The mile markers were counting down, bring them closer, ever closer, to The City.

To home.

'Home' was an interesting concept, Peter mused, as he watched the landscape transform from country to suburbia, with the first hint of skyscrapers peeking up in the far distance.

He was going home – except, it wasn't really his home any longer. It was Neal's home, Neal's and Becky's. Peter would be the stranger, the outsider, the interloper…

His hand tightened on the sheet of paper he held, sending a warning of pain to his brain as the edge cut against his palm. The paper cut made him jump, and he looked down, quickly switching hands so he wouldn't get any blood on the precious item. It was the surprise Neal had told him would be waiting in Ithaca.

It was a drawing from Becky…

He studied it again now, happy and sad emotions tugging at him. He'd recognize the townhouse anywhere, of course, even though it was now painted a deep slate blue, which was represented in the drawing. In front, there were three figures. The first was Becky herself, dark-haired and standing in the middle about where the steps would be. The second, also dark-haired, was labeled Papa Neal. The third…

Daddy.

That one word brought a lump to his throat, and he turned his head toward the window while he swallowed hard. It was also a good time to run a hand over his face, wiping away the tear that had trickled onto his cheek.

He was walking into so many unknowns.

He took a deep breath, trying, once more, to settle his nerves. He'd barely slept, the comfort of a real bed overridden by the complexities of being free. There were so many thoughts jumbling in his head, so many questions needing to be answered.

And he'd forgotten how noisy the night could be outside, with chirping insects, dogs barking, cars going by, a siren in the distance, birds chirping as the sun began to touch the morning sky.

He'd been too wound up to eat anything for breakfast; even the coffee tasted somehow off. The farewell at the house had been bittersweet, a hug to end the too-short reunion with his father, and a promise by Lowell to plan a trip to Brooklyn in the not too distant future.

A brief stop at the cemetery…

Neal had even remembered flowers for Peter to lay on his mother's grave.

There had been some light conversation during the early part of the drive. But then they had grown quiet. Neal seemed to understand that Peter needed the time to get his thoughts in order.

He already knew the plan. They had gotten on the road early, so the first stop would be the parole office to get checked in. Then there would be time for lunch – if Peter could stomach it. And then they would go… home, with a chance to get settled before waiting for Becky to get home from school.

Peter turned his attention back to the front, studying how much closer the skyscrapers were now. He'd been lost in his thoughts for a while.

It wouldn't be long now.

It was the same parole office Neal had gone to when Ben Ryan had moved in just down the street and Elizabeth…

God, it still hurt sometimes to think about her – to think about her being so alive, so active, so in tune with life around her.

This time, however, Neal was only there as moral support, and it was Peter's name that was called.

He followed the parole agent to a small office in the back. She was probably a few years younger than he was, reddish-brown hair starting to show some gray, aviator-style eyeglasses highlighting bright green eyes. She moved behind the desk and gestured to a chair in front.

"Please, have a seat."

Peter took the indicated chair, pulling it back just a little to accommodate his longer legs. Then he sat nervously, consciously trying not to show it, while she pulled up what he assumed was his file on the computer.

"I'm Lydia Marston. I'll be overseeing your parole term."

"Ms. Marston." He hoped 'Ms.' was still the right term…

She referenced something on the screen. "You were released yesterday from Cayuga Correctional Facility, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. I spent the night with my father in Ithaca. I was told that was approved."

She nodded, turning back to face him. "It was. And you had two days to report here."

Peter tried for a small smile, though he wasn't quite sure it worked. "I just didn't want to make any mistakes already."

"That's a good attitude. Keep it up and we won't have any problems."

"That's my goal."

"This is your first time with the parole system."

"Yes, at least, dealing with it from this side."

"You supervised Neal Caffrey on his probation."

"I did, for a little over three years."

Marston referenced something on her screen again. "It's fairly unusual that we approve housing a parolee with someone who has a criminal record."

This time Peter was pretty sure the smile worked. "I'd say a lot of things with Neal have been unusual."

"I'd have to agree. I was on the panel that interviewed him. He had glowing recommendations from a number of FBI agents, and the Assistant Director in Washington, DC."

"Neal's… special," Peter agreed.

"And he's been raising your daughter?"

"He has."

"Any concerns on becoming responsible for her custody and wellbeing?"

"Oh, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have concerns," Peter admitted. "But Neal has done a good job of telling Becky about me, and about her mother. And Becky and I have been writing letters." He held up his hand, showing the paper cut. "I was holding her latest drawing on the way down from Ithaca."

"I assume Mr. Caffrey will continue to provide support."

"I know he will."

Marston nodded, consulting the screen again. "There were no drugs or alcohol involved in your crime."

"No, ma'am. I was still on prescription pain killers, though only at night. I was not drinking at all."

