A/N: The bulk of this story was written before the 6 episodes of Season 4.5 aired, so a few things won't match up. In particular, the small, but important, roles for Hughes and Sara in this story are a little at odds with the last couple of episodes. But re-writing them would require so many changes... Just give them a wink and a nod as slightly AU :-)

Cayuga Correctional Facility, Moravia, NY

Day 2,642

5:30 a.m.

The buzzer sounded, just like it had for the previous two thousand, six hundred and forty one days. Eighty six months, three weeks, two days. Sixty three thousand, four hundred and eight hours, give or take.

One time he had calculated the minutes, but at nearly four million, that had been rather depressing; even more depressing than his whole situation. He hadn't done it again.

This day, however – this two thousand, six hundred and forty second day – was different.

It was his last day here.

Oh, the day would start the same as they all had for the last seven-plus years. He'd get up with the second buzzer in five minutes and head to the west end of the dormitory where a half wall separated the urinals and toilets from the rest of the room. His bladder comfortably emptied, he'd come back to his little cubicle, gather up his bag with shower and grooming supplies, his slippers, a towel, and his robe, and wait for his turn under one of the industrial shower heads that sprayed one temperature of water – too cool for his liking – no matter how one tried to adjust it. But he'd stay under the water as long as he could, trying to scrub off the prison stench he knew had accumulated again overnight.

The scrubbing never quite worked, but at least today was the last time he'd accumulate the odor; sometimes, he could almost swear it was physical, that he could see it on his skin.

The next shower he took would be as a free man, and right now, that was all that mattered.

He scrubbed extra hard anyway when he got there, and lathered his hair an extra time before rinsing off. Rumblings behind him let him know that other men were waiting, so he finally, reluctantly, reached for his towel and stepped out into the entry area.

A quick stop at a sink finished his morning business. The disposable razor scraped his skin, clearly at the end of its useful life, but it hardly mattered today. He used extra toothpaste, and made a note to himself to brush his teeth again after the institutional breakfast that was waiting. When he stepped out of that gate for the last time, he wanted to truly taste freedom, not the sticky oatmeal and burned toast that were the staples on Tuesday mornings.

Every Tuesday morning for eighty six plus months.

Back in the small cubicle that had been "home" for most of the seven years, he finished towel drying his hair, combed it, and then used his fingers to affect some minimal styling. There were no actual mirrors here; he couldn't blame the last seven years on any bad luck caused by breaking one. And the reflection in the burnished aluminum showed a man he barely recognized anymore.

Or maybe the problem was that he recognized this man all too well, having lived with him in prison for so long. The man he saw reflected now just bore so little resemblance to the man he had been, the man he had wanted to be, less than eight years ago.

When the world as he knew it ended.

He dressed quickly, which was made easier by the limited wardrobe in prison. There was no standing at a closet door, deciding on a suit, a shirt, a tie. Non-descript underwear, prison issue gray pants and shirt, socks that had once been white but had now grayed with the abuse of the prison laundry system.

Finally, he pulled on his shoes – the old, ragged athletic shoes that he would have tossed out months ago in the outside world. He'd had better, newer shoes, but they had been bequeathed to Billy Copeland last night. Billy had been one of the first to befriend him, back in those dark, early days when he had doubted that he could make it seven months, much less seven years; hell, even seven weeks had seemed doubtful at first.

He had survived though, both because of the strong support system he had outside of the prison walls, and because of men like Billy inside. Billy, however, had no one outside the walls – no family, no close friends, no one to make sure there was money in a prison account to buy whatever few comforts were allowed.

So, Billy got his almost new shoes. His baseball glove and cleats had gone to Will Armister, who had been a promising college player until a bad decision and a stolen car derailed his playing days. The radio went to Stanley Kresky, an octogenarian who would most likely die without ever breathing free air again, but who could now listen to his beloved big band music.

Actually, as he looked around the small cubicle, there was very little left. Most of the physical items he had accumulated had been given away to men who were not leaving anytime soon. Things that weren't allowed to be transferred directly had been turned over to the correctional officers for distribution or destruction; frankly, he couldn't care less which choice was made.

The photos that had adorned the walls were packed away in the single bag he would be taking with him. Aside from the pictures and letters – the precious items that had kept him going each day – there was nothing else he'd had here that meant anything.

He wanted absolutely nothing that would remind him of Cayuga when he went home.

Home…

That was an interesting concept, since he didn't really know what form "home" would take. But he had an approved domicile to go to, and today, that was all that mattered.

