Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Alright," Peter said, thinking out loud as he stared at the poster sized map they had taped to the wall of the conference room. "So, they lift a hundred and fifty-seven portraits from the museum and disappear into the wind, how?”

Neal shared a wry grin with Jones and Diana, recognizing Peter's habit of deducing out loud, usually right before he found the connection he needed.

"Ok, the camera was down in the loading bay, but we do know the gate only opened twice, fifteen seconds apiece, so only one vehicle, maybe two," he muttered, tapping his finger on his leg in an unconscious gesture as he continued staring at the map.

Jones smiled, raising four fingers then making a quick twist with his wrist, starting a betting pool between himself, Neal, and Diana, and they all checked their watches.

Jones' bet: Peter would have the connection he needed within four minutes.

Diana and Neal both silently scoffed, shaking their heads as Peter continued talking to himself without noticing the nonverbal conversation behind him.

"If we're looking at only one to two vehicles and a hundred and fifty seven full sized portraits, it would have to be a big vehicle, a shipping truck or moving vehicle," Peter mused, his eyes tracing the highways and roads around the museum.

Diana raised two fingers, twisted her wrist, then flashed three fingers and a fist before she tapped on her wrist and jabbed at Jones. Diana was joining the betting pool at two minutes and thirty seconds from the time Jones started his estimate.

Jones and Neal offered their expressive, but silent, disagreement as she grinned, eyes bright.

Jones tapped his wrist watch, smiling eagerly at Neal, who hadn't placed an estimate yet.

Neal glanced down at his own watch, they'd just hit the twenty-seven second mark.

He looked at his handler, pushing down a chuckle as he saw the dawning light of understanding in his eyes.

"They didn't get caught on a single museum camera," Peter considered, and Neal could hear the wheels turning down the right track.

He grinned triumphantly at the other two and held up four fingers, then five, tapped his wrist, and pointed at Jones. Forty-five seconds from the original time.

He almost laughed at the judgmental looks from the other two as they made a show of looking derisively at their watched then flashing him pointedly disbelieving looks.

Neal shrugged, lounging back in his seat as he confidently met their eyes.

"They're not stupid enough to go on a toll road," Peter muttered, barely audible, and Jones looked down at his watch in glee, raising ten fingers at Neal in a show of counting down the time to Neal's estimate.

Diana joined him, raising nine fingers just before they dramatically lowered another finger to eight, exchanging giddy looks.

Neal wasn't worried. Even without looking, he could feel Peter's brain connecting the dots.

Jones and Diana's counting became more dramatic as they dropped to five seconds, pushing their hands forward with each new number to make sure Neal noticed his time ticking away.

Four...Three... Tw-

"Got it!" Peter exclaimed, leaning closer to the map.

Neal smirked victoriously at the other two, who's counting hands sank to the table as their excitement wilted into pouting.

Neal preened, unsympathetic, and they shot him twin disgruntled looks before they turned their attention to Peter as he turned to face them.

"Ok," Peter started, eyes bright with the excitement of catching a scent. "So, we know from the timing of the gate that they are in one, maybe two, vehicles, but for a haul that big, they have to be in an eighteen wheeler, no way they would all fit in anything else, even with two work trucks.

We can run traffic cams and toll reports, but these guys are good, I doubt we'll get them on a toll picture. No, I think they found a place to hide the paintings without ever having to go down a monitored road.

The museum is on the edge of the city, though, tolls and traffic cams everywhere, so if our theory is correct, the only way they could have gone without being monitored, is east." 

He turned back to the map and traced a road that wound along the harbor without ever connecting to the coastline.

"That means that they have to be in this area. There's a checkpoint before they get down to the harbor loading area, but there are miles of this road between the museum and the checkpoint."

The other three stood to move closer to the map, focusing on Peter's theory.

"I bet it's somewhere in here," Diana drew a much smaller circle along the road Peter pointed out. "I think we can put these apartments low on the list," she said, gesturing to another section of the road. "It would be hard to get that many paintings into an apartment without raising suspicion, even if they were pretending they were moving in.”

"Agreed," Neal nodded. "And this area isn't likely either," his finger traced a run of small businesses lining the road as the road transitioned from inner city to the warehouse district. "These kinds of places get traffic every day from the workers stopping for lunch and dinner, it'd be hard to find a storage space big enough that wouldn't have frequent traffic, and a truck that large just sitting around for days would attract attention."

"I think you're right about your area of interest," Jones said to Diana, nodding along with Neal's point. "More specifically, I think we should start here, knock on doors in these five miles, here," he circled a much smaller area in Peter's original suggestion.

"A factory would make a good cover," Peter considered as he looked at the stretch of warehouses and factories Jones pointed out, "even better than a warehouse because of how often the factory floor changes as things move through it, it would be easy to move the crates through without being noticed.”

"You'd be able to drive an eighteen wheeler into one without it raising any flags," Diana pointed out.

"Depending on if they work there and if the have any pull in scheduling, they might have even used the factory's truck and then parked it back in the lot for the night," Neal noted. "That's what I would have done. And it let's them unload large numbers of boxes with no one raising an eye, and then they don't even have to try to get rid of the get away vehicle.”

Peter nodded.

"Ok," he said decisively. "Neal, Diana, and I are on the factory research. We're going to figure out who owns every factory in this stretch and what they make there.

Jones, call the tip line and tell them we're interested in anything in the area and then coordinate with the museum and get me a definitive list of the names and provenances of every piece stolen."

Jones and Diana nodded firmly, but Neal held up a hand rather than start on his task.

"Peter," he started with a beatific smile, "wouldn't it be more efficient if I took the art list and Jones helped on the factory scanning?"

"Neal," Peter said firmly, "no. We don't need you getting distracted by the other artists’ work that's still in the museum, I'm well aware the museum is displaying some of your favorites at the moment."

"Peter," Neal whined, ignoring the exchanged grin between Jones and Diana and focusing on his handler. "I-,"

"No," Peter said, outlining the area of interest on the map in a thin, black sharpie.

"Come on, I -," Neal tried to argue before he was cut off again.

"No," Peter refuted before Neal could get his point out.

“But -,”

"I’ll make you a deal," Peter said, turning to his pouting consultant, who perked up at the phrase. "If we solve this case, I will take you to the museum the following weekend."

"Done," Neal grinned, suddenly focused, and Peter rolled his eyes fondly.

Neal reached across the table to grab the notepad and pen he had brought into the conference room with him to write down which warehouses he would look into, and scowled at Jones, who was openly laughing at him.

"Don't you have a tip line to be calling?" he asked pointedly, and Jones raised his arms in surrender.

"Sheesh," Jones grinned. "One little museum visit and you turn into a micro-manager."

Neal's eyes narrowed and he pointed toward the bullpen, and Jones laughingly took the hint, walking out of the room and back to his desk.

"Alright," Peter said, amused by Neal's antics, "there are sixteen factories in that area. I’ll take the six on the north end, Neal the next five, then Diana the southern five."

They both nodded their agreement.

"I want to know who owns them, what kind of security they have, what the factory makes, and how many shipping trucks they have.”

"We can do that," Diana nodded confidently. "Should we check into shift schedules as well?"

"Yes," Peter said firmly, nodding gratefully at her.

"Are we going to be looking into the warehouses, too?" Neal asked, using his pen to gesture at the warehouses dotted along the line.

Peter leaned forward to study the various factories and their locations for several long seconds.

"Yeah," Peter said, thinking it over. "Let's do a split by -,"

"Peter," Jones announced, striding back into the room, "you're not going to believe this.”

The trio turned to give Jones their full attention.

"Oh?" Peter asked, sounding interested.

"We've already got a tip," Jones said, tapping the sheet of paper he held with the pen in his other hand.

"Really?" Peter asked, moving closer to see the paper Jones held out to him.

"Yeah," Jones confirmed. "Day after the heist, a Matthew Haarman called in a tip to the NYPD that got added to the shared database. He owns the third factory down, there, on the southern edge," Jones nodded to the map. "He said their machines have been out of alignment, and his foreman swears up and down he saw wooden boxes crammed behind the machine but by the time he could get the equipment he needed to pull them out from the wall there wasn't anything back there.

He also said weird things have been showing up in the factory floor's paperwork. One of their delivery trucks was taken out for a delivery request that had already been completed the week before, and both the truck and a loading bay were reserved under the employee ID of a man who retired two months ago.”

Peter's eyebrows rose as he considered that.

"It sounds like we need to have a chat with Mr. Haarman, then," Peter noted, visibly surprised they had been granted such a stroke of luck.

"Sounds like it," Neal agreed, taking a seat next to Diana as Peter and Jones claimed the other side, Peter pulling the conference room phone closer to himself so he could punch in the phone number Jones had brought him.

He put it on speaker as it rang, sitting back in his seat and exchanging a glance with the other three.

"Hello?" a man asked, sounding distracted.

"Matthew Haarman?" Peter asked, and Neal quirked a grin as Peter slipped into the tone he used when interviewing civilians, friendly but with an unmistakable note of authority underneath.

"Yes," Haarman said, noticeably more focused then he had been a moment ago. Peter's tone had that effect on people. "Who is this?"

"My name is Special Agent Peter Burke," Peter answered him, "I'm with the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a tip you placed to NYPD a few days ago.”

"Oh, yes, sir. Of course, anything you need."

"Thank you," Peter said, "I appreciate that. Now, you own the factory you put in the tip about, correct?"

"Yes, sir, I do," the man confirmed, still sounding vaguely off kilter at having been called by the FBI.

"And you said a machine was out of alignment?" Peter asked.

"Yes sir," Haarman said again. "A few days ago we had a machine substantially out alignment, enough to be throwing sparks and everything, it wasn't just barely moved. I don't know how much you about factories, Agent Burke, but that's no easy feat.

The machinery in my factory weighs thousands of pounds, it's braced to the floor and the walls, it takes equipment to be able to move it, so it had to be on purpose, there's just no way that could have happened accidentally.”

"But there was nothing behind the machine?" Peter asked.

"No, sir," Haarman said. "Well, not by the time my people got the braces off and moved it completely off its station. My foreman swears up and down he saw boxes crammed behind there, but I don't know who in their right mind would be stupid enough to cram wood behind heavy machinery like that.

Some of our machines have a mode you can put them in so they run all night as long as they're loaded with materials, and that gets pretty hot after a few hours.

Fire hazards aren't something we mess around with in my factory, my foreman wouldn't make something like that up, and he wouldn't tell me if he weren't sure what he saw, but we have no idea where they might have gone."

"Have any other machines been moved?" Peter asked him.

"Well, we've had two others throwing sparks. It's the weirdest thing, a machine will be working perfectly fine one day, and then the next day it's throwing sparks, but when we pull it out to check, nothing is back there and there’s nothing we can find that might be pushing it.

Only one at a time, too, three of them, one after another. I actually just got off the phone with my foreman earlier, I'm out of the country at the moment, and he said none of the machines are acting up today.”

"You're out of country?" Peter repeated, his interest piqued.

"Yes, I'm in Japan for the week on business. A Japanese company is looking to use one of my factories as a subcontractor for their product, we're handling the contract specifics in person. I don't fly back until Saturday evening, but you are welcome to have a look around my factory before then.”

"Thank you," Peter said, "that's very kind of you, and we will be taking you up on that. Is there anywhere else in your factory something could be hidden? Somewhere that isn't behind the machines?”

"Yes, sir," the man sounded apologetic, "I'm afraid there are a lot of places. We have storage rooms that sit behind the shop floor where the machines are.

Some of the rooms are for materials, but some are basically warehouses. When we do oversees production, we store large quantities of the product until we can fill a shipping freighter, it gets expensive if we try to internationally ship in smaller quantities.

We have two rooms full of parts destined for Argentina that haven't been touched for months because we got done early and the company they're headed to won't have space for them for another three weeks. We have rooms full of replacement parts that are only visited if a machine malfunctions, things like that."

“Thank you, Mr. Haarman," Peter said seriously, "you have been a huge help. We will be taking you up on your offer to search your premises, but we will need to obtain a warrant, just to keep things by the book.

I'm going to transfer you to Judge Hickman's office. When he answers, could you tell him Agent Burke is on his way to his office with a warrant request and you are the property owner, giving permission?”

"Of course, sir, anything to help. Would you be coming today or tomorrow? The foreman and a small maintenance crew are the only ones inside today, although of course we have the guards around the perimeter for checkpoints and whatnot.

I'm having my foreman check each of the machines before we go back to full production, like I said, wood under a machine is a recipe for disaster.

Everyone is supposed to go back to work tomorrow but I could postpone that if you need me to."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Haarman," Peter assured. “With your verbal permission, Judge Hickman will be able to get me that warrant today, and then we can look around without disrupting your business.”

"Thank you," Haarman said, sounding relieved. "That would make everything significantly easier, we're already facing delays because of all the checks and inspections. I'll let the guards know to let you in when you get there."

“Thank you," Peter said again, "I’d appreciate that, but please don't tell them we are with the FBI, we don't know who may or may not be involved yet and we don't want to tip them off.”

"Oh, right. Yes, sir," Haarman agreed.

"Excellent, I'm going to transfer you to Judge Hickman's office now. Thank you for your help.”

Peter reached forward, dialing a string of numbers he had long since memorized, and transferred the call.

"Museum, here we come," Neal grinned.

"Factory, here we come," Peter corrected fondly. "Don't count your chickens before they hatch, we haven't found the art yet.”

"Ok, but don't forget, you promised," Neal reminded him, following his handler out the door.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“So are you ready to go to a museum this weekend?” Neal asked excitedly, clicking his seatbelt on and almost bouncing in his seat as Peter pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there,” Peter scolded fondly. “You don’t get to go until all the art pieces are back on the walls they belong on.”

“You said find the art, not wait until the museum had it up again,” Neal argued petulantly.

Peter chuckled, flicking his blinker on and pulling onto the freeway.

“That’s true, I did,” he conceded. “I will accept safe return and not make you wait until it’s up again.”

