Peter locks his knees in place and takes a breath in; it's a cold March morning, really not a good day for this. He laughs at the absurdity of his thought. Elizabeth catches his eye, concern for him brimming through unshed tears, and he has to look away.

They're the last ones here. June and Mozzie left about twenty minutes ago. There'd been a steady cascade of people, many of them seemingly in the hopes of a show, of a final con, a requiem for a fool, a plea for an explanation that didn't leave Neal Caffrey buried underground, his body pumped and embalmed, a remaining carcass of what once contained a fire.

But there is no final con—just a man who took a bullet for another man and who died for it.
Peter closes his eyes. He's torn. He wishes he'd never given Neal that deal. Neal would have been nearing the end of his sentence—that is, the additional four year sentence he'd been given for his escape from prison. He would be free. Alive.

But those four years, marked by stress and chaos as they were, were the most splendid of Peter's life. So full of adventure they were—the stuff of stories! Chasing treasure, stopping villains, doing the impossible. Neal changed him, and he knows he changed Neal.

The raw ache threatens to bubble over; it's like an acid in his lunges. He can taste it, and it hurts to breathe in deeply. So he sticks to shallow breaths. If he thinks about Neal's face, his laugh, his anything, it becomes too much.

Shallow breaths, shallow existence. Fuck, though. It hurts. It hurts.

Peter pulls out his cell phone and, without thinking about it, opens up his last conversation with Neal. He knows it's stupid, but he's done it often. He rereads old texts from his best friend:

Peter: Dinner at our place tonight? El got some of that fancy wine you like.
Neal: Sounds great! Thank you for thinking of me.

Neal: I've figured out why Delulath is using the limo service—I can be over in ten.
Peter: I'll be over there instead. El has some of her girl friends over and I need to get out of the house.
Neal: Feeling suffocated? Haha. I have some of your beer here still. See you in a bit.

Peter: You're a brave man, and you're going to get through today.
Neal: Thank you, Peter.
Peter: Elizabeth and I will be by in about an hour. We will catch the people who did this.
Neal: Can I meet you there?
Peter: Are you okay?
Neal: I need to be alone. I'll meet you there.
Peter: Ellen loved you.

He scrolls through other texts, insignificant and random messages exchanged, seemingly meaningless.

He comes to the last text messages that Neal had ever sent him. Deep breath.

Neal:
Something's going on. They're bulking up on guards. Be careful.

Peter. It's Julian- I think he knows something is up. Get out of there.

Peter- please call me when you get this. It's important.

You need to get out of there. Now.

Are you getting my messages? Please let me know that you're okay.

Hey, partner. So don't stress, but we're made. You can shoot me for this later, but I'm coming in. It's all going to be okay.

And then the last one, which was sent when Neal was shot, bleeding. Neal had typed it out while Peter was phoning for help, knowing that it wouldn't go through until they were both out of the building, where there was signal. Neal had typed it out in what he had known were his final moments.

I don't regret any of it.

Peter feels like he's suffocating. He unbuttons his shirt collar, pulls away from Elizabeth, and just starts walking. The flowers around him smell sickeningly sweet. He's going to throw up.

He's breathing heavy now, swallowing.

His phone is still in his shaking hands as he types a message to Neal.

I need you.

The phone buzzes in his hands, showing a new message from Neal.

Then why didn't you save me?

Peter awakens with a start, his heart hammering in his chest.

He's in the hospital chair, breathing heavy, blinking rapidly.

"Agent Burke? Agent Burke."

He stands, shaky still, and looks around.

"Sir, Mr. Caffrey is awake and is asking for you."