Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA Network. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: Set shortly after Season 1 – Book of Hours. WARNING for violence and aftermath of violence.

Peter's Office

"Chantal … Rose," Neal slowly read off the file Peter had just flipped down in front of him. He glanced up at him with raised brows. "Seriously? That's a real name?"

Peter just gave him a long look until Neal heaved a long-suffering sigh and caved.

"OK, fine, yes – I know her. Deals in any kind of information about art. If you want to know the whereabouts of a painting or sculpture or which collector would be most interested in it she's the one to ask." And on receiving another long look he added: "All right, so she might also be selling information about security measures around those pieces. Or so I heard."

Peter snorted but let that one slip.

"Miss Rose will also be in town for the next twenty-four hours," he said instead and sat behind his desk. "Came in with the nine o'clock flight from Dallas this morning and will take off again tomorrow at noon for Chicago."

Neal tilted his head. "Sounds like a tight schedule. Let me guess: The FBI thinks she will meet some interesting buyer while she's here."

"Nope."

"No? Then why...?"

"You were right the other day. It would have taken too long to get word out that Neal Caffrey was back in the game for you to pose as buyer for the 'Healing Bible'. So, in case we ever end up in a similar situation..." Peter glanced pointedly at the file.

"You want to use Chantal to circulate I'm not as deep in the FBI's pocket as it may seem," Neal finished with a nod of realization. Then he shook his head. "It won't work. She's too good, she will catch on immediately that I would have had no chance to meet her without approval of the Bureau."

"Exactly."

"But –" Neal stopped short and then a brilliant smile slowly spread across his face. "Oooh, Peter. Nice. Veeery nice. But I will need some – you know – cash. Just to be convincing."

"Now, why am I not surprised to hear that?"

Peter sighed but produced an envelope. Neal snatched it grinning then frowned in disapproval as he peered inside.

"Really. Peter. Three fifties? Chantal is a woman of exquisite taste –" … at which point he caught sight of Peter's expression and hastily amended, "I'm sure I'll make do."

Somewhere in Manhattan

Straightening the cuffs of his suit jacket to perfection Neal stopped just inside the crowded, very trendy interior of Antonio's and glanced round. Smiling out of habit at some of the prettier women among the guests – and at one or the other waitress too – he finally spotted his target and made his way through the tables, slipping easily in the chair opposite the short, a little corpulent woman sitting in front of a delicious looking dish of Linguine Formaggio e Funghi.

"Chantal!" He exclaimed, seizing one of her hands and breathing a theatrical kiss on it, "What a pleasure to see you!"

"Neal," the woman returned with a slight twitch of her full lips that indicated a smile, though she tried for a stern expression. "It's been a long time."

"Too long."

This time the woman did smile as she extricated her hand to pick up her high-stemmed glass and take a delicate sip of wine. Neal took the opportunity to signal a waiter for one of his own. When he turned back he found himself under close scrutiny as Chantal speared a mushroom with her fork.

"What do you want, Neal?"

"What do I ever want?"

"Ah – ah," Chantal wagged her fork reproachfully, "Don't try that smile with me, my dear. You know I hear a lot and what I heard about you is … not encouraging."

Neal just smiled brighter as her eyes dipped down meaningfully on the tabletop and up again. He purposefully stretched out his left leg and brushed it against her ankle.

"So you know about my little … arrangement."

He received a pitying look. "Neal, darling, I'm sorry but at the moment you are bad business. And I think this conversation is over."

"Chantal," Neal dropped the smile and sat forward, "You are right. I'm here because the FBI told me to. I'm to convince you that I'm double-crossing them. See that man over there, waiting with the others for a table?" He waited for her wandering eyes to still and then nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's Special Agent Peter Burke. My handler. And right now he's waiting for us to leave so he can first chase and then conveniently loose us."

Chantal's eyes abruptly returned to his face. "Why are you telling me this?"

Neal just raised his brows and smirked.

The woman chuckled and shook her head. "My, my, Neal. You are playing a dangerous game, you know that?"

"What is life without a little danger." Neal thanked the waiter bringing his wine, lifting it first to his nose to breath in its bouquet before savoring a careful sip. Setting the glass down he let his face harden just a fraction and looked again across the table. "Chantal, I did what I had to do to get out of prison. I humor Peter – as long as it suits me. For the rest..."

The information dealer pursed her lips. "So. What now, then?"

A mischievous twinkle returned to Neal's eyes as he cast a meaningful glance at the other side of the restaurant. "Well, as it happens I have been given a free afternoon and evening to charm you on the government's bill. How is it? You want to take the offer?"