She tapped something on the touch screen and nodded. "All parolees are subject to random drug testing, regardless of the nature of the crime. But I won't prohibit all alcohol use. Public intoxication would still be a bad idea though."

"Understood."

"Now, what about finding a job?"

"I have an interview tomorrow with Sterling Bosch, the insurance company. Their new vice president is someone I worked with a number of times while I was with the Bureau, and they're looking for an investigator."

"Would doing something close to your old job be a problem?"

Peter shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. What I did had nothing to do with my job, or my position with the Bureau. It was entirely driven by a personal loss."

"The company would need to understand that your travel will be extremely limited for the next fourteen months."

"I believe Sara is well aware of that," Peter replied. She had personal experience dealing with Neal's former radius. "But I will make sure it's discussed tomorrow."

"Any other options, if this doesn't work out?" Marston asked.

"I have an advanced accounting degree. My crime had nothing to do with any financial matters, so it would not preclude me from working in that field. And, if nothing else, I got my masonry certification at Cayuga."

"Well, it's always good to have options. Is there public transportation available near where you'll be living?"

"The subway stops about three blocks away."

"Good. At this point, I'm going to say no driver's license. It's something we can revisit later."

"That's fine. No risk of a speeding ticket that way."

That actually got a small smile from Marston. "Unless you catch me on a very bad day, I wouldn't generally violate someone for a simple traffic ticket."

"I think I'll have enough challenges in re-acclimating," Peter replied. "I can wait."

"Good. Now, are you familiar with how the tracking anklet works?"

He was quite familiar with tracking anklets… "My release documents said that you would provide details on the allowed range and curfew hours."

"Your tracker will allow you to move about the metro area. I'll provide a map which shows the limits of that range. And the standard curfew we'll start with is that you need to be within a two block radius of your approved residence from six o'clock in the evening until six o'clock in the morning."

"I understand."

"We can adjust that, based on necessity for work, and on your progress. But for now, if you'll be late, or need to leave early, you need to call the main parole agency number. The contact information will be in the documentation I give you. The operators who answer can approve occasional small deviations – doctor's appointment, transit delay, things like that. Any larger exceptions should be planned in advance and discussed with me."

"Do you think there would be a chance to get approved for a trip to Ithaca to see my father?"

"Let's see how the first couple of months go. We'll discuss it down the line."

"Understood."

Marston reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small black object. She tapped a few things into the computer and slid the box across the desk. "Keep this with you at all times."

"A pager?"

"You'll be paged at random times. When it goes off, you need to call back within fifteen minutes. If the page comes during curfew hours, the return call needs to come from the landline registered at your residence."

"Of course. Just from a work perspective, can I ask how often it might go off?"

"I can't give you a specific number, because it is set for a random pattern. But I've entered that pager for a mid-level number of requests. If everything progresses smoothly, that will decrease as we go."

"Ms. Marston, I intend for this to be the smoothest parole case you've ever handled."

"That's what I like to hear." She leaned partway across the desk toward him. "Contrary to popular myth, my goal is not to catch you doing something wrong. It's to ensure public safety, and help you reintegrate into society. Many of the restrictions we enforce initially are designed to make sure you get support, and don't try to do too much too soon."

"I totally understand."

"Good. Now, at first you'll be reporting in person once a week. Next week I'd like to make it a home visit, so once you see how the interview goes tomorrow, call the main number and ask to schedule something."

"I will."

"As with many of the things we've discussed, the frequency of the visits can be reviewed and changed later on." She tapped a few things on the computer screen before continuing. "I'm going to print out what we've discussed, and you'll need to sign a few things. Then there are just a few more housekeeping items and we'll be done for today."

Elizabeth Burke

Peter reached down, brushing his fingers lightly over the name etched in granite. The headstone went on to proclaim her a loving wife, mother, daughter, and friend.

It should have said she was the other half of his heart.

And his heart felt somewhat empty, as if it wasn't quite whole, as he stood at the gravesite for the first time in over seven years.

Thanks to their early start from Ithaca, Neal had decided they had time to stop here before heading home to greet Becky. And really, it was probably good that he got this chance to be near Elizabeth again before meeting his daughter.

The grave had obviously been well cared for; Neal had mentioned several times when he and Becky had come out here. And there was a fresh arrangement of flowers in a small cup attached to the stone.

"I'm going to meet her, El," he whispered, fingers still touching the granite. "Our daughter. She's beautiful, looks so much like you. And from everything that everyone has said, Neal has done a terrific job with her. He's told her about you, but I knew you so much better. I'm going to make sure she knows all about you, and how much I loved you. You would have been such a great mom, and you'll still be Becky's role model."

There was movement from the roadway, and he saw Neal walking toward him. Peter straightened up, wiping away a tear. "I have to go now. I'm so scared, El, but excited too. Our daughter…"

The street hadn't changed much, and except for the color, the house looked much the same. And yet, there was definitely a feeling that things were very different as Peter climbed the front steps, watching as Neal juggled the bags he was carrying and then unlocked the door and swung it open.