“Thanks,” Neal grinned, looking happier.

Peter shook his head, merging around a car going fifty for no reason.

“Why didn’t you go the legitimate art route?” he asked his passenger curiously.

Neal rolled his eyes spectacularly.

“You ask this every time we have a museum heist,” he pointed out in exasperation.

Peter shrugged, eyes flicking to his mirror as a car pulled into his blind spot and matched his speed.

“I wonder every time we have a museum case,” he answered simply, and Neal lost some of his annoyance, sitting up straighter and studying his handler.

“Why?” Neal asked softly.

Peter cast him a sidelong look of utter bewilderment.

“Why?” he repeated, confused. “Because you’re the best artist I’ve ever seen in my life, Neal, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of artwork. Because what you create in an afternoon is better than what the greats of history slaved over for years. Because I watch rich people waste their fortunes on frankly ugly artwork, when you could have made them something worth the price they paid, that’s why.”

“Oh,” Neal whispered, sounding stunned.

Peter let Neal sit in silence while he tried to formulate an answer to Peter’s question.

“I used to daydream about being featured in a museum for my original artwork,” Neal confided softly a few minutes later, as if he were confessing a deep, dark secret.

Peter looked at him before returning his eyes to the road, but didn’t say anything, encouraging Neal to go on.

“I actually looked at applying to college,” Neal admitted. “For art, of course, probably painting, but college applications are all about what makes you special, and since I was in WITSEC the Marshals made sure there was nothing special about me.”

“Neal,” Peter said, a note of sadness in his voice as he sent his consultant a quick glance. “There is nothing the Marshals or anyone else could do that could stop you from being special.”

Neal sniffed slightly, and his smile became a little wet as he looked at his handler with grateful eyes.

“Thanks, Peter,” he whispered.

Neal sniffed quietly again, subtly trying to push down his reaction, and Peter reached over without looking and ruffled Neal’s hair in the way he knew annoyed him when they were out in public.

Neal swatted at his hand with a laugh and a groaned, “Peter!” as he ran his fingers through it to try to comb it back into place.

“So you didn’t because you didn’t go to college?” Peter asked, bringing them back to the topic.

Neal shook his head.

“Because I ran away and got myself a criminal record before I thought things through. It’s hard to be a famous artist when your name is also on wanted posters.”

“Hmm,” Peter considered, flicking his blinker on as he slid over two lanes and took the exit. “Well, it’s not on wanted posters anymore,” he pointed out.

“Peter,” Neal rolled his eyes fondly, “who would go to a museum to see my art?”

“I would,” Peter said seriously, and Neal looked taken aback by his answer.

Neal opened his mouth, reconsidered, and shut it again. After a pause he tried again.

“I can’t do replicas of other artists’ work and hang it in a museum legally,” he pointed out.

Peter shrugged, brushing that off as he turned left down a long stretch of road.

“So?” Peter asked, like he didn’t see how that connected.

“So Mozzie says my original work isn’t all that great,” Neal admitted, feeling vaguely ashamed.

Peter shot him a derisive look before he refocused on the road.

“So?” Peter demanded again, unimpressed with Neal’s argument. “Mozzie also thinks the government has mind controlling probes, and we secretly engineered crop circles to hide our illicit aliens.”

Neal opened his mouth and paused again, sighing as he grinned, “Ok, that may be one valid argument, but it doesn’t change the fact that artists need to have a core theme that I don’t have and people wouldn’t go to museums to see my work.”

“I would,” Peter insisted, putting the car in park and looking seriously at his consultant. “If you had a piece in a museum that you put there legally and I wouldn’t have to arrest you for knowing about, I would go see it.”

Neal swallowed hard but didn’t respond.

Peter’s eyes softened and he clapped Neal’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Luckily for you, we’re here, but we’ll continue this talk later,” he promised, patting Neal’s shoulder one more time and then sliding out of the vehicle and moving to talk to the approaching guard.

Neal sat in the car for a long minute while Peter talked to the guard, the pair pointing at various parts of the factory and truck lot as they talked.

Neal took the brief moment of alone time to reign in the emotion that Peter unexpectedly brought surging to the surface.

Normally, Neal wouldn't have been as affected by a compliment. He loved compliments as much as the next person, but over all, he was generally adept at tactfully receiving and acknowledging a compliment without the threat of tears.

It was just.... Neal had always been sensitive about his art skills, as much as he wished and pretended otherwise, and he had always been particularly motivated to earn Peter's praise and approval.

There weren't all that many people who's opinions truly mattered to him, but his handler's was indisputably one of them, and Peter's compliments always seemed to hit deeper than anyone else's.

Shaking his head in exasperation at his reaction, Neal took a deep breath and steadied himself, getting out with a broad grin and wandering in Jones and Diana's direction while they waited for Peter to report the results of his conversation.

"So, how many people did you snag to help with the search?" Neal asked as he walked up.

"We got Saunders, Rodriquez, Ocampo, Seto, and Mabena," Diana listed off easily, watching Peter and the guard, vaguely amused by the amount of pointing and gesticulating coming from the guard as his nerves at talking to an FBI agent got the better of him.

"So we'll have nine people total with us and Peter included," Jones noted, chuckling at the guard as well.

Neal nodded, glancing behind the two agents to see multiple vehicles pulling up to park behind their cars, the other White Collar agents pouring out, and Neal sent them a cheerful wave.

Diana made a soft noise to catch Neal's attention, nodding her head behind him, and Neal turned to face his handler as Peter finished talking to the guard and started their way.

"The guard was exceedingly helpful," Peter noted in amusement.

"That's because you scared him with your terrifying FBI agent ways," Neal informed him in a teasing tone.

"I don't scare people," Peter scoffed, shooting a reproving look at Neal that had him rolling his eyes.

Neal's handler didn't scare anyone who knew him, but he could actually be very intimidating to random civilians, who instinctively recognized the waves of competence and authority he gave off, not to mention his unique ability to bark orders with an unquestionable commanding tone when the situation called for it that was completely at odds with his normal, easy friendliness.

"Yeah, ok," Neal agreed sarcastically.

Peter shot him another look, but continued without comment, addressing his amused agents instead.

"Ok, Di, Jones, I want you to split-lead the search of the trucks while I go in and get the loading bay doors open, the guard said there's an employee entrance around the side that's unlocked.

The guard also said there shouldn't be anyone inside, the foreman and his crew left for lunch and were instructed to take the rest of the day off under the guise of a mandated safety inspection by an external team.

There are four guards on site, and they all have keys to any rooms or containers we may need and instructions to open them for us if we ask, but they're not going to be in our way unless we call them in, so go out and flag one down if there's a problem.

I don't really expect to find anything in the trucks, but we should go through them first to get them out of the way before we really get into the factory search, then we won't have to try to monitor who may be around them or trying to get something out of them.

You two know who's on the scene with us, there's thirty-seven trucks total, they should all be unlocked and parked in that row there," Peter pointed to the line of long trucks parked neatly across the loading zone of the factory. "I'll leave it up to you two to split and delegate, any questions?"

"We'll meet you inside to talk about factory strategy when we're done with the trucks, or wave you out to us?" Jones asked.

Peter nodded his approval of the question.

"Inside," he answered. "The guard said it might take me a few minutes to get all the doors open, but if I finish early I'm going to glance into the back storage rooms so we can start thinking about how we'll split the search, so come find me if you don't see me."

They both nodded their understanding.

"Ok, I'll have my phone," he threw over his shoulder as he turned to head across the parking lot, "call me if there are any problems."

"Will do, Boss," Diana confirmed, turning to Jones. "How do you want to split?" she asked.

"I'll take Neal, Ocampo, Mabena, and Rodriquez," Jones said, gesturing to the three agents who were talking to one another in a small group. "We'll take the nineteen closest to the ramp on the left, you and the other group will take the rest?"

"Deal," she grinned.

"Alright, Neal," Jones said, clapping his shoulder as he walked past him toward the other agents, "let's get going, you have a museum to visit."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Barely three minutes later, Jones had efficiently filled in his sub-team and given his orders for what truck each team-member should start with, assigning Neal the truck on the far end, closest to the factory, and Neal nodded his understanding as he turned that way.

Neal glanced at the factory as he made his way across the parking lot to his assigned truck. Haarman hadn't been exaggerating when he had said he had a large facility, the building was huge, looming at least four stories tall, with four massive, industrial-sized loading bay doors which covered almost the entire side of the building.

Two of the doors had enormous ramps leading up to them, long and sloping, ideal for pushing dollies stacked with heavy boxes into the factory, while the two other doors dropped off abruptly to a six foot drop, allowing the trucks to back up to the factory floor directly to be loaded.

Just before he got to the back of the vehicle, a loud rumble drew his attention back to the factory building as one of the massive doors slowly opened, revealing the factory floor inside.

The foreman and crew had apparently still been in the middle of their checks when they left, and they had pulled barrels of petroleum, machine grease, and bins of scrap metal out to neatly line the factory’s far wall and front corner, presumably so it was gathered together and out of the way, while the rest of the factory floor stood expansive and open, enormous machines strategically arranged throughout.

That might make it easier, although Neal doubted they’d find anything in the scrap metal bins. Still, it would be easier to get to the machines to check under and behind without the other supplies in their way.

Neal ducked into his assigned truck bed, running a careful hand along the walls and then over the floors, checking for hidden panels, but came up short.

He moved to the front and went over the cab of the truck as well with the same lack of results.

Well, they didn’t really expect anything to be in the trucks anyway, and besides that, there were still more than a dozen left to check.

He jumped down from the driver’s seat, closed the door with a thud, and straightened his suit jacket before he made his way around the vehicle and back toward the factory, noting that Peter had managed to open all three of the other doors in the time Neal had been in the truck.

Neal rounded the corner of his assigned truck, making eye contact with his handler as he walked toward where Jones was standing under one of the ramp-less doors to coordinate which vehicle he should look in next.

Peter nodded an acknowledgment to him, then went back to frowning at the floor he was standing on.

Neal cocked his head, redirecting from where he had intended to coordinate with Jones and instead making his way to his handler, who was turning in a small circle, bent at the waist and staring at something Neal couldn't see as he started up the long ramp to join him inside.

In the blink of an eye, there was fire. Neal didn’t know where it came from, but fire was everywhere, thick smoke billowing in every direction, dark and suffocating.

Neal's eyes widened in panic, and he broke into a run toward Peter before he even fully registered what was happening.

Peter's eyes flew up to meet Neal’s, wide and panicked, before he doubled over, coughing harshly as he staggered toward the exit.

Neal pushed himself faster, looking frantically to the side where the barrels of petroleum and grease that he had noted earlier sat.

Neal's eyes snapped back to Peter, but Peter was gone, lost beneath the cloud of smoke.

"Peter!" Neal screamed, running faster than he had ever moved in his life. The flames were spreading, and his handler was gone.

Neal reached the top of the ramp an instant later, but before he could sprint into the fire he was hit from the side in what he barely registered was a tackle before he was falling off the ramp, whoever tackled him curling around him to protect him from the impact, not that he cared.

Neal only had one thought and it was to get to his handler. He was on his feet within seconds, distantly noting the sounds of whoever had tackled him following him up.

Neal broke off at a run, intending to vault back onto the ramp and finish his mission to save Peter, but he was thrown back off his feet barely a second later, glimpsing one last view of the burning factory before a fireball encompassed the entire building and exploded outward.

Neal was on his feet again in an instant, not even feeling the hard crack of his head against the pavement or the already-forming bruises on his back.

"Peter!" he screamed, distantly aware he was sobbing, tears streaking down his face as he found his footing and tried to run forward again.

A set of strong arms stopped him, dragging him back into the chest they belonged to, and he immediately flailed, wild and feral as he tried to break away from whoever was holding him.

"Peter!" he sobbed, crying still harder as another wave of fire tore through what remained of the building, the smoke inside a mass of roiling darkness with occasional flashes of color as some of the still burning oil broke through the thick cloud. "NO! PETER!"

A near-deafening noise came from deep inside the factory, sending a tsunami of fire in every direction before the entire building collapsed, walls burned away and the ceiling plummeted down to land in decimated piles that quickly caught fire, adding to the ever growing heat wave threatening to eat at Neal's skin, his tears evaporating almost instantly as they streamed down his face, always immediately replaced by another wave.

The fire was roaring, the smoke curling up to the sky freely once it was no longer contained by the roof of the factory. The building was gone. His handler was gone.

Neal's legs collapsed out from under him, but the arms that sent him to the ground before now stopped his fall.

He couldn't see through his tears, but someone pulled him into a firm chest, hugging him tightly. There was a hand on his back and another in his hair, but he didn't care. Neither of them were his handler's, and he had the incomprehensible thought that he would never feel Peter clap him on the back again, never have him ruffle his hair as he walked by, or slide an arm over his shoulders when he did well on a case.

Neal sobbed harder, unable to breathe, but he didn't care. He had no handler, so what was the point?

Whoever was holding him only let him cry for another second before the arms were dragging him back, presumably because of the crashes and ominous thuds that rang from the factory as the machinery that had been anchored around the enormous building began to collapse.

Neal didn't care and he did nothing to help. The arms pulled still harder, supporting all of Neal's limp weight, and Neal was unable to find breath to inform the arms insistently pulling him away that they didn't need to bother, Neal was as gone as Peter, just not quite as physically.

He couldn't get the words out through his never ending flood of tears, and whoever was trying to drag him to safety didn't seem to pick up on his non-verbal message, bending to slip an arm under his knees and clutch Neal to their chest, finally able to turn and run from the burning heat.

The arms carried him away, a cool breeze replacing the searing blaze on Neal’s back, but he couldn’t lift his head from where he was sobbing into the arms’ shoulder.

Neal could hear voices, desperate and scared, but the words flowed in one ear and out the other without leaving a mark.

The person holding him stopped, dropping to the ground, but allowed Neal to stay curled into their chest as he continued weeping his loss.