Steeling himself for one more round of gluey oatmeal, he got to his feet. After seven years of practice, it didn't take long to make the bunk up to prison standards. He'd strip it down, as instructed, after he ate, but the rule was that beds had to be made up before leaving the dormitory.

Today was definitely not the day to break any rules.

He clipped his prison ID badge to his shirt and headed toward the door.

The drive had never seemed so long, or so short.

He'd made the trip from Brooklyn to Moravia almost every week for over seven years, so he knew the way by heart. In fact, he figured he probably knew every possible way to get to Moravia by now.

Well, he hadn't actually tried driving up to Canada – which wasn't so very far away – and then back south again, but it would be doable.

But of the main ways to get from Point A to Point B, he'd tried them all, and he had his favorite for scenery, and a favorite for time. It was roughly two hundred and fifty miles however he clocked it.

He was taking the fastest route today. On the road past Middletown, Monticello, Binghamton. Through Cortland, which counted as the nearest "big" town; it was at least the closest location with amenities like hotels. Then on to Cayuga Correctional Facility.

His haste was misplaced, of course, and he knew it. The prison release notice had listed one o'clock as the official time; knowing prison systems as he did, he figured the actual time the gate would open would be at least a couple of hours later. And at his current speed – within posted limits, more or less – he'd be there before noon.

Better early than late on a day like this.

Besides, while Moravia might be lacking in certain big-city amenities, he had discovered a coffee shop there that made up for other shortcomings. He'd have time to sit down with a cup of freshly brewed heaven, and maybe one of the pastries they always tempted him with. And he had also brought an empty thermos along to get filled there.

After more than seven years in Cayuga, his friend would certainly appreciate a good cup of coffee.

After more than seven years of vending machine coffee when they visited, he was going to appreciate being able to share a cup of good coffee with his friend again.

The sign indicated the exit to Moravia was coming up in just over a mile so he touched the brakes, turning off the cruise control. He'd be at the coffee shop in less than five minutes, and in the visitors' lot at the prison within the hour.

And then it was just a matter of waiting.

Time must have stopped. Or it was at least moving so slowly as to have seemed to have stopped.

The oatmeal consumed at breakfast was sitting like a rock in his stomach. His nerves felt like they were stretched so taut, the slightest touch could snap them.

He'd finished cleaning out his things right after breakfast, pitching or giving away a few final items. The bedding was stripped and tossed into the laundry pile. His one bag was packed and ready to go. He kept it firmly between his feet as he sat on the small stool by his table, talking to those who stopped by to wish him well.

He had even managed not to lose his temper with those who paused to taunt him with how soon they expected to see him again. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction, not today. And he certainly wouldn't get provoked into something, not today of all days.

Getting provoked was what had landed him here – for two thousand, six hundred and forty two days - in the first place. The last thing he had packed, as a matter of fact, was the small calendar book where he had marked off each and every one of those days. He wanted – needed – to move on, but he never wanted to forget. To forget was to risk repeating past mistakes.

They'd finally come for him just before noon. By then he'd all but convinced himself that something had gone wrong. They had lost the keys to the front door, or maybe the end of the world had erased everything outside the Cayuga walls. No amount of telling himself that it was just nerves had been able to fully allay those fears.

But they had come, mercifully before he could totally fall apart. There might have been some muttered explanation of more inmates arriving for intake than normal, thus causing the delay, but he wasn't sure he really listened. As long as he was getting out, he didn't really care.

And no, he didn't want to wait until after lunch.

It turned out that getting out of prison was as much of a process as getting in had been, only in a sort of reverse order. In the processing area, his bag was emptied, every item checked. He was patted down, twice – once before being led out of the dormitory, and then again in the processing area. Then he was led into a small room and ordered to strip. Since it was the last time he'd be wearing the dreaded prison gray, this time was at least marginally better than all of the other searches over the last seven plus years.

He made a mental note to banish gray from his wardrobe from this point forward.

Hands out, open his mouth, turn around, bend over, cough…

He wondered if he could pin-point when strip searches had ceased to be something he worried about, and simply became a normal part of life.

They handed him a plastic bag marked with the seal indicating it had been x-rayed, sniffed by the drug detection dogs, and hand searched. It contained clothing – wonderful boxers with a pattern, something not allowed in prison. Jeans, and the denim had never felt so fine. A polo shirt, deep crimson in color with thin pinstripes in a lighter shade. Fine dress socks, not the heavy duty kind he'd been wearing. And new shoes.

The prison issued clothing went into the laundry bin provided. The old shoes went into the trash. He put his watch back on, not because the cheap model was full of good memories or anything, but because his wrist felt naked without it.