Chantal Rose considered him a moment longer. "You buying dinner?"

Neal just smiled again and without another word the woman dabbed her mouth with her napkin and discreetly deposited money including a generous tip on the table while Neal added something for his wine. Standing he slipped a hand through her arm to guide her gently towards the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, Peter is expecting a bit of a chase to feed you this whole thing more convincingly. I'd say we'll give him something to do for his money."

They both glanced back over their shoulders, just as Peter so happened to turn his head their direction. For a thrilling moment their eyes met. And then Neal shouted "NOW" and the two of them dashed off through the swing doors of the kitchen, barely dodging a waiter coming out with an arrangement of plates. Laughing and giggling they wound their way through the astonished gaping cooks, managed to avoid a cart with steaming plates, ignored a shout of "FBI! Stop!" behind them and barged out into the quite little street at the back of the restaurant. Neal immediately swerved to the right, pulling the giggling woman with him by the hand then stopped short in front of a startled-looking, skinny teenager leaning against a huge dumpster, shoving a bill in his hand – "Hey, you, distract the man following us! Distract him!" – and off they were again, laughing like fools, running down the street without a backwards glance and Neal was hustling Chantal around the next corner just as the back door of the restaurant banged open again.

So he never saw the skinny teenager gaping stupidly at the fifty-dollar bill in his hand until a lean, strong arm reached over his shoulder and plucked the money deftly from his fingers.

He never saw the smirk on the much bigger and older young man's face as he showed his prize to his cronies smoking and drinking in the shadow of the dumpsters…

"Sorry! Sorry! FBI! Sorry!" Peter zigged and zagged to get through the kitchen without broken dishes and crashed through the back door, looking frantically around. He caught a fleeting glance of Neal and the information dealer skidding around the corner on his right – the woman was surprisingly agile for her round forms – and gave chase though he had really no intention of catching them. Swerving to avoid a skinny teenager goggling at him from beside several huge dumpsters, his mind was already on when it would be most 'convincing' to give up pursuit.

He was utterly unprepared for the violent tackle from the side that knocked him right off his feet.

Peter fell, fell awkwardly, a graceless sprawl he didn't quite manage to transform into a roll. Bringing his hands under him he barely had time to register the thump of dashing boots before the first kick caught him in his midsection, throwing him back on his side. A blur of motion, yelling and grunting and once down all he could do was clamping his arms around his head as tightly as possible and curling into a fetal position, protecting face and soft tissue of the stomach by baring back and spine to the stomping, kicking violent whirlwind all around… A shout, the sound of running feet then silence.

Peter's breath stuttered out. And in. And out again. A raw, alien sound echoing in his ears. It seemed like a very long time before he was able to slowly loosen his arms from around his head, longer still to finally bring his right palm flat on the rough surface of the street. His legs convulsed as he uncurled them partially, the edge of his shoes scraping across the blacktop, fighting for purchase until he finally succeeded in rolling over on elbows and knees, flying puffs of breath now beating against the ground. In and out. In and out. If he just kept breathing it would pass. If only he kept breathing it had to pass. And through the rasp of air he still heard the shout – "That's enough for fifty bucks!" – and the pounding of running feet.

That's enough for fifty bucks!

"Neal," croaked Peter, "Neal, what have you done?"

He got from his elbows onto his hands. Dragged one foot up, planted it on the ground. Had to pause and breathe; harsh, sobbing breaths hurting his throat. Hurting deep down in his chest. Pushing up made it only halfway upright before stumbling into a dumpster, clinging to the filthy rim to steady himself. Kept breathing. Somehow still kept breathing. Straightening slowly he blinked moisture out of his eyes, looked up and down the deserted narrow street. No faces in the windows. The back door of the restaurant firmly closed. He hadn't shut it as he ran out. Relinquishing his hold on the dumpster he forced a first step. Another. After a little reeling managed to walk in a mostly straight line. Down the side street. Out on the busy sidewalk of the next bigger street. People looked at him strangely and hurried past but to save the honor of the New Yorker it also had to be said that he was asked twice if he needed assistance. Reaching the Taurus he fumbled the key out of his pocket with shaking hands and bit back a scream as he lowered his body into the seat. At least three drivers had honked at him before he could bring himself to pull the door shut.

After sitting and breathing for several more minutes Peter dug out his cellphone, vaguely surprised it had survived without a scratch. Pressing a speed dial he waited for the connection.

"Jones? Peter. I want to follow up a lead and won't come in again today. If Caffrey makes contact tell him to report in tomorrow. Thanks."