Other hands appeared, touching his back, running through his hair, but they still weren’t Peter’s, so he still didn’t care.

Peter was gone, Peter was gone, and Neal felt his already faltering breathing fail him completely as he tried to comprehend that statement.

Peter was gone. Neal’s chest refused to take in air, and he felt himself spinning from lack of oxygen, the cacophony of panicked voices blurring into a vague background noise.

Neal felt his consciousness fading and welcomed the blackness, at least there he wouldn’t have to acknowledge his world had ended.

Chapter Text

"Neal, are you awake in there?" a soft voice asked, and his brow furrowed. Was he?

"Neal?" the voice asked again, and after long second Neal's foggy mind realized that was Diana's voice. Why was Diana in his room?

He blinked his eyes open, shutting them just as quickly when he was met with a bright white ceiling that made his head ache. Only then did he realize he'd been hearing the steady beep of a heart monitor in the background. Was he in a hospital?

He blinked more sleep out of his eyes and turned to squint at Diana in confusion.

"Di?" he croaked, suddenly realizing he was thirsty.

His bed raised and a straw appeared next to his mouth. He took a long drink of water before it disappeared again. What had happened?

He squinted at her, no less confused, but slightly more awake, trying to make sense of how he had ended up in a hospital bed.

Once he focused enough to really look at Diana, he felt a spike of worry at what he saw.

She had deep bags under her eyes, and she hadn't even made a halfhearted attempt to tame her hair or fix the ponytail that appeared to have been loosened and re-tightened several times, creating an impression of barely restrained hair waiting to fly out of its constraints at any second.

More than that, though, she looked exhausted, worried, heartbroken.

Neal felt his heart rate spike as he took her in. What in the world could make Diana Berrigan look like -

Oh. His memories of the previous day flooded in. Oh. He felt all of his energy drain out of him. Oh. Yeah. Yesterday the world had ended.

Diana nodded, understanding that Neal had remembered, and pressed her lips together, visibly pushing away tears.

Oh.

Neal sank back into the bed, wondering why he had been worried about how he had ended up there. He found that he no longer cared.

"How are you feeling, Neal?" Diana asked in soft voice, a considerate attempt to not further his headache.

She didn't have to bother, he didn't particularly care that his head ached, his back continually pulsed with pain, or that he could feel the slight itching of healing burns on his forearms. Peter was gone, what was there to care about?

"Fine," he lied tonelessly, unable to find the energy to explain that he would never feel ok again.

Diana swallowed hard and pushed the emotion off her face again, but she nodded, allowing his lie to stand.

"Good," she whispered.

Neal let his gaze fall to his lap, clinically noting his injuries.

"They're discharging you," Diana told him.

"Ok," he said simply, not particularly invested one way or another.

Diana opened her mouth to say something, reconsidered and closed it again, standing from her chair instead. She walked over to the corner of the room and retrieved a suit. Neal disinterestedly noted it wasn't the suit he had worn in to the hospital.

"Jones swung by your place and brought you a change of clothes," she explained, catching his dispassionate look at the clothes in her hand.

He nodded in vague thanks, knowing he should be grateful his friends were willing to take care of him, but lacking in any and all energy and motivation to express it.

He pulled himself more upright, dragging his legs over the side of his bed. His entire body felt like it was filled with lead, and he idly wondered if he'd be able to stand.

Diana gently passed him the suit, politely turning toward the door and giving him some room.

He stared at the folded clothes in his hands. It seemed like an insurmountable challenge to get dressed, but he tried to muster the energy needed so as not to add even more to Diana's plate.

With exhausted, slow movements, he pulled his clothes on, finally dressed several minutes later.

Diana turned when the slight rustling of fabric ceased, and nodded approvingly, reaching across him to press the nurse call button.

"I'm going to drive you to the Bureau to give your statement," she explained, and he nodded disinterestedly.

“No one else was hurt yesterday, except Jones, who had some burns and scratches.”

He looked at her face, double checking she wasn’t keeping anything from him, and she tacked on, “Really, he’ll be ok. He didn’t even need to stay overnight, he just needed a few bandages.”

He nodded, feeling a distant echo of relief.

"The others are worried about you," she offered, and he tried to offer her a grin, but his lips barely twitched before they fell back into his lifeless expression.

"I'll take you home afterwards, but be prepared for the rest of White Collar to mother-hen you," she warned, trying to coax an emotion out of him.

He nodded in acknowledgment, unable to give her what she wanted, and she sighed, turning to the door as the nurse came in.

Neal answered the nurse's questions with nods and shakes of his head, and he was in a wheelchair and being pushed toward the exit within a few minutes.

Normally he would have balked at the wheelchair and tried to walk out under his own power, but as he rolled toward the parking lot, he found he didn't really care, he might even prefer it. Sitting and being pushed required less energy than walking.

He somehow made it to the car, sitting in the passenger seat with glazed eyes as Diana sent him concerned looks every few minutes.

They pulled onto the highway, making their way to the Bureau in silence, when Neal realized there was one thing he wanted to know.

“How did the fire start?” he asked with the first spark of interest since he had remembered what had happened.

“We’re waiting for official reports,” Diana said, “but we think they moved one of the factory machines to hide the crates behind and the machine hadn’t been running long enough to throw sparks when the foreman checked yesterday morning.

Apparently the foreman and crew were already on their break when they got the call not to go back in, and they’d left some of the machines on to run stress testing, not intending them to be left on for hours, and once the machine threw the sparks from being out of alignment, or the wood got too hot, it caught the oil on fire, and then it spread from there. It doesn’t take much for a fire to spread in a factory like that.”

Neal nodded, turning to stare sightlessly out the window for the rest of the drive.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Neal followed Diana into the bullpen with none of the excitement he normally felt when he stepped through the doors. He drifted after her to the conference room, watching her shoes walk in front of him so he didn't have to acknowledge the worried looks he was getting from everyone in the office.

He felt like he was watching a movie more than living his life, giving his statement with what he knew was a flat tone and dead eyes, but unable to pull himself into the moment enough to change either.

Diana wilted as she took his statement, his toneless answers apparently not what she had hoped for.

He recounted the events of the day before, clinical and detached, and her expression grew more worried by the second.

He wished vaguely that he could help her, but couldn't find even a shred of energy to try.

She nodded through the window to the bullpen, and a long moment later Neal realized that they had finished.

The door opened behind him, but Neal couldn't be bothered to look up from his hands until a warm hand landed on his shoulder.

He swallowed hard, reminding himself it couldn't be Peter.

Glancing to the side, he saw it was Jones, and he tried to offer the man a smile, only succeeding in the slightest twitch at the corners of his mouth.

He may have done more harm than good, Jones looked heartbroken by the response, but Neal couldn't help him either.

He dropped his gaze back to his hands.

"Hey, Neal," Jones said softly, his tone warm and worried.

"Hey," Neal whispered, barely audible.

"We're going to be ok," Jones promised, pulling Neal into a hug from where he stood beside Neal's chair.

Neal leaned into Jones' stomach and closed his eyes without agreeing.

The hug felt nice, but Neal was never going to be ok again, and there was nothing either agent in the room could do about it.

"Let's get you home," Diana said in a quiet voice. "Hughes said Jones and I can take the rest of the day and stay with you if you want."

Neal swallowed, a hint of emotion threatening to break through his detached fog.

"Thanks," he whispered, nodding slightly.

Neal was being selfish. He knew he was going to be terrible company, he didn't think he'd even be able to muster the effort to exchange more than a dozen words with them, but being alone suddenly seemed unbearable, and Diana and Jones understood more than anyone except Elizabeth the magnitude of the loss he was feeling.

Being with them wouldn’t make it better, but going home to a cold, empty house would be so much worse.

June was gone for the week, on holiday in Italy to visit her granddaughter, and Neal felt like he would shatter into a million pieces if he had to go home to the dark house and be alone.

“Ok,” Diana agreed in a tight voice, sounding relieved, and he tried again to flash her a smile. It didn’t work, but from the way her eyes softened he thought she appreciated the effort.

She stood and moved around the table to stop in front of him, Jones stepping back slightly as well.

Neal missed the hug, but the feeling felt far away, like he was disconnected from it but had been informed it passed by.

He looked at the two with exhausted eyes, but knew he would need to stand up. He didn’t know if he was up to the long walk to the car, but really, they could leave him where he dropped in the hallway and he wouldn’t care, so he grudgingly hauled himself to his feet without mentioning it, still feeling unexplainably heavy.

He leaned into it when Diana pressed against his side, slipping her arm under his and subtly supporting some of his weight. He was distantly grateful for the support and the warmth, and he felt another slight breach growing in his haze of apathy.

Jones walked close by his other side, providing a buffer of protective comfort that he wished he had the energy to tell them he was grateful for.

He felt exhausted and selfish in equal parts. He wasn’t the only one who had lost Peter, but he seemed to be the only one in the entire office who couldn’t find the energy to get out of bed unprompted. Around the office agents looked at the trio, Neal specifically, with worried eyes, but he couldn’t seem to make himself do anything to reassure them.

A rush of movement broke him out of his contemplations, and his eyes disinterestedly followed Hughes’ path as he blew down the stairs in a towering rage, storming toward three men who had just walked in the bullpen doors.

Jones, Diana, and Neal followed at a slower pace, watching with varying degrees of curiosity as Hughes planted himself in front of the incoming trio.

“I said no!” Hughes angrily told the man in the middle, almost shouting. Neal wondered absently what the visitor had done to get Hughes so mad.

“You don’t get to take him, get out of my department!” Hughes demanded, jabbing an angry finger at the elevator.

“Actually, Hughes,” a man Neal eventually realized was a Federal Marshal sneered, “we can.”

“No,” Hughes argued adamantly, slashing an arm through the air to make his point. “There’s a contingency in the contract!”

“There is,” the Marshal agreed with a jeering smile, “but it doesn’t apply. It says if Burke died in an operation, then Jones is to inherit the deal, but Burke snuffed it at a crime scene, not on an operation.”

The resulting silence was furious as agents around the room simmered with rage, and Neal felt a spark of anger break through his mental fog at the way the man talked about his handler.

“That’s not the only contingency case,” Hughes insisted, eyes flashing, but Neal had known the man long enough to know he was feigning his confidence.

“Actually, Hughes,” the Marshal said, grinning like it was a victory, “I think you’ll find it is. Here, we brought you a copy.”

With a spiteful smile he pulled a small stack of stapled papers out, presenting them to Hughes with an unnecessary flourish.

“We were going to shred it since it’s useless now, but we thought you might want to have a copy to read through,” he added with a vindictive smirk.

Hughes snatched the contract from his hand and flipped through it angrily, trying to find a sub-clause that would support his point.

While the ASAC was distracted, the three Marshals moved past him and stalked toward Neal.

"Neal Caffrey?" the man who had argued with Hughes asked, and Neal nodded, offering a soft, "Yes?"

Before he understood what was happening, the man had grabbed his wrist, yanking him out of the safety of being bracketed by Jones and Diana and slammed him into a nearby desk.

Neal lay stunned, bent over the desk as the Marshal wrenched first one arm then the other behind his back and handcuffed his wrists while Neal tried to make sense of the explosion of noise behind him as the agents around the office protested loudly.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Diana demanded angrily, clearly discernible above the rest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neal saw the man cast her a smirk before speaking to Neal, loud enough for the room to hear.

"Neal Caffrey, your handler is dead and your contract is no longer valid. I am Marshal Danielson, and my team and I will be escorting you to New York Supermax. Take one last look around, because you won't be coming back."

Neal wasn't entirely certain what was expected of him until he felt Danielson drag him upright, spinning him in a whirl of confusing motion until he was standing on his feet facing the crowd of agents, feeling more than a little dazed as to what was happening.

He blinked, trying to clear his head, and suddenly Hughes was in front of him, looking more openly apologetic than Neal had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, Caffrey," the ASAC said gruffly, and Neal was surprised to see genuine remorse in his eyes.

“It’s ok,” Neal absolved tonelessly, "it’s not your fault.”

He turned to Jones and Diana, allowing himself to be pushed toward the door.

“Can you say goodbye to June and Elizabeth for me?” he asked softly.

Diana pressed her lips together tightly, but nodded her agreement.

“We will, man,” Jones promised, his voice rough.

Neal gave a nod that he hoped conveyed more gratitude than lifelessness, and was shoved out of the room and into the elevator, catching one last look at the devastated agents he was leaving behind before the elevator doors shut.

“It was always going to come to this,” Danielson said bitingly.

Neal cast him what would have been a curious look if he had any energy to expend on caring, but ended up more of an apathetic glance than anything else.

“You and Burke were always going to get what you deserved,” Danielson spat out, the other Marshal in the elevator nodding along while the third looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Deserved?” Neal echoed in vague question, unable to muster the effort to push out more than a single word.

“Yeah,” Danielson said, his eyes darkening. “For what you did to Deckard.”

Neal stared at him blankly for several long seconds before the wheels slowly turned enough to make the connection to Marshal Deckard, the dirty Federal Marshal he and Peter had put away more than a year ago.

Neal’s brow furrowed in exhausted confusion. What they did to Deckard?

Danielson evidently read the lack of understanding off his face, and his scowl deepened.

“Deckard,” he explained in a menacing undertone, “you know, the Marshal you and Burke framed?”

“Framed?” Neal repeated, even more confused than before the explanation.

“Yeah,” Danielson said, shoving Neal roughly out of the elevator when the doors opened. “My best friend is a good man, and thanks to you and Burke he’s serving a life sentence!”

Neal’s face twisted in bewilderment, wondering how anyone could honestly believe Deckard hadn’t done what they caught him on with the wave of evidence and the personal confession they had presented to the court.

Neal had neither the time nor the energy to continue the argument, the Marshals pulling him out onto the brightly sunlit street and into the back of the transport vehicle before he could formulate a response.

It didn’t really matter, anyway. Neal wasn’t going to be able to convince Danielson, and even beginning that argument seemed like a herculean feat.