Then it was on to the social worker interview. Yes, he understood that he was being released on parole, and that the supervision would last for the remaining fifteen percent of his sentence. Yes, he understood that he would need to report to his parole officer within two days of being released, and he knew where the office was. Yes, he understood the restrictions that would be placed on his movements for that period of time, which would amount to fourteen months and a few days. Yes, he understood the requirement of finding and holding a job.

No, he had not signed up for any community reintegration services. He had a network of friends – family – who had been there for seven years, and would continue to be there for him, without a doubt. Yes, his previously approved housing arrangements were still in place. And yes, he had a ride today; the fact that the new clothes had arrived was proof of that.

No, he did not have any other questions.

The final security desk was next. He recited his registration number – 22218115 – for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time. He confirmed his name, handed over his prison identification card.

He stood passively, with a distinct sense of déjà vu, as one of the deputies assigned to the prison transfer duty knelt down and attached the electronic monitoring device to his ankle. When everyone involved had confirmed that the tracking light was on and the device was working correctly he was finally waved through to the last door.

He signed the final paperwork, took the envelope with the balance from his prison account. No, thank you, he didn't need to count it. Just please open the door…

And then the door opened, the buzzer ringing in his ears as he stepped outside of the main building. A correctional officer walked next to him, and he had the vague sense that the guard was wishing him well, but right then the words had no meaning, and he couldn't process them.

All he could focus on was the car parked just outside the gate, and the man standing next to it.

Waiting had never been his strongest talent.

The coffee and pastry in Moravia had been good, and the proprietor as friendly as ever. But he hadn't lingered over the experience as he often did after a visit.

He'd actually gotten the thermos filled for free after explaining why he wanted that. Of course, he left a sizeable tip that would more than compensate the owner for her kindness. It was actually thanks for all of the kindness she had shown over the many years he had been coming here.

As he headed back to the car, he knew that, in some way, he would miss the coffee shop, and the small town friendliness.

He would not miss the reason he'd been coming here, and the reason he had found the shop in the first place.

It only took a few minutes to get to the prison entrance. Then it was the same procedure of showing his ID, and getting through to the visitors' parking lot. He took the bag of clothing inside, showing the copy of the release papers to the officer at the front desk.

And then he went back outside to wait.

As expected, one o'clock came and went without any sign of someone coming out. It was an unseasonably warm day for early October, and the two sad looking picnic tables in the yard had no cover. So he stayed in the car with the air conditioning running, trying – and not really succeeding – to study a case file on his e-reader.

Two o'clock passed, and he went for a walk around the parking lot, always keeping his eye on the door.

It was just after three o'clock when the door finally opened, and his friend stepped out into the sunshine.

Neal got out of the car, standing just in front of it, watching as Peter was led to the gate. And then, finally, he was through the gate, free.

He watched as Peter gave a small grin and shake of his head. The older man reached down, pulling up the left leg of his jeans. "Look what I have."

Neal finally moved, stepping away from the car and toward the gate. "It does look somewhat familiar," he said. "Though I think the roles were reversed before."

"Up is down," Peter said softly. "Thanks for coming."

"As if I wouldn't?" Neal closed the distance, wrapping his friend in a strong hug. "This has been a long time coming."

Peter's arms wrapped around him, and he could feel the older man shaking. They just stood there, holding each other, until the tremors passed.

Neal finally took a step back. "Ready to get out of here?"

"Oh, you know I am."

"Yeah, I do know."

Neal reached down and picked up the bag Peter had abandoned in favor of the hug. "Just the one bag?"

"That's all it takes to hold the photos and letters. Nothing else I wanted to keep or remember."

"Yeah, I understand that," Neal said as he led the way to the car. He tossed the bag into the trunk and then headed for the driver's side.

"This really is strange," Peter said quietly. "I remember picking you up like this. Seems like I should be driving."

"Yeah, well, I'd let you drive, but…"

"I think my license expired a while ago."

"And I'm told that breaking the law on your first day out would probably be a bad idea."

"Yeah, probably," Peter agreed as he got in on the passenger side.

"Like you said, up is down," Neal remarked, buckling up behind the wheel.

Peter nodded, buckling his own safety belt. "And all around," he said.

Neal pulled out of the lot and to the first checkpoint. Peter's paperwork was examined, the trunk was checked, and they were waived through. The final guard post led to one more paperwork verification, and then, finally, the heavy gate rolled open, and Neal drove out onto the road.