He disconnected then turned the phone off. For a moment he looked down at his still trembling hands. He knew he was in no condition to drive. That it was, in fact, plain irresponsible to even consider driving. But calling a cab would leave a trace, a witness, and if the Taurus got towed all bets were off. So gritting his teeth he started the engine, glanced in the side mirror and carefully pulled out into traffic.

Brooklyn

He heard her on the stairs, just ending a call while unlocking the outer door, and so had sufficient time to compose himself on the couch until El pushed through the inner one, still juggling keys and cellphone and bags all at once.

"Hey, Satchmo, how is my… Hon?" And then immediately, in a completely different voice, "What happened?"

Peter smiled a bit forced though he suspected the improvised pile of quilts and pillows behind him were kind of a dead giveaway.

"El. Come here."

Quickly putting down her bags and gently nudging a visibly subdued Satchmo out of the way El sat down on the other end of the couch, eyes anxiously searching him for wounds and bandages, taking in the still shower-wet hair, the wide, ratty (and extremely soft) sweater, the baggy old sweatpants.

"Peter?"

He tried to smile more reassuringly.

"I'll be OK," he said gently. "I got a bit roughed up. Nothing that won't heal."

He watched her translate roughed up to beaten in her head and freeze with terror and carefully placed his hand over hers – a mistake since the back of his hands had taken the brunt of the kicks aimed for the back of his head. El stared at the scraped and bruised skin and gasped.

"Oh my God. Peter!"

"It's not as bad as it looks. Really."

El swallowed, closed her eyes for a second, clearly fighting for composure, clearly fighting to be strong for him and he was briefly overwhelmed by how much he loved this woman. Taking a deep breath she looked back at him.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"We were trying to establish word in the right circles that Neal has not switched sides completely by working for us. So we set up a meeting with one of his old contacts, I was supposed to chase them for show, Neal was supposed to do everything to through me off track. It looks like he might have … accidentally paid someone to beat me up."

"Oh, hon," El groaned sympathetically then switched to deadly serious with dizzying speed, "I'll kill him."

"What? No! Wait! El –!"

Startled Peter grabbed for the hem of her shirt as she jumped up and whirled to the door, freezing with a sharp half-scream as his whole body protested violently against the abrupt movement.

"Hon, Peter, honey..."

At least it had brought her back down at his side, hands fluttering helplessly, wanting so desperately to touch him but not daring to for fear of hurting him further. Panting through gritted teeth Peter seized the opportunity and captured her fingers securely in his.

"It's OK, hon. Really. Just – slow down here for a second, Sarah Conner."

The movie reference managed to bring a faint smile on El's lips though she still looked positively terrified.

"You should be in the hospital."

"No, I just moved too fast. Honestly. Yes, I'm might be feeling a bit trashed and have a cracked rib of two but there's no blood in the bowl when I use the toilet and –"

El made a strangled noise halfway between a sob and a laugh and Peter broke off contritely.

"Not helping?"

"No!" El ground out though now definitely nearer to a laugh than a sob.

"Sorry."

"But just for the record," El added with forced cheer after a few seconds, "I'm still SO going to kill Neal."

"You can't," Peter said gently, "We can never talk about this to anyone. Not the FBI and especially not Neal."

El looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean? He could have gotten you killed! You have to talk to him and make sure he understands–"

"El," Peter interrupted her, still very gently, "I can't. Even if it was an accident – for the Bureau it will be assault on a federal officer. Should they ever hear of this they'll throw him back in jail and not even ask about the circumstances. They'll lock him up for life if they can. And as stupid as his stunt was, he doesn't deserve that if it wasn't deliberate."

For a long moment they sat in silence.

"And if it was deliberate?" El whispered finally.

Peter squeezed her hands tightly, raising his eyes to meet hers.

"Then," he said heavily, "I can't let him know he succeeded."

In the end Peter slept on the couch, fitfully and half sitting, half sort of curled around a wad of pillows because it was the only position his tender back and ribs would let him breathe remotely properly. Satchmo had faithfully placed himself at his feet, prodding Peter with a questioning cold nose whenever he shifted groaning and cursing … what was annoying but also oddly comforting. El had finally agreed to go to bed yet he still heard her so frequently creeping back down the stairs to check on him that all in all she probably didn't get a lot more rest than he did. So getting up almost an hour earlier than his usual time was rather a relief; another (gentle and tepid) shower and a shave (with his backup electric razor) made him feel almost human again. El driving him in finally allowed him to reach his floor and install himself behind his desk before the bulk of the office arrived. It also allowed him a suitable amount of time to school his features until Neal breezed in through the glass doors by the elevators and made a beeline for the stairs, all smiles and cheer and sunny disposition.