As the Marshals attached the leg irons and then secured all of his restraints to the floor, he realized belatedly that they had done nothing to disguise the fact they were arresting him, and everyone in the lobby had been staring at him with wide eyes.

He wondered vaguely if there would be an announcement, or if the New York Bureau would just collectively chalk it up to Neal getting what he deserved for something or other.

Neal liked to think most of the employees wouldn’t think that. He had made friends with dozens of them, saying hi to the security guards in the morning, befriending the janitors that consistently made their rounds as he came back from lunch or left for the night, striking up conversations with agents in the lobby on the days he waited for Peter to meet him at the office before they left for a crime scene.

All in all, Neal mused, after almost two years he knew just about everyone in the building by face if not name, so they probably wouldn’t assume the worst.

As he bounced and lurched in the back of the truck that took no measure to make sure the trip was a comfortable ride, he found he didn’t really care. He found he didn’t care about much of anything. But, he idly supposed, he should have known that was what would happen to a CI without a handler.

Chapter Text

“Do we have any contacts who might be able to identify this guy?” Diana asked Jones as they walked back through the glass doors, bypassing their desks and making their way to the staircase.

“Mozzie might know,” Jones suggested, “but I don’t know how to get a hold of him.”

“I still have the number for his ‘Suit phone’,” she raised her hand in weak air quotes, unable to find the usual humor in the criminal’s antics, “from when I was babysitting him during the music box thing. I never actually had to use it, but I think I saved him in my contacts.”

Jones felt a stirring of interest that had been missing for days and cocked an eyebrow at her.

Catching the look, she shook her head, a faint hint of a smile on her lips as she led them both up to the conference room to continue working.

“It was either have the phone number as an option or let him write me sonnets,” she said by way of explanation, and Jones felt a chuckle try to rise before it faded away.

He nodded, trying to capture Diana’s almost amused face and use it to push away the destroyed expression on June’s face when they had visited that morning and told her what had happened the previous week.

She had just gotten home from a holiday. Somewhere abroad, Jones couldn’t remember. He’d found it hard lately to remember the details of other people’s lives as he directed all of his own energy into staying upright and at least vaguely functional. Sometimes it was harder than others.

He and Diana had thought they could give her one more happy afternoon before ruining her life, but she had called them at nine that morning, worried because she suspected Neal hadn’t been home for days and she hadn’t been able to get ahold of Peter.

He and Diana drove to her house rather than try to pass on the news over the phone, and her reaction had been heart-wrenching, terrified for Neal in prison in his current state of mind and broken-hearted at losing Peter.

When they had left she had been murmuring about visiting Elizabeth, and Jones was thankful there would be someone else to help support the grieving widow.

“Oh, no,” Diana breathed, breaking him out of the memory.

“What?” he asked warily, not sure if he could take even one more thing without collapsing where he sat.

“Mozzie,” she whispered, looking across the table at him with wide eyes.

His own eyes widened in alarm, wondering how they could have possibly failed to notify the man.

Under any other circumstance, Jones’ wouldn’t have needed to be reminded to contact Neal’s best friend that Neal was back in jail, but he’d been spending the vast majority of his mental energy lately trying to convince himself to eat food and stay upright and everything else had fallen to the wayside.

“Mozzie,” he whispered in horrified realization. Mozzie’s best friend had been in Supermax prison for over a week, and they had forgotten to tell him. This was not going to go well.

“You have his number,” Jones reminded her after a stunned silence, and Diana nodded, looking a little dazed as she pulled her phone out.

She stared at it blankly for a long moment after she pulled up a text, and Jones sympathized. How could they tell the man what happened through a text? How could they get Mozzie to respond if they didn’t?

“Mozzie,” Diana said out loud as she typed, drafting the text for Jones to hear, “you won’t be able to get a hold of Neal, he’s in jail.”

She looked up at him and he gave a helpless shrug and a nod. She looked down at the message one more time, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if she wanted to add more, but hit send instead, laying the phone face up in the middle of the table between them.

Barely a minute passed before her phone vibrated with an incoming call, and they both reluctantly looked at the name on the screen, reading ‘Little Guy’ off the screen with a shared wince.

With a bracing breath Diana reached forward and answered the call, putting the phone on speaker.

“Suit!” Mozzie spat down the line. “What did you do with Neal? He’s in jail again? Can’t keep up your end of the bargain?”

Diana clenched her teeth together and Jones swallowed hard, suddenly unable to find his voice.

“It’s Diana and Jones, actually,” Diana said, her voice brittle.

“What, Suit can’t face me himself? Is that why he hasn’t been answering his phone?” he asked acidly. “I was giving him the benefit of the doubt to assume he got a new number, but he can’t even face me and he sends his minions to do it? You can tell him he beat me, he won. I actually thought he cared about Neal, turns out he tricked me, too.”

Jones pushed his lips together, unable to stop the flood of tears that filled his eyes, but at least he kept them from flowing over.

He was glad he and Diana were the only ones in the conference room. He could have started bawling on the table and she wouldn’t judge him for it.

Well, he knew deep down the rest of the agents in the office would understand as well. The point remained, though. His relationship with the rest of them was strong, but his relationship with Diana was unbreakable.

He knew her better than anyone on the planet. They spent so much time together, so many long nights in the van, long meetings exchanging glances to make fun of Peter or Neal or both, so many after work happy hours and movie nights, that sometimes he thought he might know her better than he knew himself.

Out of everyone in the office, he knew she understood the loss he felt. Not that the other agents hadn’t been close with Peter and Neal, but Diana and Jones spent almost every day with them, weekends and dinners and time outside of work, too.

“Go get the Suit!” Mozzie demanded angrily, reminding Jones what had started him down his introspective path.

“We can’t,” Diana whispered, unable to keep the note of heartbreak out of her voice.

Mozzie paused, picking up on the tone.

“Why not?” he asked warily.

Jones took a deep breath.

“Because he died last week.”

There was complete silence for a long, stunned moment.

“What?” Mozzie gasped in horrified disbelief. Jones remembered the feeling.

“What happened?” Mozzie croaked when Jones and Diana didn’t answer, exchanging glances, each trying to delegate the story to the other.

“He ...” Jones started, trying to find the words to describe the horrific event. “We...”

“We were investigating a factory,” Diana took over for him. “We.... everyone was outside except Peter.”

“The building caught fire,” Jones said softly. “We couldn’t get Peter out, we were too far away.”

“Neal tried to go running into the building,” Diana continued, “but it was too late, he would have died, too. He wouldn’t listen, kept trying to run inside even though... anyway, Jones stopped him, dragged him away before the building exploded.”

“Thank you, mini-Suit,” Mozzie said seriously.

Jones sniffed and tried to steady his voice.

“Of course, Mozzie. He’s our friend, too.”

“I know,” Mozzie admitted softly.

There was a long beat of silence before Mozzie spoke again.

“So someone murdered Suit?” Mozzie asked, an edge of determined fury in his voice.

Jones shrugged helplessly even though Mozzie couldn’t see it. 

“We don’t know for sure,” he admitted. “Initial forensics thinks the perps moved a machine to hide the paintings behind and being out of alignment caused it to throw sparks and catch the wood on fire, but we haven’t gotten conclusive answers yet.”

“Oh,” Mozzie considered, lapsing into another contemplative silence.

“How is Mrs. Suit?” he eventually asked, restarting the conversation a few moments later.

Jones contemplated how to answer that.

“She’s....”

They exchanged a look, remembering the horrible visit they had made with Hughes to her house to inform her that her husband wouldn’t be coming home.

“Saying she’s devastated would be the understatement of the century,” Jones said softly. 

“I’m coming back,” Mozzie announced, his voice rough, but determined. “I’m in Detroit, I was helping Mr. Jeffries with the orphanage, but I’ll come back first thing tomorrow. It’ll take me a little over a day to get back.”

Diana sighed in relief, and Jones nodded gratefully even though Mozzie couldn’t see it.

“Could you go visit Neal when you get here?” Diana asked pleadingly.

“He’s...” Jones tried to explain.

“He’s broken,” Diana said quietly, exchanging a helpless look with Jones, “and we don’t know how to help him. His eyes are just... lifeless. He’s just drifting where people take him, all his spark is just ... gone. We don’t know what he needs, well, no, we do, but we can’t give it to him.” 

“Please visit him,” Jones said softly. “Help him.”

Mozzie sniffed audibly, and swallowed.

“I will,” he promised.

“Thank you,” Jones whispered.

Mozzie gave another few sniffs before he cleared his throat.

“Do you guys visit him?” he asked hopefully.

“We do,” Jones confirmed. “We go every morning right now, but the warden is cutting us down to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings starting next week.

The prison guards let us visit before we go into the office, which works out well, because then if Neal’s already out of bed we can usually convince him to eat breakfast before he goes back to his cell.”

“Which prison is he in?” Mozzie asked after he absorbed her previous answer.

“New York Supermax,” Jones answered unhappily, “but we personally went through the files of all the inmates and had any even vaguely connected to a past case moved to the opposite cell block, and we got him a cell without a roommate.”

“We’ve also made it clear to the guards we are personally invested in his wellbeing and if they allow him to be hurt in a fight we will not be pleased,” Diana added, “which isn’t much, but we’re trying to redo the paperwork to reinstate the deal under Jones, so hopefully it isn’t for the whole two years he has left on his sentence.”

“Thank you,” Mozzie whispered gratefully.

“Of course,” Diana said, her voice rough. “Like Jones said, he’s our friend, too.”

There was a quiet hitched breath, and several more stifled sniffles before Mozzie went on, voice cracking slightly as he tried to speak through his tears.

“You said last week, have you already had the -, the -,”

“We haven’t had the funeral yet,” Jones said, not making Mozzie force himself to say the word. “Everyone here is still drifting around in shock, we haven’t even cleaned out his office. 

Elizabeth is destroyed, so are his parents, and some of his extended family lives out of the country and they have to make plans to come into New York. We’re also trying to work out a way Neal could go.

We’re supposed to help Elizabeth start thinking about funeral plans next weekend, but...” he swallowed hard, “but -, but since we don’t have a body to display we don’t have to plan it as quickly as most funerals.”

Mozzie bit off a sob he couldn’t quite stifle and Jones closed his eyes at the pain that shot through his chest at the sound.

“I know Suit and I didn’t always see eye to eye,” Mozzie choked out, “but could I-, could I come to -....,”

“Of course you’re coming to the funeral, Mozzie,” Diana said, her tone warm and reassuring in a way Jones hadn’t been able to achieve in weeks. “Mozzie, we always planned on you coming, there’ll be a seat for you in the family row.”

Mozzie either couldn’t stifle his sobs or gave up on trying, crying audibly through the speaker.

“Thank you,” he whispered wetly several seconds later.

“We know he was your friend, too,” Jones said instead of acknowledging the unnecessary thanks. Mozzie had somehow managed to worm his way into all of their hearts, and it wasn’t a favor to include him in the funeral, it was mandatory.

“He was,” Mozzie admitted through a fresh wave of tears, crying harder until it sounded like was unable to stop.

A tear leaked out of Diana’s eye as she listened, and she carelessly wiped it away.

“Mozzie,” she said, somehow recapturing her warm, protective tone from before.

Jones had thought to himself multiple times over the past few days that Diana’s strength left him awestruck as she somehow managed to still take care of the people around her, texting Jones to make sure he ate dinner, and bringing him a breakfast sandwich in the mornings because she knew him well enough to know he hadn’t been able to force himself to get food.

He had seen her reminding the other agents around the office to eat, going as far as to bring Hughes a sandwich and sit in his office until he finished it when she noticed his thinning frame.

She sent people home when she realized they were at the end of their rope, and had dragged both Saunders and Wallace into the break room down the hall to let them cry on her shoulder when they reached their breaking points.

Jones had the sudden, jarring realization that in their haze of grief, no one had been looking after Diana, and told himself firmly that energy or no energy, he was going to make sure she ate something after the call.

“Mozzie,” Diana said again, bringing Jones back to the moment. “Go find Mr. Jeffries,” she instructed gently. “You can worry about travel arrangements tomorrow, for now you shouldn’t be alone, so go find Mr. Jeffries and then you can worry about how you’ll come home and see us.”

“Ok,” Mozzie sobbed, “ok. He’s in the kitchen.”

“Ok,” Diana echoed reassuringly, “then go to the kitchen right after you hang up, promise?”

“I promise,” Mozzie choked out.

“Good,” Diana praised. “Then we’ll talk to you when you get back to New York, Mozzie. Go let Mr. Jeffries take care of you.”

Mozzie gasped an acceptance and a farewell and the phone line went silent.

“Alright,” Jones said decisively, feeling a small kernel of energy come back as he accepted his mission. “Now it’s time to let someone take care of you,” he said, standing and facing Diana. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Diana looked up at him with wide eyes, and Jones let that answer his question.

“Come on,” he said gently, pulling her to her feet and then into a hug.

She stood, confused for a split second, but then desperately burrowed into him, wrapping her arms around his back to squeeze tightly.

“We’re going to be ok,” he lied, running a hand down her back as he laid his head on hers. “We’ll get through this.”

“How?” she whispered, sounding lost and devastated.

“One step at a time,” he answered firmly, hoping he could convince himself as well. “We’ll make it through this together, one step at a time.”

Chapter Text

Neal lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling of his cell, and wondered distantly if he had been the one who died in the explosion, and this resulting world was the Hell he had earned from his life of crime. If it was a punishment, Neal couldn't fathom anything anyone could have done that could have deserved it.

He had thought his world had ended in fire before, months ago when he watched a plane go up in flames, but even as terrible as that had been couldn't compare to the utter desolation he felt as his world didn't end, it was obliterated.

Neal had been heartbroken after Kate, but he was destroyed after Peter. It wasn't that the sun had gone out, it was that every star across the galaxy no longer dared to shine, understanding that there was no point if Peter Burke wasn't there to enjoy it.