A soft, slow beeping greeted him as he stepped inside, and he watched as Neal moved to deactivate the alarm.

"One eight five two," Neal said, as he punched the numbers in. "For REB."

Peter didn't make the connection. "Reb?"

Neal grinned. "Rebecca Elizabeth Burke. We can always change the code, but I figured that would be easy to remember for now."

"Reb. Yeah, that's good," Peter agreed.

A flash of ginger fur came bolting down the stairs just then, and Neal knelt down to greet the dog with a good ear rub.

"And this must be Boogaloo," Peter said, setting his package of photos and letters carefully on the coffee table.

"That's Boog all right," Neal confirmed, getting to his feet. He stepped a little closer to Peter and the dog followed, though a bit hesitantly.

Boog was smaller than Satchmo by maybe half, Peter guessed, with long ginger hair, streaked with a little black and white. He bent down, holding his hand out.

Boog sniffed the air, stretching toward the proffered hand. And then, apparently detecting no threat, he leaned into Peter's hand, pressing his head up.

"Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted," Neal said, turning toward the door. "I'm going to grab the other bags from the car."

"I can help," Peter started.

Neal waved him off. "It's only two bags. I got it."

Peter crouched down, using both hands now to scratch behind the dog's ears. Satchmo had liked the same thing. "I hope we'll be friends, Boog," he said, wanting the dog to get used to his voice. "I'm really glad you've been Becky's pal."

Whether the dog recognized the girl's name, or if he just hit the exact right scratching spot, Peter wasn't sure. But Boog suddenly wagged his tail and took a loving swipe at Peter's hand with his tongue.

Peter laughed and got to his feet, looking around. The layout of the house hadn't changed, but the furniture definitely showed Neal's taste. Even the blankets covering the furniture – one of the puppy-proofing tips Peter had shared – were fancier than anything he and El had ever used with Satchmo.

But it was Neal's house now, so that was fine.

Boog followed as Peter stepped farther into the house. The dining room table was now a glass-topped affair with a deep blue runner down the center. The kitchen had all new appliances from what he remembered, including a couple of gadgets on the counter that Peter couldn't even begin to identify. They were very Neal-ish though.

A low buzzing sound brought his attention to the back door, and he watched as Boogaloo slipped through a pet hatch at the bottom. The hatch closed again with a metallic click.

And then the front door opened as Neal walked back in.

"Scared Boog off already?" Neal asked when the dog didn't come running.

"He just went outside," Peter replied. "Is the door tied to that metallic collar?"

Neal nodded. "The collar sends a signal to the pet door mechanism allowing it to open. Otherwise Boog would probably invite all of the stray neighborhood cats in."

"That could be quite a party."

"One that I'd prefer not to host, thank you." Neal gestured toward the stairs. "Come on, let's get you settled in."

Peter followed, somewhat surprised when Neal headed for the master bedroom on the second floor, still carrying Peter's things. He was even more surprised to find the room barren of any of Neal's personal items. There were just a few boxes stacked by one wall, and furniture that looked new.

"Home sweet home," Neal said, setting down the bags he was carrying. "I just put the basics in here for you, so you can decide what else you want. And I brought up some of the boxes with your things, so you can go through them."

"Neal, this is your house. I can't take this room."

"Of course you can."

"I can't kick you out of your room."

"You're not kicking me anywhere, Peter." Neal took the bags Peter was carrying – mostly filled with the photo t-shirts from over the years – and set them down, then gestured toward the door. "Come on, I'll show you."

Neal led the way up the stairs to the third floor, which in Peter's day had held a largely-unused office and a space they had always intended to make into a full guest suite.

Obviously, things had changed.

The large room they walked into was bright with sunlight. An easel stood on one side next to a window, a workbench with painting supplies nearby. Some blank canvases were stacked next to the bench, and several completed works were arranged around the room. Another work area appeared to be for sculpting, with several small pieces in various stages of completion.

On the other side of the room, nearest the door, there was a bed, a wardrobe, and a rolling rack with suits hanging from it. Several plastic tubs were stacked nearby.

"I always figured this would be a good space for a studio," Neal was saying. "It got decent light, and then I installed the skylight, which made it perfect for working."

"But you're sleeping up here?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, I moved in up here a couple of weeks ago, after they confirmed your release date."

"You didn't have to do that." Peter pointed over across the hall, where the office door stood open. "Is there still a couch in there? That would be fine."

"Peter…"

"It's not right for you to have to move out of the master bedroom, Neal. That wasn't the plan."

"It's fine, Peter."

"So it's 'fine' that your fancy suits are just hanging in the open air like that?"

"Well, I just finished moving them up here yesterday."

