?"

"I didn't," Neal informed him in a patient voice. "You did."

"So why didn't you say that from the beginning?" Peter still looked as if he thought he was missing something.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Because I was busting your chops, Peter. Amusing myself. You make it way too easy, sometimes. I have to take my entertainment where I can find it." When Peter started to open his mouth, Neal raised a hand and spoke first. "And I told you not to blame me, when you were the one that brought it up."

"Well. I may have brought it up, but you—"

"At least you're finally admitting that you brought it up," Neal said, quite satisfied with himself.

Elizabeth stopped outside the door, listening to the bickering, punctuated by occasional laughter.

She smiled to herself, felt her heart lift.

They were both going to be okay.

She had to believe that. Because if there was one thing the horrific events of yesterday had proven, it was that Peter and Neal looked out for each other. It was what they did. Always.

And she'd look out for both of them.

FIN

Story title inspired by the following quotation:

"Many a man has been saved . . . by finding at a critical hour the right kind of friend."

— G.D. Prentice

A/N

"We as authors sign a pact with our readers; they'll go on reading because they trust us to play fair with them and deliver what we've promised."
― Pamela Glass Kelly

Thanks to everyone who stuck with this reeeeaaalllllly long story! I sincerely hope, in Ms. Glass Kelly's words, that I 'played fair' (well, mostly—despite all the frustrating cliffhangers and the interminable delays!). I hope that I delivered something you enjoyed, something that was worth your investment of time (which, if you've made it this far, is quite a considerable investment—and don't think I don't appreciate that).

I've had a blast with this whole experience. As much as I love the process of writing, the best part, hands-down, has been reading your feedback. I've had the most amazing back and forth with so many of you faithful readers and reviewers—words can't express how much I've enjoyed that. Your support and approval have helped me overcome my fears that the story wasn't nearly good enough. And, best of all, you've made this story so much better than I ever could have by myself—by contributing your ideas and sharing your reactions, which I was able to incorporate in many ways. Speaking of that, any comments/constructive criticism are greatly appreciated—as always! Would love to hear what you liked/didn't like - especially if you had a favorite line, scene or character.

It's beyond flattering that after 140k plus words—in a story that mostly took place in a couple of hours, in one room, no less—that so many commenters have said they wanted more—or even a sequel. I do appreciate that some of you didn't want this story to end, because there's no better compliment for a writer than that. I feel like I've told the story I wanted to tell (for now, anyway), but if anyone out there wants to write about Peter getting counseling (he will, of course) or Regal's associates wreaking additional havoc (always a possibility), well, you have my blessing because I'd love to read it.

The reaction to this has been so overwhelming that it almost makes me feel nothing else I write could ever compare, so maybe I shouldn't even try. I'd like to, though. (And I do have a large chunk of another story written, so hopefully someday it will see the light of day . . . .)

Thanks again.