Neal's previous prison stay hadn't been fun by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been filled with days of card games in the yard, bantering friendships with the guards, and long afternoons tucked away in the library. This time, Neal could barely force himself to leave his cell for meal times, and even then he wasn't always successful.

The first time around he had done his best to spend as little time in his cell as possible. This time he did almost nothing but sit in his cell and stare at the wall or the ceiling, wondering how life could have gone so wrong.

His mind flashed back, over and over again, to the horrible moment when he looked to where Peter had been standing only to find him gone.

In the moment, Neal had thought Peter's scared look was terrifying, but it was nothing compared to the horrifying jolt of looking to where his handler had been standing a moment before and finding nothing.

Neal had tried, when he had first been deposited in his cell with nothing but a bed, a table, and his memories of Peter, to cast his mind back to the overflowing number of good memories he had with the man.

The times Peter smiled proudly at him or told him he did well, the times Peter invited him to dinner just because Peter and El liked spending time with him, the times that Peter hugged him. He had tried, he knew his brain had an abundance of good memories, but they refused to come, instead the instant he lost sight of Peter flashed repeatedly across his mind's eye.

Neal eventually relented, allowing the memory of his biggest failure to play on repeat, only occasionally giving a halfhearted effort to redirect his thoughts.

This had to be a punishment for something, he thought despondently. Maybe he had grown a conscious after all and it was determined to make up for lost time and repay the decades of misdeeds with soul-crushing reminders. What other reason could his brain have to replay -.

Neal sat bolt upright, a surge of more energy then he'd had in days flowing through him as he felt his brain making connections.

He paused, breathless, waiting for his mind to compile the connections and wave of giddy relief flowing through him into a coherent thought.

Maybe -, maybe his brain wasn't making him watch the moment constantly as a punishment, but instead as a hint?

He took a deep breath, centering himself and wishing he had bothered to stop by the cafeteria instead of returning immediately to bed that morning after his visit with Jones and Diana if it would have helped his foggy brain kick into action faster.

His brain kept replaying the moment he couldn't see Peter, why? If he was trying to torture himself, why not watch Peter's terrified face or painful, hacking coughs? Why torture himself with the moment his handler wasn't in? Why hadn't his handler been in it?

At first reaction, he had assumed Peter's coughing had gotten the better of him and he had fallen below the thick smoke coating the ground, but that wasn't quite right. The smoke wasn't coating the ground, it was filling the air. Anyone who had ever gone through even the most basic of fire safety courses knew that smoke could be counted on to rise, and the best method of escaping a burning home was to crawl under the suffocating fumes.

The factory was huge, tall and open, plenty of space for the smoke to fill without it being forced all the way to the floor. Even more so, all the doors were open. Smoke poured out in every direction, but always up, so why, if Neal was below him, running up to the ramp, had he not seen Peter's body on the floor?

For the first time in days Neal allowed himself to really look at the memory his brain was incessantly shoving at him rather than just letting it play in front of his glazed eyes.

Once he looked, actually looked, he realized he had seen the floor, he had seen the floor and there had been no Peter. Upon reflection, at the angle he had been at beside the ramp, below the smoke, he had been able to see clear across most of the shop floor to where the industrial machine braces attached to the wall, and yet he hadn't seen Peter.

Hope flowed through him, replacing his all-encompassing despair for the first time in days.

Peter had been studying the floor, he had been studying the floor when Neal walked toward him. His hope bloomed into belief as he realized there was a chance Peter was still alive.

It sounded crazy, even in his own head, but he was becoming more sure by the second that Peter hadn't been murdered, he'd been kidnapped.

All of a sudden, he couldn’t wait until Jones and Diana visited him the next morning.

Chapter Text

Neal was out of bed and waiting at the door to his cell when the guard showed up, eagerly awaiting Jones and Diana's visit.

Today was the day they'd start the search to get his handler back.

He walked through the halls with more energy than he'd had in days, and the guard sent him slightly confused, slightly bemused looks as he all but skipped into the visitors’ room.

Jones and Diana were already there and seated, eyebrows raising in shock as he came up to the table, flashing them a bright smile.

"Uh, hey, Neal," Jones said, clearly taken aback. Neal understood. Jones didn't know the world hadn't really ended yet, no wonder he was confused.

"Hey, Jones, Diana," Neal chirped, still giddy over his discovery.

"You're looking... better," Diana eventually settled on, watching him in confusion.

"I am," he agreed, leaning toward them both. "I'm better because I've realized something."

He smiled eagerly at their befuddled expressions.

"Uh, ok, and what's that?" Jones asked.

"Ok," Neal started eagerly, "so I was thinking about it, and you know how I got tackled off the ramp?"

"Uh, yeah," Jones rubbed his neck, looking vaguely sheepish, "sorry about that."

"No, don't be sorry!" Neal told him, his eyes gleaming. "It was perfect, put me at the perfect viewpoint. So you know I was off the ramp, and then I was facing the factory before the fireball, and I could see under the smoke and I didn't see Peter!"

He waited a long moment for their relief to break over their faces, but it never came. Instead, their expressions became more worried by the second, clearly not as convinced by the facts he was presenting them as he was.

"Don't you guys get it?" he asked, his excitement growing by the second. "Peter wasn't killed he was kidnapped."

He paused for effect, but their concern only grew. This was not how he envisioned this going at all.

"Neal," Diana said carefully, like she was afraid she would shatter him if she spoke too harshly, "Neal, Peter's gone."

"That's what I'm saying," Neal said earnestly. "Peter's gone, but not dead! We have to find him, someone took him."

"Um, but -, Neal," Jones started hesitantly. "Why would someone want to take Peter? How would they have kidnapped him? You saw the area, there weren't any getaway cars, there wasn't any time for someone to run in and drag him away."

"It was a trapdoor," Neal answered triumphantly, sure that they would be convinced with his final piece of evidence.

They were not, and Neal wilted slightly under their worried, disbelieving looks.

"Neal," Diana whispered, sounding pained, "I know how much you want there to have been a way, I do too, but no one kidnapped him. There wasn't a trap door in the factory floor, we've been over the remnants with initial forensics, they didn't find anything."

"Neal," Jones tried to reason, holding his eyes sincerely. "Buddy, what would be the point of taking Peter? Even if there had been a trap door, how would they have known when to open it?"

"Maybe they were watching somehow," Neal suggested in a small voice, their skepticism puncturing his balloon of enthusiasm.

Both agents swallowed hard, their eyes sympathetic.

"Neal," Diana said gently, "it's ok, this is all part of the process. I know you've heard about the stages of grief, but not everyone has just one cycle, sometimes people get past a stage and then return to the beginning and move through the cycle again. This is denial, Neal."

Ironically, her reasoning was what re-sparked his confidence that he was right, but he didn't let it show, nodding sadly instead.

He wasn't in denial, he'd been in denial before. He'd been in denial about Kate, and about what he had thought had happened to Peter, but it had felt nothing like this.

His grief-stricken denial had been a mindset of constrained desperation, telling himself frantically that she couldn't have burned or Peter couldn't be gone on constant repeat. He'd had the feeling that he had to hang onto the statement that they couldn't be gone with everything he had, because if he let go of his belief for even a second it would spin away and he'd be forced to face reality.

That wasn't at all how he felt at the moment. Replacing the desperate, clawing wish of denial, his hope sat comfortably in his chest, warm and steady, a solid assurance that he was right, he only needed to do something about it.

Jones and Diana didn't believe him, though, and he didn't think there was anything he could say today to convince them.

He let his eyes stay downcast and sad, not difficult to achieve as he made himself think back to the last week without Peter.

Their eyes grew less worried and more sorrowful, which he supposed was an improvement.

"Neal," Jones said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "There's a psychiatrist you can see here. They'll help you, really."

Diana looked up at him, adding her pleading gaze to Jones'.

"Please, Neal?" she asked pleadingly. "I think it could really help you to talk to a professional."

The only professional it would help him to talk to would be Peter, but they didn't need to know that.

He pretended to consider their request before he eventually let out a sigh and nodded.

"Ok," he promised, "Ok, guys, I promise I'll talk to someone who can help."

They let out twin breaths of relief, their shoulders slumping slightly as they nodded their thanks.

"We have to head to work," Jones said, reluctantly standing. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to someone. We'll see you tomorrow evening, we have to go to that meeting tomorrow morning.”

"Bye," he said softly, trying to give them a small smile.

"Bye, Neal," Diana said warmly, "we'll be back tomorrow," and within a moment they had both disappeared through the door.

He stood, pushing his chair back in, and allowed his excitement to grow inside him again. He was right, and he knew it. He hadn't seen Peter on the floor, so he needed to go find whoever had taken him.

Well, with or without Jones and Diana, today was the day the search for his handler began, all he needed was a plan.

Chapter Text

A plan began to form over breakfast, and he quietly stole one of the cafeteria straws as he left.

He eyed the security cameras subtly, making as though he was stretching his legs around the cell block, but actually studying the surveillance blind spots.

He found quite a few, which would work out well.

All of the windows, doors, and locked gates of the cell block were monitored directly, not even the slightest hint of a blind spot, but the long hallways with nowhere to hide or sneak into? Those were littered with security holes.

The security company that placed the cameras correctly realized that more cameras became more expensive and harder to monitor. They had also correctly assumed that prisoners could not use the camera blind spots to sneak out windows or through side doors if there were neither doors nor windows to sneak through in the strategically allowed surveillance dead zones.

Neal wasn’t planning to climb out a window, though, he was going to walk out the front door, and for that, the blind spots were perfectly placed for what he needed.

He snaked a bottle of water from the cafeteria and started his mission.

Staying out of the camera’s view, he crept along the thankfully empty hallway until he spotted his target.

He had studied the prison’s blueprints in a pique of curiosity that he was fairly certain Peter didn’t know about when he started working at the Bureau.

The blueprints listed in the FBI database had helpfully included an electrical grid, detailing the security cameras and how the monitoring system related to various parts of the overall electrical framework.

He had never been so grateful for his undying curiosity, because it was exactly the information he needed.

Hidden in the camera’s blind spot, he poked the straw into his water bottle, filling the tube without drinking it, and held it in place as he readjusted to face the wall he was standing against.

About a foot down the wall, barely in the view of the fuzzy camera frame, there was an outlet.

Neal crouched down, putting himself at almost level with it, and pressed his straw up against the wall so it was lightly touching the brick.

Watching the outlet carefully, he blew the water out of the straw in a steady, but hopefully subtle stream, the water flowing along the top of the brick before falling down the far side, directly over the outlet.

Neal grinned victoriously as he watched the outlet spark and crackle before the red light on the camera went out, followed closely by a flickering of the hallway lights as they switched to the backup generator.

Neal stood for another minute, carefully watching the camera to see if the red light would re-appear, his smile growing with every second it didn’t.

He had hoped they hadn’t updated their system since he looked up the information.

Neal had noted the hole when he first read it. The lighting was attached to a backup generator, but the security systems, the locks and the cameras, were hooked into a separate generator that was considerably more secured.

It may have been more secure, but Neal had noted years ago that it wasn’t more modern.

There had been a spec sheet listed, and Neal had gone home to research the generator, finding that the particular model backing up the jail didn’t do well if it sat unused for months at a time, the gasoline evaporating and resettling in a film that made it difficult for the generator to start.

There had been a request form in the file for a new model, but it had already been in the folder for three years by the time Neal looked at it, and he had hoped for the situation that had apparently happened, the request fading to the background under the mountain of other updates needed.

The light stayed off, and Neal slipped back down the hallway unseen as he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the other direction.

A guard, he concluded, safely around the corner, casually leaning on the wall as he looked out the window, crafting a cover in case someone walked down the hallway and found him. Two guards, he corrected himself.

“What happened?” a voice he recognized as the cell block Head of Security demanded.

“I don’t know, sir,” said another voice, this one he knew the name for. Tim worked the monitoring station, but he had covered Larry’s shift the week before and Neal had uninterestedly absorbed the conversation Tim and another guard, Rashmin, had held outside his cell.

Evidently Tim was new, but seemed to be catching on quickly. He had noted to Rashmin that he felt like he was prepared for the physical responsibilities of being a prison guard, but didn’t feel like he knew enough about computers or the security systems to be the guard watching the cameras, and he planned to ask his boss for a transfer to a different rotation position during the next month’s one-on-one check in with his manager.

Perfect.

“Maybe the power grid blipped for a minute and the backup generator is just being slow to turn on?” Tim suggested hesitantly.

The other voice sighed, but sounded like he agreed as he answered.

“Probably,” the man sighed again. “I completely forgot, I put in a request to update that damn generator almost five years ago, but I don’t think it ever got filled. I’ll have to put in another request to replace it. It’s sat unused for so many years now, I doubt we’d ever get that thing working, even if we went and tried to clean out the tubing.”

There was another noise of annoyance, and they walked a little closer to Neal’s hiding spot before turning back the way they came, evidently satisfied with their proximity check.

“Around here, power blips usually mean they’re adjusting something in the grid lines, and there’s normally a couple, but they’re supposed to warn us,” the voice told Tim as they walked further away from Neal. “If this happens again, note the time, but if there isn’t anybody on the screen in the hall then don’t worry about it.

Do radio it in, though, and keep a log, I’m going to use it as reasoning to support the cost of a new generator. I’ll call a crew to come out and fix the camera system first thing tomorrow.”

“Ok, sir!” Tim agreed, barely audible.

Excellent.

Neal gave Tim several minutes to get back to his post and then crept along another hallway, sticking to the blind spots he had already re-familiarized himself, and used his straw and water to short that circuit as well, grinning when the same thing happened, lights flickering briefly, and the red light on the camera never re-appearing.

With a satisfied smile, Neal walked out into the yard, walking it carefully until he found a position around the card game in the center where he could watch the window, the camera he had shorted just visible through the upper corner of the glass.

Under the guise of watching the show of a poker game, he carefully kept an eye out for any guards who may have been called to check on the outage, his confidence bolstered when no one passed in front of the window for an hour and fifteen minutes.