Peter released the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

The car rolled smoothly on the pavement, the walls of the prison spinning by. Razor wire glinted in the afternoon sun, and then they were past it, and open land lay ahead.

Neal silently noted how Peter stared resolutely ahead, not looking into the mirror, as if afraid that what was behind him might be following them.

He remembered the feeling.

He waited until they had put a few miles between them and the prison before reaching down between the seats and pulling out the thermos. "You might be interested in this."

Peter's smile was instantaneous. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Well, if you think it might be coffee from the best little shop in Moravia, you might be right." Neal pointed at two travel mugs in the cup holders. "Why don't you do the honors."

Peter opened the thermos, pausing to inhale deeply as the aroma was released. Then he carefully poured the liquid into the mugs, recapped the thermos and lifted one of the cups to his lips. "Oh, that's good," he said, after a good, long taste.

"What, you doubted my review of the coffee there?"

"Not at all. It's just that there's nothing like first-hand experience."

Neal smiled and nodded, sipping from his own cup. "That is true."

"Sorry for the late start today. I wasn't exactly consulted."

"Having experienced the joys of prison release myself, I wasn't surprised."

"I guess you do understand. Still, I know it's a late start."

"Then I guess it's good that we're only going as far as Ithaca today."

Peter's hesitation was brief, but noticeable. "Ithaca?"

"Yeah, I got it approved, and your dad is expecting us. He said he'd be making your favorite meal, and your old room is waiting." Neal paused, looking over at his passenger. "You know, I think someone might have left something in that room for you."

Peter was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so soft Neal almost had to lean over to hear him. "How… how is she?"

"She's fine, Peter. Diana and Shelley are staying with her tonight, and Samantha will pick her up tomorrow after school. She's looking forward to you being home."

"Yeah, me too."

They continued in silence for a couple of miles before Peter spoke again, gesturing to the window. "Hey, would it be all right if I put that down for a bit."

Neal nodded, reaching over to the control panel to turn off the air conditioning. "I think some fresh air would be fine," he said. Then he reached into his pocket and extracted his cell phone, pulling up a number. "Here, why don't you let your dad know we're on the way."

Peter's hand was shaking as he took the phone. He pulled in a deep breath, hit the talk button that Neal pointed out, and then lifted the phone to his ear. It was ringing…

'Hello.'

"Hi, dad."

Lowell Burke hung up the phone, his hand shaking slightly. It seemed like forever and a day since he'd seen his oldest son outside of gray, institutional walls.

But now he was on his way.

He stopped in the bedroom, pulling on a short sleeve cotton shirt over the t-shirt he generally preferred around the house. Then he headed for the kitchen.

At eighty one years of age, bending over to check on the pot roast wasn't the easiest thing to do. As they had both gotten up there in years, Marian had tried to convince him that a crock pot – which could be placed on top of the counter – would do the job just as well. And for some things, maybe it would.

But not for his famous Burke pot roast.

It was the one thing he had truly mastered in the kitchen – the one recipe he had passed along to his children as his special dish. And only the traditional oven roasting would do.

He had heeded Neal's advice and not planned to have dinner ready too early. But a quick check showed that everything looked to be right on target. And the boys were finally on the way.

They pulled onto the street where he had grown up, and Peter could feel a lump growing in his throat. He'd always meant to come back here more often – after all, it was only about four hours from the city. But he and El had always been so busy…

And then he couldn't come for the seven years of his incarceration.

Neal was slowing down, pulling into a driveway, and they were there. The two story house looked the way it always did in his memories – the way it had looked all of those long nights in prison when all he had were memories to keep him going. The siding was a pale yellow, the paint maybe starting to crack in a few places. The shutters were an earthy brown, weathered without looking old.

The car stopped, and Peter just sat still for a long moment, staring at the house. Finally, he released the seatbelt, opened the door, and slowly got out. He stood there, taking a few deep breaths, and then he felt Neal come up beside him.

Peter nodded, more to himself than anything, and stepped forward. The paving stones leading to the front door looked the same; in fact, he remembered when the crack in the third one from the edge of the driveway had been made.

How were he and Lyle supposed to know that moving a piano in would turn out to be so difficult?

There were four steps leading up to a small landing outside the door. A cast iron railing guarded each side and he gripped one rail tightly to keep his hand from shaking as he mounted the steps.

He reached up his hand to knock, but the door opened first, expelling the tantalizing aroma of pot roast in the oven. And then his father was there, filling the doorway, his arms open.

"Hi, dad."

"Hello, son," the older man said, as they hugged on the top step. "Welcome home."