"Peter! Good morning! You are in early."

Peter didn't deem that worthy of a reply.

"And?" he asked shortly after Neal had settled with his usual cat-like grace on his visitor's chair.

"Oh, I think she bought it. We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Guggenheim, had dinner in a lovely new restaurant a few blocks from there and then moved on to –"

Hughes entering the office cut off his enthusiastic description.

"Peter," he greeted, "Caffrey. Peter, Bradshaw said he saw you limping rather badly this morning. Is everything all right?"

Peter secretly cursed Hughes's current assistant into the next millennium but managed to avoid glancing at Neal while his boss's gaze flickered quickly from his mercifully unscathed face to his rather traitorous hands and back again. He kept his voice calm and even.

"Just a game that went out of hand, sir. I took a spill, got a few scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious."

"Hmm."

Hughes nodded once and left and Peter briskly turned back to Neal, suddenly at the end of his patience.

"Well, write up a report of your afternoon and evening and then get on with those files you have neglected to read for the past week and a half." Neal looked startled and Peter nodded with no small amount of satisfaction. "Oh, yes, I've noticed. But give me the report before you file it."

"OK." Neal got up, hesitated twirling his hat and then tried a charming smile. "You know, Peter, as I said Chantal has exquisite taste and so I might have strained my budget just a little bit. There any chance to get a refund –?"

"No!"

Peter's bark came out a lot sharper than he had intended and Neal immediately retreated, hands held up placatingly with his best wounded expression.

"OK, OK – no need to rip my head off." Turing away he rolled his eyes – clearly intending Peter not to see who did anyway via reflection in the glass – and on his way out added in an almost awed undertone: "Wow. THAT must have been some game."

Peter watched him skip down the stairs and inhaled very, very slowly. Then exhaled equally carefully of his ribs.

Brooklyn

"And?" El asked quietly that evening while smoothing salve on his back. "Do you think he did it on purpose?"

Bracing against the sink Peter regarded what he could see of her in the mirror; the bobbing of her dark head behind his shoulder, a glimpse of her face every now and again beside his arm. Right now his stiffened muscles didn't allow turning his head far enough around to see his own back in it but then he didn't need to. What it looked like, the amount of black and blue bruising covering its entire length was right there written in the tight lines around his wife's mouth, in the utmost gentleness of her hands, the haunted look in her eyes. Besides, the back of his arms and his shins he could see just fine and that was scary enough, thank you very much.

"No," he finally answered belatedly, "I don't think it was on purpose."

El's hands stilled for a heartbeat on his back before sliding down it one last time.

"I'm glad," she said softly. "Will you talk to him now?"

Peter slowly shook his head, keeping the movement to a minimum.

"No…"

Cleaning her hands on a towel El looked at him with those too knowing eyes.

"I'll go get you a fresh sweater. And you should talk to him."

She pressed a kiss on his shoulder, involuntarily grimaced at the taste and shot him an apologetic look, surreptitiously wiping her lips as she left the bathroom. Peter chuckled briefly watching her go but grew serious again on turning back to his reflection in the mirror.

He knew Elizabeth was glad of his assurance, glad her instincts concerning Neal had not been wrong; that he was not capable of harming anyone deliberately. She might still be angry on Peter's behalf and far from forgiving him completely but she also had come to liked this young conman who had so unexpectedly wormed his way into their lives and home. Peter didn't blame her – he liked Neal, in fact more than he should and he shared her relief but... Yes. But.

It wasn't so much that the mere thought of talking to anyone about those few, endless seconds on the ground repulsed him almost physically. But how could he talk about it to Neal and then go on working with him? How could he look into those blue eyes so adept at lying and say I doubted? Because for one terrible night he had doubted. Doubted Neal, doubted his own judgment, doubted his knowing the young man he thought to know so well. And if he did not know Neal – what had he left to continue this deal with him? Even worse though – what had he left now that he doubted no more?

Because it could have been not him Neal endangered. It could have been Jones or Cruz or – heaven forbid – a civilian. Those bullies could have gotten to his gun. They could have taken it, could have used it to rob a store, shoot an innocent. Involuntarily his hands tightened on the edge of the sink, gripping it hard as if he could wring away the consequences of what he knew he had decided already in the depth of his heart.

Neal himself was not violent, yes. But he was impulsive and uncontrollable and smart as he was he was not thinking things through when he was acting on the spur of the moment. And knowing that – knowing Neal – knowing what could happened if he continued this deal, kept Neal out of prison and on the streets because of all the good he could do working as their consultant, giving him a chance to become a better man … everything that happened would be Peter's responsibility.

His alone.

The end