Grinning, he joined the card game, making a show of winning a round, and brushing off all comments of his change in attitude with a casual explanation of, “yeah, well, I had some visitors yesterday who told me to work on moving on, so I’m giving it a shot.”

He played for more than an hour, letting several guards pass by and notice him out of his cell before he excused himself from a hand and slipped back inside, grinning when he noticed the card game players themselves were almost completely obscured by the hecklers standing around them, and as long as he wasn’t spotted, the guards would think he was still in the middle of the mass of bodies.

He made his way through his final set of blind spots, ready to enact his actual plan after the groundwork had been successfully laid.

He shorted a circuit for the third time that day, waiting with baited breath as the camera light faded and stayed off.

After a long moment of verifying it wouldn’t come back on, he walked confidently out of his blind spot and strode over to the barred door that led to the janitor hallway and the laundering facilities.

The locks were on the same system as the cameras, but the door’s lock was firmly shut as the power outage had occurred while the door was secured.

Neal grinned to himself as he stuck a hand through the bars to locate the hinges that were purposefully blocked from view.

He found one and briefly pulled his hand back through to pull a small comb out his pocket.

The comb was plastic, it came in the standard welcome package for every new prisoner. It wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t thick enough to be whittled into a shank, but it was exactly what he needed.

Carefully bracing the corner, he fit it into the slot of the screw in the middle hinge and turned his makeshift screwdriver until the screw loosened enough for him to quietly pull it out and slide it into his pocket. He made quick work of the other two screws, and soon the whole hinge detached from the door, creaking quietly as it swung loose, still attached to the wall.

He repeated the process with the hinge over his head, then the one at his feet, and was able to shove the door just enough that the lock stayed in place, but he could slip through the small gap he had made with the give in the door.

Once on the other side, he pulled the screws out of his pocket and reattached each hinge, surveying his work carefully and nodding to himself that he would both avoid detection and that he wouldn’t be releasing hundreds of very dangerous people out onto the streets of New York.

Once satisfied, he enacted phase two.

He made his way down the long hallway, the slight noise of his footsteps covered by the loud industrial washers running in the room down the hall.

Peeking inside, he found the room empty, and made his way over to the lockers he spotted lining the wall.

He opened them quietly, and in the third one from the end, he found exactly what he needed.

One of the janitors evidently liked to change at work, and there was a pair of jeans and a non-descript black t-shirt, as well as a pair of tennis shoes only half a size too big.

Perfect.

Neal changed quickly, shoving his orange jumpsuit into one of the loads of laundry waiting to be washed and stashed his shoes deep in a corner of supplies where it may be weeks before they were discovered.

Next, he combed through the rest of the lockers until he found a spare janitor’s uniform, noticeably too big for him, but able to hide the fact he was wearing an extra layer of clothing underneath.

His disguise was secured, but he still needed a badge. None of the doors would open without one, and the doors to the outside were considerably more guarded then the doors in the seldom used maintenance hallways.

The security guards were also required to check badges as employees left for the day. Neal had absently noticed that while he waited to be processed, not that he had cared at the time, it was more of an instinctual habit of checking security than a conscious decision to track the routine.

Neal heard whistling down the hall, and a slight squeak of a cart being pushed. Peering around the corner he saw a man turn out of an unseen hallway and continue down the hall away from Neal, approaching a door that Neal could barely make out said ‘Janitorial Closet’.

The man approached the door, whistling and casually inattentive as Neal crept toward him.

With a slight bob of his head to the tune of whatever song he was mangling, the man pulled his key ring off his belt buckle and unlocked the closet, bouncing in place as he pulled the door open.

That was his chance. In one smooth movement, Neal snatched the man’s cell phone out of his pocket, his badge clipped to his belt, and the key ring held loosely in his hand, giving him a firm shove into the closet and shutting the door.

Neal slid the key into the lock and heard the click before the man recovered enough to demand a confused “What the hell?” from inside, trying the handle with no success a moment later.

Neal watched silently for a moment as the door handle continued to rattle, making sure the lock wouldn’t give, but it held and the door remained shut.

With a nod, Neal set the man’s phone on the floor against the wall and pushed the cart down the hall toward the exit, snagging the hat he noticed laying on top of one of the cleaning bottles and sliding it onto his head, pulling his hair up into it so it appeared he had much shorter hair then he did.

He nodded to himself again as he got further away, the janitor’s pounding on the door blending in with the thuds and rattles of the huge driers at the end of the hall.

Last step, and he was out, the guard checkpoint.

Glancing at the badge, Neal grimaced as he realized he looked nowhere near similar enough to pass for the janitor.

He cast his mind around for a solution as he approached the last turn in the hall before the exit.

Oh, perfect, he could be sick. No one wanted to look too closely at sick people.

Neal gave an extremely realistic hacking cough, keeping up the charade of coughs and sniffles for several seconds before he came into view of the exit, pleased to see the guards looking his way with an expression of reluctance and distaste.

“I’m leaving for the day,” Neal rasped, flashing the badge as he hid his face in his arm for another round of hacking coughs.

Lowering the badge, and adding a slight tremor to his hand for effect, he shoved the badge in his pocket a long second before he finished coughing and looked up at the guard, red faced and bleary eyed.

“I’m sicker than I thought I was,” he explained, exhausted and drained and the guard nodded, edging discreetly away from him and gesturing to the door.

“Feel better, man,” he said, waving him out.

“Thanks,” Neal said, voice hoarse, leaving the cart and walking out into the sunlight, subtly surveying the car options as he walked toward the parking lot.

He decided on his tried and true method of stealing the maintenance vehicle both because the workers typically left the keys inside, and because he felt vaguely bad about stealing someone’s personal vehicle when they weren’t rich enough to easily get replacements. Peter was a terrible influence on him. 

The maintenance vehicles had trackers, which would be a problem, but a problem to be solved out of sight of the prison itself, he decided, finding the keys tucked above the visor and turning the engine.

As he was driving, he slipped the janitor uniform off and balled it up in the seat next to him, satisfied that his plain black t-shirt would make him less memorable to anyone passing by, and glad the prison’s truck didn’t have any kind of marking or labeling that announced itself as a criminal transport vehicle.

Most vehicles used to transport criminals didn’t announce themselves as such, as it invited attention and potential jailbreaks, but Neal has seen a few in the past that had labels, and he was grateful the truck he stole was a completely blank white industrial van, which would help with the non-descript, non-memorable travel he was hoping to achieve.

He drove three exits down the highway before he pulled off on a trucker's run-away path and got out, laying under the vehicle to find the small tracker tucked into the undercarriage.

He could rip it off, but that would activate the alarm system at the prison, and his plan would go so much smoother if no one at the prison realized he was gone quite yet.

Instead, he took a painstaking twenty minutes to carefully pull it out without disconnecting the trip lines, and finally stood with a satisfied grin, device in hand.

He opened the door and slid back into the driver's seat, rummaging through the glove compartment until he found a roll of duct tape shoved down at the bottom.

He slowly and carefully taped the trip lines together, making sure they would stay secured for the next part of his plan.

Once satisfied with his taping job, he pulled back out onto the highway, coasting down the road with his window down. He drove six more miles down the road before he pulled off on an exit ramp, meandering lazily through the busy rest stop.

Under the guise of throwing away his trash at a gas station, he subtly slipped the tracker into the back of an open-bed pick-up truck, casually getting back in his car and finding something to do in the front seat until the truck pulled out of the gas station and onto the highway.

Neal very deliberately pulled out going the opposite way, switching highways so he didn't pass by the prison again and turned himself toward upstate New York after another twenty minutes of driving.

He drove north until the towns and cities gave way to rolling tree-covered hills, driving almost four hours before he found what he was looking for.

Just before sunset he found the town he needed, a place big enough to have a bus station, but rustic enough to have dozens of rarely used access roads.

Neal found the bus station, nodding approvingly as a bus left with the destination announcing 'Chicago' on the front. Perfect. He needed a bus station large enough to get himself out of the surrounding area.

Mentally noting where it was, he kept driving until he found a suitably unused maintenance road, grinning at the sign that read 'Flood Detour Route' and the brush and unbroken branches on the ground that clearly announced the road was not used often.

He pulled the van further down until it was deep in the woods and then turned off the road to drive behind a large patch of bushes.

He got out, grabbing the backpack from the back and shoving some of the salvageable items in it before he returned the keys to the visor and locked the door, shutting it with a heavy clunk.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked to the road, surveying carefully to make sure the truck was covered, and then continued back the way he had come, cutting through the woods to where he remembered the bus station being.

He arrived at sunset, which worked in his favor as the dusk light made it harder to make out passerby features on the security cameras lining the doors.

He picked the pocket of a man walking by him to the bathroom, opening the wallet to look through the contents. Some credit cards, a driver's license, and seventy two dollars in cash. Excellent.

Neal slid the cash out, leaving the smaller denomination bills so it wasn't as obvious, and pretended to look at the maps on the wall until the man came back out.

As he bent to get a drink at the fountain, Neal slipped the wallet back in his pocket, glancing casually around the room to double check no one had noticed.

He surveyed the destinations board, picking the pocket of the woman pacing back and forth as she waited for her bus. She had a hundred in cash, but no small denominations of bills to cloud the theft, so he lifted forty and slipped it back in her purse as she walked back by him.

He needed somewhere with internet and somewhere he could stay long enough to figure this out, and he vaguely remembered Mozzie telling him he had a safe house somewhere near Wharton State Park.

His eyes lit up as he saw the park listed as a destination on the board, and even better, the bus wouldn't be stopping in New York City, instead riding the highway further inland to avoid the city traffic.

Neal stepped up to buy the ticket, receiving a ticket for a bus that left in two hours in exchange for the forty dollars he lifted from the pacing woman.

 Late at night, the cross-city bus station was filled with tired, grumpy people that paid no mind to what he was doing, so he repaid the favor by spending almost the entire two hours skimming money out of the wallets of the people around him.

He didn't take all of the money out of any one wallet, and after the first few lifts that guaranteed he'd have enough to get him started, he only stole a third or less from any of the wallets he took, not wanting someone to end up hungry if he had taken all of the money that they had actually worked for. Peter was a terrible influence on him.

By the time his bus came he had almost a thousand dollars to his name, and he stowed a third of it in his front pocket, a third tucked safely into his backpack, and the last third shoved into his right sock.

He lived by the idea that it was never a good idea to keep all of his money in one spot, and he may very well fall asleep on the bus, which was a prime time for pick pocketing, although he may deserve it if he was pick pocketed, considering how he had just made his money.

He boarded the bus, claimed the far back corner for himself, and sat his backpack on the seat next to him.

He closed his eyes on the ride, pretending to be asleep, but actually running through everything he ever remembered Mozzie telling him about this particular safe house, which he had named April.

Over a drunken night of shared introspection, Mozzie had told him that Thursday was his safe house with the most beautiful view, except maybe April, whose sunsets over the hills of Wharton Park were breathtaking.

He had gathered from previous conversations that April had to be a house or cabin, not a trailer or bunker, and something that permanent couldn’t possibly survive undetected in a national park for long, but if he could see the sunset over the park, April had to either be on or close to the eastern border.

Wharton really was the perfect place to have a safe house, Neal realized. It was in the backyard of an international airport in case something went wrong and the need to flee the country was immediate, but the state park created a more rustic atmosphere, easily shrouding the inconsistent comings and goings of a small woodland cabin as locals sifted through the daily traffic of park goers.

It was relatively close to New York, only a two hour bus ride, and the bus ran frequently to ferry hikers to and from the park, connecting with other lines along the way to facilitate people from all over the state being able to visit the beautiful woodland.

Blending in with the tourists arriving to visit the park wasn’t difficult, and it had the added bonus of allowing large bags to be carried without seeming out of place, as most people brought day packs if not a whole tent and sleeping bag pack.
 
When Neal arrived, night had fully fallen, which provided the unexpected advantage of forcing most people home, thereby making it easier to determine which of the cabins were unoccupied.

He walked toward the signs that directed him to the park, stopping as he came to the last intersection before the park's entrance.

He surveyed his options. On the right, there was a road that led to another intersection almost half a mile down the way, and Neal could hear the distant sounds of children playing and dogs barking.

On the left was a single road that curved out of sight almost a mile down, the street lights burned out and the night air quiet.

Neal turned left.

A mile and a half down the road he came to another choice. On the left was a turn off for a house's driveway, the driveway twisting out of sight before the house was visible.

Neal cocked his head, considering. He cast a speculative look at the mailbox, now even more glad for the flashlight he had stolen from the maintenance van.

He opened it, surprised to find mail in it long after dark, but one of the cards had a big 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARK!' scrawled across the back, so maybe the family had taken Mark to a day in town.

There was only one day's worth of mail, but it was from the current date and there was enough to convince him that Mozzie hadn't crafted it and sent it to himself so his house had an air of being lived in.

He replaced the mail, shut the box, and continued on his way.

Neal grinned when he came to the end of the road after another mile of walking. There was a dirt driveway that was the only off shoot, and he walked down it, feeling more confident that he had arrived at April by the step.

Neal didn’t know if Mozzie would love or hate the fact that Neal listened to him closely enough to be able to find his safe house solely from the sprinkling of details peppered throughout his other stories. Probably both, Neal thought with a faint spark of amusement, quirking a hint of a one of his first real smiles in weeks.

Sure enough, Neal grinned when he caught sight of the custom locks Mozzie had designed, now sure he was in the right place. The lock Mozzie had designed for Helen Anderson had become almost impenetrable after a few more test runs, but Neal was willing to bet that the locks on his windows weren't.

He circled the house, shaking his head fondly at the basic locks on the windows in the back, making a mental note to scold Mozzie about the lapse in security.

He slid the small pocket knife he had nicked from the maintenance van between the frame and the lock, unlatching it with a quiet click.