"I didn't want to disrupt your life."

"You're not." Neal paused, a concerned look on his face as he patted his pockets. "Hey, do you have a dollar?"

Still trying to marshal arguments against taking the main bedroom back, Peter absently reached into his pocket and pulled out what cash he had. "I have a five."

Neal grinned and snatched the bill. "Excellent," he said, tucking the bill into his own pocket. "I made a profit."

"Profit?"

"You just bought your house back for five times what I paid."

Peter shook his head. "No, Neal, that wasn't the idea. I didn't sell you the house before, only to have you give it back now."

"Well, technically, I didn't 'give' it back," Neal pointed out. "You just bought it. I have the paperwork downstairs for you to sign."

"The plan wasn't for me to get released and kick you out of your house."

"I'll be a homeowner again soon enough," Neal replied. "Taryn and I are buying a house."

"Really? But that still doesn't mean you have to leave here. Just give me a little time…"

"Peter, it's really fine. Taryn and I need a little more space." Neal paused, an almost shy smile on his face. "She's pregnant."

"What! Neal, that's great. Right?"

"Yeah, it's really great."

"Was it a surprise?"

"Well, we talked a few months back about her going off the pill. But it was still a little bit of a shock when the test came up positive."

"I'll bet. How long have you known?"

"Oh, a little over a month, I guess."

"You didn't say anything."

"You did have a few things going on yourself, Peter. You needed to concentrate on getting home."

"Yeah, I suppose." Peter smiled, pointing off to one side of the room, where he had just noticed a smaller easel sitting next to Neal's. "You do have some experience in parenting now."

"But I made plenty of mistakes with Becky, Peter."

Peter closed the space between them, laying a hand on Neal's shoulder. "So the great Neal Caffrey is human after all?"

That got a sharp laugh from Neal. "Oh, he's all too human. And fallible."

"Did you do your best?"

"I did. At least, as I knew it at the time."

"Then you did everything anyone could have asked of you."

"You're going to be proud of her, Peter."

"Oh, I already am." He paused, his voice less certain as he continued. "But I don't know that I'm ready to just step in. She might not be either."

"Relax, Peter, you're not getting rid of me that quickly," Neal assured him. "Taryn and I are meeting with our realtor again on Sunday, and if one of the two places we really liked is still available, we'll probably make an offer next week. But I won't leave you and Becky until you're ready."

"I appreciate that."

Neal nodded, glancing down at his watch. "Becky should be home in about half an hour. Did you want to change or anything?"

"Yeah, it would be good to freshen up a little," Peter agreed, following Neal toward the stairs. "You know, I was halfway afraid you'd have had more people here. I'm glad it's just us."

Neal looked back over his shoulder, grinning. "Oh, that's Saturday," he said. "I invited a few friends over for a welcome home backyard barbecue…"

If he had ever been this nervous, Peter wasn't sure when it might have been. It wasn't the first time he stepped on the pitcher's mound after being drafted, or even the first time after his shoulder surgery. No, that seemed like a piece of cake now, compared to this. It wasn't comparable to waiting for the results of the FBI admission application, or the final academy results, or even his posting requests. In fact, this didn't even compare to when he finally got up the nerve to ask El out that first time.

In short, he was terrified about what would happen when Rebecca Elizabeth Burke – his daughter – walked in that door.

Would he be a disappointment to her? Would she be afraid of him? Would she hate him for missing the first seven years of her life – her first steps, first words, first lost tooth, first day of school, first bicycle ride without training wheels…

The front door opened, and Peter stood up, willing his shaking knees to hold him upright.

Neal was closer to the door, and Peter heard him talking to someone, exchanging greetings, and talking about coming over on Saturday. And then he stepped back into the front room, Becky at his side.

She looked so much like a miniature version of Elizabeth, and it took a moment before Peter realized he was actually holding his breath. He let the air out, took a couple more regular breaths as he watched Neal take her backpack and set it by the stairs.

Finally, with more effort than it had required even to take those first steps in rehab after the accident, Peter managed to put one foot in front of the other, and again, and once more, until he was halfway across the room.

Becky still stood just inside the door, a little nervous, looking between Neal and Peter. And since he was the adult, Peter knew he needed to make the first move.

"Hi, Becky," he said, his voice soft, and a little unsteady. "I'm your…"

"Daddy," she finished.

And then she moved, and he moved, and maybe the room moved too. However it happened, they met somewhere in the middle, her arms wrapping around his waist, his arms engulfing her shoulders, holding her tightly to him.

The nightmare that had engulfed his life, turning everything upside down and inside out, for nearly seven and a half years suddenly seemed to give way. He was laughing, he was crying…

He was finally holding his daughter.

It wouldn't be easy, or fast. But he would get his world back in order, where up was up, right was right, and things made sense. This was a start.

He was finally home.