Neal pulled himself and his backpack inside, casting his flashlight around warily, on the lookout for traps and trip lines. He turned on the lights and gave the cabin a careful sweep, disabling the twenty-seven different traps his friend had laid.

Once he was sure he had found and disabled all of Mozzie's intruder traps, he turned his attention to the content of the cabin, pleasantly surprised with everything he found. He had expected Mozzie to keep a well-stocked safe house, but his friend had gone above and beyond, and the house had everything he needed.

The pantries were filled with non-perishable foods, more than enough to last him the few days he would need to figure everything out, and even better, there was coffee, and it was good coffee, too, which Neal had not had in weeks.

There was a comfortable bed, and a bathroom stocked with towels and toiletries.

Neal found the real jackpot tucked away behind a false panel in the back of Mozzie's closet. His electronics stash.

Mozzie had hidden a laptop, dozens of flip phones, four smart phones, a handheld RF-signal hacker, a long-wave radio receiver, dozens of discrete microphone bugs, and the various chargers for the devices, all neatly labeled with the wrong corresponding electronic inside the water proof box.

Neal stowed the box safely back in its hiding spot, and finished the rest of his exploration, finding an arsenal of useful items tucked into creatively hidden places. No one could say Mozzie was underprepared.

Neal let out a deep, relieved breath as he finished his search, some of the tension sliding off his shoulders at the fact that he now had the tools and the safe house refuge he needed to find the breadcrumbs that would lead to Peter.

He took one more moment to fully appreciate Mozzie's supply stockpile, and then refocused, moving through a quick night routine as he got ready and fell into bed, barely remembering to kick off his shoes before he collapsed onto the mattress.

It had been a long day, but an incredibly productive one, and tomorrow he could finally start on his real mission of finding his handler.

Chapter Text

Diana set her shoulders as she walked into the office, pointedly not looking at the empty desk in the entry way or the empty office up the stairs that no one had the heart to clean out. She stared at her desk with laser focus, determined to get through the day without breaking down over their two missing members.
 
 
Seeing Neal the day before had been physically painful. He had finally had life in his eyes again, and it had sent a lance of pain through her chest to have to extinguish it, but it would do him more harm than good to hold on to false hope.
 
 
She sat at her desk after nodding in greeting to the other agents the office, logging in to her computer, and specifically not looking past the screen to the desk she knew was empty. She wondered if she'd ever be able to look at either space again without the echo of heartbreak.
 
 
She had barely made it through the third new email in her box when her phone rang, and she didn't know whether to be grateful the distraction tore her away from her inbox, or annoyed that it would inevitably be more work to add to her plate.
 
 
"Berrigan," she answered, holding the phone to her ear as she continued to scan the email she had been reading. That was Organized Crime's problem, not White Collar's, why was this sent to them? She forwarded it the head of department with the wordy reasoning of 'FYI' and hit send.
 
 
"Um, hello, Agent Berrigan," a male voice said on the phone, sounding like he was dreading giving her a message.
 
 
She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the phone call.
 
 
"Hi," she said shortly, waiting for him to get to the point.
 
 
"Um, we -, we -, I'm calling from New York Supermax Prison."
 
 
She went tense, sitting up straighter as she waited for the reason he was calling. If Neal had been hurt...
 
 
"We need to inform you that... um, that Neal Caffrey escaped yesterday."
 
 
She blinked, replaying his statement.
 
 
"Yesterday?" she asked, a hard edge to her voice.
 
 
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jones cast her a concerned look, but she focused on prying answers out of her hesitant informant.
 
 
"Yes?" he said, more a question than an answer.
 
 
"What time?" she demanded sharply.
 
 
"Um, we think about three o'clock?"
 
 
"You think?" she asked severely. "You run a maximum security prison and you think it was three o'clock yesterday and you are only now informing us?"
 
 
"Is Neal ok?" Jones asked in a worried whisper, pulling his chair closer to her desk. Around her, other agents in the office did as well, watching with wide eyes.
 
 
"Yes?" the man on the phone answered again. “He -, he passed the front guard desk at three o’clock?”
 
 
"You let Neal Caffrey walk out your front door yesterday at three o'clock in the afternoon and you're only just now telling us?" she repeated, both so he realized how bad at his job he was and so the agents around the office stopped worrying Neal had been shanked. "How?"
 
 
"He, um, he somehow got to a janitor's closet and locked the janitor in, pretending to be him as he left."
 
 
Diana tried to absorb that, momentarily unable to find words for the sheer amount of incompetence presented to her.
 
 
She set the phone down and hit the speaker button, cranking up the volume so the other agents could hear.
 
 
"He locked a janitor in the maintenance closet and walked out the front door? How did he even get to the closet? There are supposed to be locked bars and security cameras between the prisoners and the supply closets."
 
 
There was a noticeable pause as the man tried to find an answer that wouldn't anger her further.
 
 
"... we don't know," he eventually admitted in a small voice, and she took a deep breath to try to stop herself from murdering him through the phone line.
 
 
"Did he steal a vehicle?"
 
 
"Yes, ma'am,” he answered quickly, “a maintenance van."
 
 
"Was there a tracker on it?" she asked, exchanging a look with Jones. 
 
 
"Yes, ma'am. We followed it this morning three hours due south, he found the tracker and threw it in the back of a pickup truck."
 
 
Diana took another deep breath.
 
 
"Alright, fine. Send me the tracking data and the information for the person who owns the truck, we need to find at what point their paths crossed. Email it to me, you have my number, my email is in the same file. Alert the Marshals.
 
 
We'll find him, and we certainly won't be returning him to your prison, considering you couldn’t even hold him for a full two weeks. I expect that email in my box in the next twenty minutes, bye.

 
Alright,” Diana said decisively as she hung up the phone and surveyed the other agents. “We have to find him. With the way he was holding on to false hope yesterday, he’s a danger to himself, not to mention with how much the Marshals currently hate him, it will go much better for him if we are the ones to find him.
 
 
We need to find him sooner rather than later, and we know he’ll be going to the factory, so I need someone to go through all the pictures we have of him and print one out for me. Make it big. Like, eight and a half by eleven big, and perfectly clear.
 
 
We need to pass the picture to the local high-end hotels as well, he’ll need somewhere to stay and Mozzie is currently out of town, and he’s not stupid enough to go to June’s.... I think. We'll check June's.
 
 
He could find one of Mozzie’s safe houses, but from past conversations I don't actually think he knows where they all are, so he may just have to get a room somewhere.
 
 
We should get his picture to the bus stations and airports, but I don’t really expect that to do anything for us.
 
 
Oh," she added, "and we need to tell Hughes.”
 
 
“Tell Hughes what?” a voice behind her asked, and she turned to find the ASAC at the bottom of the stairs. “I noticed all of my agents decided they don’t need to do their work today. What’s going on out here?”
 
 
“Caffrey escaped,” Jones answered bluntly.
 
 
She nodded along in support as Hughes’ mouth dropped open.
 
 
“He disguised himself as a janitor and walked out the front door,” she told the shocked man.
 
 
“What?” he demanded. “Why?”
 
 
Diana and Jones exchanged a look.
 
 
“Well...,” Jones trailed off.
 
 
“Yesterday we went to visit him,” Diana sighed. “He was excited, actually had his spark back. He was convinced Peter was still alive, that someone kidnapped him before he could die in the fire, we think he may have had a slight mental break.
 
 
We told him it couldn’t be true, that the building was gone, reiterated no other cars had been in the area. We asked him to go to the prison psychiatrist, but apparently he decided to break out and look for himself instead.”
 
 
“Are you telling me Caffrey broke out of Supermax in one day?” Reese demanded in a tone equal parts shocked, indignant, and annoyed.
 
 
Jones and Diana nodded.
 
 
“Yes, sir,” Diana confirmed.
 
 
Reese closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly trying to rein in his frustration.
 
 
“How does one man cause so many of my life’s problems?” he asked no one in particular, dropping his hand to his side and turning his eyes back to his agents.
 
 
“Fine,” he sighed. “Everyone, prioritize this. We need to find him before the Marshals do. Berrigan, Jones, you’re running this operation. Find him.”
 
 
“Yes, sir,” they said together.

Hughes nodded his approval and retreated back to his office without another word.
 

"I have pictures of him," Mabena volunteered, breaking the silence that fell as the ASAC left. "I was the one who took his picture to send in for when he got his consulting badge got renewed last month. It's only his face and about half of his upper body, but the detail is clear."
 
 
Diana and Jones both nodded their approval.
 
 
"That'll work," Jones said.
 
 
"That'll work great," Diana agreed. "Thank you, Mabena, can you print one for us now, full size and full color so we can deliver it to the factory guards, it's a sure bet he'll end up there sooner or later if he hasn't already."
 
 
The agent nodded, turning back to her desk to dig through her files, and Diana and Jones turned to the rest of the group.
 
 
"Saunders, Wallace, Rodriquez," Jones said, looking at each agent to make sure he had their attention, "you three are on the transportation alert. Saunders, I want you to get the picture to every airport in the city -, no, make that the state. Wallace, you're on bus stations, all of New York. Rodriquez, you're on metro and trains."
 
 
They each nodded their understanding.
 
 
"The rest of you," Diana took over, "you're on hotels. Make sure all of the expensive hotels have a picture of his face printed at their front desk. Actually, start it at middle class, he's not trying to live the high life, he may very well settle for clean instead of extravagant as he plans whatever it is he's planning."
 
 
They all nodded seriously.
 
 
"We'll leave it up to you to coordinate who does which," Diana went on, Jones nodding at her shoulder, "but I want this coordinated, and I want it fast. Email, or write, or somehow compile a list of the hotels you've notified and give it to both Jones and I by end of day, alright?"
 
 
"Alright, Diana," Agent Varma said, her eyes determined. "We’ve got it, go do what you two need to do."
 
 
Diana twitched a smile at her and nodded, turning to Jones.
 
 
"We'll go to the factory and put them on alert?" she asked.
 
 
He nodded decisively in agreement. "And we'll contact June and Mozzie on the way and make sure they know the Marshals are out for Neal's head on the way?"
 
 
She nodded, turning to check on Mabena's progress with the picture.
 
 
"Mabena?" she called across the room, and Chi-chi looked up when she heard her name.
 
 
"Just sent it to the printer," she announced, standing up from her desk, "I'll bring it to you when it's done."
 
 
"Thanks," Jones said, putting a hand in his pocket to pull out his keys and turning to Diana. "Your phone has a better speaker than mine. I'll drive, you call?"
 
 
"Yeah, oka-," she paused mid-word, eyes widening. "And we need to tell Elizabeth," she added softly.
 
 
Jones swallowed hard.
 
 
"Yeah," he said gruffly, "we'll do that on the way."
 
 
"Ok," Diana said, accepting the picture Agent Mabena held out to her. "Thanks, Chi-chi."
 
 
"No problem," she waved off, walking back to her desk. "You two get out of here, we got this."
 
 
With a huff of amusement, Diana and Jones exchanged a glance and strode out the double glass doors of the bullpen and into the elevator.
 

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
 

 
"I'm just going to text Mozzie," Diana said, clicking her seatbelt on as she settled into the passenger seat of Jones' car. "Then I'll call June, then we can talk to Elizabeth."
 
 
"Sounds like a plan," Jones agreed, turning the key with one hand as he fastened his seatbelt with his other, pulling them out onto the street and merging with traffic a moment later.
 
 
'Mozzie,' Diana typed, 'your idiot of a best friend escaped jail yesterday. The Marshals are out for blood.

I know you don't want to rat him out, but if he gets himself into a situation with even the slightest chance of the Marshals catching him, I need you to tell me where he is, I'm not sure they won't "accidentally" use lethal force. I am not joking, if he gets into a situation, tell us where he is or it will be both your heads.'
 
 
She hit send and pulled up her contact list, but her phone pinged with a response before she could get down to June's name.
 
 
'Ok, lady-suit,' he texted back, 'but I'm only ratting him out if it's life or death.'
 
 
She rolled her eyes.
 
 
"He wants to clarify he's only telling us where Neal is if it's life or death," she told Jones in annoyance.
 
 
"Yeah, no kidding," Jones said, rolling his eyes at Mozzie's response as well.
 
 
'If he's with you,' Diana punched into her keypad, 'tell him 1) He's the biggest god-damn idiot on the face of the planet. 2) If he gets killed, I will murder him. Twice. 3) I am not joking in any way, shape, or form when I say I'm afraid Danielson might kill him instead of taking him in.'
 
 
She hit send and waited for a response, which came a few seconds later.
 
 
'.... I must reluctantly inform you he hasn't made contact with me, but if he does, those will be the first things I tell him.'
 
 
She nodded approvingly.
 
 
"We've scared Mozzie into taking this seriously," she announced. "He'll tell us if the Marshals are closing in."
 
 
"Good," Jones said emphatically, merging onto the highway.
 
 
'Good. Don't screw around with this, Mozzie, it might actually be life or death. Danielson *hates* him.'
 
 
She went back to her contacts list, scrolling until she found June's name.
 
 
'Understood.' popped up as a text notification and she nodded, flicking it aside and pressing the call button next to June's contact card.
 
 
She hit the speaker button and shifted her phone so it was over the front counsel so Jones could be heard as well.
 
 
"Hello?" June answered, sounding fragile and sad, and Diana took a moment to calm her irritation before she answered.
 
 
"Hi, June," she said, her tone much more gentle than it had been a moment ago. "We're sorry to bother you, but we've had a development we think you need to be aware of, Jones is here with me, by the way.
 
 
Yesterday at three o'clock Neal escaped, which I know you'll have mixed feelings about, mostly positive I’m sure, but I need you to understand that Marshals assigned to his case are not messing around, and we're not entirely sure they won't use lethal force to bring him in."
 
 
June drew a sharp breath, but Diana couldn't sugar coat the statement for her.
 
 
"We're sorry, we're not trying to worry you, but we need you to understand how serious this is,” Diana said, her voice gentle, but firm. “We're well aware that if Neal came to your house you would not report him to us, but if he does, we need you to pass along the information to him that Marshal Danielson might actually kill him instead of giving him the chance to surrender, and if there is even a hint of a chance the Marshals will catch him, we need him or you to call us before that happens so we can get there first and make sure we take him in alive."
 
 
"I understand," June said seriously. "I know you're his friends, I know you care. He hasn't made any kind of contact with me, but if I learn where he is and feel he is in danger, I will let you know, I promise."
 
 
Diana and Jones breathed twin sighs of relief.
 
 
"Thank you," Jones said gratefully. "I know you don't want to turn him in, but we are seriously worried that the Marshals will kill him."
 
 
"I understand," she assured them. "If it comes to it, I will tell you."
 
 
"Thank you," Diana said, some of the tension in her shoulders falling away as the two most likely accomplices understood the danger of letting Neal stay on the run. "We need to call Elizabeth, but we'll call you with an update when we hear anything on his location."
 
 
"Thank you, dear, I would appreciate that," June said, exchanging farewells and hanging up quickly.
 
 
"Ok," Diana breathed out. "Both of those went better than I anticipated."
 
 
“Yeah, me, too," Jones agreed, his shoulders relaxing as well as he turned down the long road to the factory.
 
 
"Ok, last call," Diana muttered, scrolling through her contacts again.
 
 
She paused for just a moment, took a bracing breath, and then hit call, putting it on speaker and moving it back between them.
 
 
The phone rang, ringing until Diana was afraid she would have to convey the warning to Elizabeth's answering machine, but then there was the click of a connection.
 
 
"Hello?" Elizabeth asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper.
 
 
"Hi, Elizabeth," Diana said, trying to keep her voice warm and comforting, knowing that Elizabeth's life had been destroyed and she didn’t need anything else to be dealing with. "It's Jones and Diana. We're sorry to bother you, but we had a development yesterday that we think you need to know about."
 
 
She paused for a moment to exchange a glance with Jones, but Elizabeth didn't try to say anything, so Diana went on.
 
 
"Neal escaped yesterday. We know full well, and in all honesty understand, that you won't be disappointed about that, but if he makes contact with you, we need you to tell us. If you get to talk to him, we need you to pass something along to him.
 
 
We need you to tell him that Marshal Danielson may very well use lethal force to bring him in. Elizabeth, we're really, legitimately, afraid that Danielson would kill Neal given half the chance, and we need to be the ones to bring him in so we don't give Danielson the option. If you know where he is and there's even the slightest chance of him getting caught, we need you to tell us."
 
 
"Ok," Elizabeth agreed in a rough whisper. "I will. I haven't heard from him, but I'll tell you."
 
 
"Thank you," Diana said sincerely.
 
 
"We'll keep you updated," Jones promised.
 
 
"Alright," Elizabeth said softly. "Then I'll talk to you two later."
 
 
"We'll talk to you later," Diana confirmed, and the call went silent as Elizabeth hung up.
 
 
Diana exchanged a worried glance with Jones, but in the next moment they were pulling up to the factory, and their thoughts refocused on the task at hand.
 
 
Their car doors closed in unison as they studied the factory gates and the guard outpost that they hadn’t bothered to look at too closely the first time they were outside it.
 
 
It was small, but sturdy and surprisingly nice looking, with almost an entire wall of windows that both considerably brightened the interior, and provided extensive visibility looking out at the road. There was a large desk, positioned behind a raised counter, creating a check in station that had a clipboard lying next to a cup full of pens.
 
 
The door jingled softly as they entered, and the young man behind the counter looked up from the book he was reading.
 
 
“Hello?” he asked, subtly sliding it out of view. Not supposed to be reading on the job, then, Jones noted.
 
 
“Hi,” he said shortly, knowing he and Diana would need to come off as at least vaguely intimidating for him to take their demand seriously.
 
 
Jones internally smirked as Diana fell into a strong stance, crossing her arms, and looking at the man in front of her as if she were assessing if she could take him in a fight and deciding she’d win easily.
 
 
The guard swallowed audibly.
 
 
“Hello,” Diana said, her tone low and serious and not at all friendly.
 
 
The guard swallowed again, sliding down his chair slightly in an apparently unconscious attempt to hide.
 
 
“C-Can I, can I help you?” he asked when the silence drew on.
 
 
“I hope so,” Diana said, her tone implying there would be consequences if he could not.
 
 
The man cast a desperate look at Jones, sliding lower when he was met with a hard stare.
 
 
“We’re with the FBI. This man -,” Diana started, pulling the full size picture of Neal’s face from seemingly nowhere.

Jones shoved down his amusement as he realized she must have loosely rolled it and tucked it into her back pocket for convenience since there were no creases, but the guard apparently hadn’t noticed it there or deduced its previous location and was staring at her as if she were a mystic creature that was not to be understood but to be feared.
 
 
Jones had to work hard to lock down his impassive stare when the man cast him a frantic, panicking look, returning his attention to Diana when she shoved the picture in his direction.
 
 
“Has this man been on the premises in the past day?” Diana asked in a tone that did not allow anything but a truthful answer.
 
 
The guard dropped his eyes to the picture he held, studying Neal’s face before he looked back to Diana and silently shook his head.
 
 
“You’re sure?” she asked, the warning in her tone unmistakable.
 
 
“Yes, ma’am,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve been here since five this morning. I’m the only guard on the entrance guard outpost, but we have two other outposts in each back corner to watch the back perimeter and they haven’t radioed anything in.
 
 
We’re a little short staffed, one of our guards is sick, one broke his leg, and another two had vacations planned for this week, so I’m working double shifts all week this week to fill in. The overtime pay is insane. We have a third shift, they’d be different guards, but they have to fill out forms if someone comes in and add the name to the clipboard and there wasn’t anything in the file this morning. They‘ll be back here at ten o’clock tonight.”
 
 
The resulting silence was slightly jarring after his answer, Jones had only seen him take a breath once in his hurry to push the words out of his mouth fast enough to satisfy Diana.
 
 
She nodded her acceptance and the man breathed a sigh of relief, sending a furtive look at Jones and then snapping his eyes back to Diana when Jones let his face fall into a slight scowl.
 
 
“If this man,” Diana said, enunciating the phrase intimidatingly, holding eye contact and making sure the man could see how serious she was about her upcoming orders, “tries to enter the premises, I want to know about it immediately. The phone number to call is on the back of the picture.
 
 
If anyone tries to enter the premises, I want to know about it immediately.
 
 
If anyone so much as slows down as they pass these gates, I want to know about it immediately, understood?"
 
 
The man nodded frantically with wide eyes.
 
 
"Yes, ma'am!" he agreed, sounding more than a little terrified. "Yes, ma'am, of course, ma'am. If he -, if anyone, tries to come in, I'll call you immediately."
 
 
"Good," she said, holding his eyes seriously. "I want to know immediately and I am delegating the responsibility to you personally that this information is flowed out to every other guard on rotation, am I understood?"
 
 
"Yes, ma'am!" he said immediately, hardly breathing as Diana stared him down. "Yes, ma'am, yes, I'll do that."
 
 
"Good," she said, somehow able to make her agreement sound like a threat. "I will hold you personally responsible if this man enters this factory, and I will not be pleased."
 
 
The guard appeared unable to speak, but he nodded in wide-eyed terror.
 
 
With a final nod, Diana swept out of the room, stalking back to the car, Jones smiling fondly as he followed her out of the building without comment.
 
 
“Feel better?” he asked as they both slid into the vehicle.
 
 
“A little,” she admitted, a reluctant smile spreading across her face.
 
 
He huffed an amused breath and put his arm on her headrest, turning to look over his shoulder as he backed his car out of the space.
 
 
“I think he might have wet himself, Di,” Jones playfully scolded as he pointed the car back down the long road toward the Bureau, “you could have gone a little easier on him.”
 
 
“He needs the proper level of terror to override the Caffrey charm that will no doubt be coming his way at some point soon,” Diana defended unapologetically, and Jones laughed outright for the first time in weeks.
 
 
Diana cast him a look, equal parts surprised and pleased, and he felt the world brighten ever so slightly as she smiled at him, finding himself finally able to return the expression.

Chapter Text

Neal woke bright and early, rising hours before the sun in his eagerness to get started. The prison had to have noticed the fact that he wasn’t in his cell the night before, and that was if they hadn’t found the janitor hours before nightly check in, and Neal knew he was on borrowed time.

Pausing only long enough to make coffee and grab a granola bar from Mozzie's pantry, Neal pulled out the laptop he had found, plugging it in to start with so he didn't run the risk of his battery dying at an inopportune moment later on.

He finished off four mugs of coffee as he concentrated on his first task of the day, making his laptop untraceable for when he was inevitably detected. Jones and Diana would immediately know who was behind it, of course, but they wouldn't know where he was. Mozzie would murder him if he led the Feds to April...

Neal worked all morning, strengthening the firewalls and protections Mozzie already had in place and adding a few more of his own.

Mozzie had long ago taught Neal the basics of how to ping IP addresses around the world until they became all but untraceable, but Mozzie’s brief stint of dating the Vulture, internet hacker extraordinaire, had elevated him to entirely new level, and his friend had done his best to drag Neal up with him, even though Neal didn’t have the same innate grasp of coding that Mozzie did. The photographic memory probably also helped, Neal mused.

Finally satisfied with the state of the computer, Neal forced himself to take a quick break to eat lunch and make more coffee before enacting phase two.

Phase two was hacking the FBI, and it was harder than Neal had anticipated. He'd never been so grateful for Mozzie's insistent demands that he learn hacking even though he'd never been particularly interested in the skill.

Neal made it in, though, thanks to the hours Mozzie had spent in his apartment walking him through the various algorithms needed, and was able to move on to phase three.

Phase three, pull any and all files related to the Haarman factory case off the database and onto his hard drive. He found plenty, pulling them easily onto his computer, glad to see the WC team had already filled a warrant for personnel files and background checks of employees, as well as providing several files of general company information.

Excellent.

He worked quickly, hurried by the fact that three of his alerts pinged, letting him know the Bureau had noticed his intrusion, and they weren't happy about it, but thankfully Neal's own protections and obfuscations were holding for the moment.

Neal gave the database one more check to make sure he had gotten everything he needed, and started to back out of the hole he had made, doing his best to patch the damage as he went.

Neal finished and released his connection just in time. As he hit the finishing strokes to repair the firewall breach he had caused, another of his alerts pinged, letting him know the Bureau had made it through his initial set of defenses.

He disconnected himself from their database, ran his IP hiding algorithm several more times, then disconnected his server all together.

That should keep them busy for a while, and thanks to his successful system breach, he now had his own tasks to keep him busy.

On to phase four.

Chapter Text

“You are not going to believe this,” Ocampo said, spotting Diana and Jones as they came back into the office after delivering Neal’s picture to the factory guard.

“What?” they asked in unison, turning their attention to him.

“We are currently being hacked,” he informed them dryly.

“What?” Diana gasped.

“What are they after?” Jones demanded.

“So far, they’ve gotten all of the case files related to the Haarman factory, three guesses on who could possibly be behind it,” Ocampo deadpanned.

They both stared at him incredulously.

“Neal is hacking the FBI?” Jones asked in a tone of dazed disbelief.

“Yep,” Ocampo confirmed, popping the p at the end of the word. “Giving the IT department an aneurysm, too. Three of them moved up here for a hardline connection, said it would be faster to get in and see what was going on.”

Ocampo waved a hand, and Diana pushed down a surge of slightly hysterical laughter as she noted the three IT employees had set up their operation on Neal’s desk.

“Yeah,” Ocampo agreed, following both agents’ gaze, “don’t worry, the irony hasn’t escaped us either.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Diana whispered.

“I’m going to help,” Jones said faintly, staring at the frantically typing trio at Neal’s desk.

In a daze, they walked over, feeling vaguely like they should be helping, but not sure what to do about the situation.

“What the hell?” one of the men said, staring at his screen. “Are you seeing this?”

“Yeah,” the woman next to him responded, sounding shocked, the man beside her nodding in stunned silence.

“What the hell?” the original man repeated.

“What’s going on?” Diana asked the group, coming to a stop behind them, watching as code commands flew across their screens.

“It’s this hacker,” the woman explained, not bothering to turn around to see who she was addressing, “they’re fixing the hole in the firewall they made.”

In almost perfect unison Jones and Diana both brought a hand to their face as they let out a sigh that was equal parts exasperated, amused, and grateful.

“Alright,” Jones said, resigned and entertained and more than slightly peeved, “you guys... you guys do what you need to do to follow that trail, let us know when you have something.”

“Ok,” the second man agreed, speaking for the first time, not pulling his eyes away from the screen.

Jones and Diana stood in bewildered silence for a few more seconds before they shook off their shock.

“I guess we should -,” Diana started, looking at Jones, “should we go to the conference room and pull up that vehicle tracking data from NY Supermax?”

Jones nodded, his eyes still slightly out of focus, before he shook his head and pulled himself out of his distraction.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “yeah, let’s do that. Then we can catch him and ask him what in the world he thinks he’s doing.”

“We’ll ask him that among other things,” Diana agreed, leading the way up the stairs with a slightly disbelieving shake of her head.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"I know it's what we had, but couldn't we have found a bad picture of him?" Seto groused, grumpy and annoyed as he trudged back into the office and flopped into his chair.

Around him, the rest of the White Collar agents traipsed in tiredly as well, dragging their desk chairs closer to his as they unanimously decided to take a short break from their frustrating day.

Seto glanced at Diana and Jones huddled together looking at the white board in the far corner, but they didn’t seem bothered by the extra noise, so he rolled his eyes and went on, complaining loudly enough the gathered agents could hear him easily.

“I went to twenty five high-end hotels,” he told the group, “and at every single one of them I had to take at least five minutes trying to refocus the concierge because they got distracted looking at his face."

Mabena snorted.

"Tell me about it," she agreed in annoyance. "I picked the worst picture I had, but still, every time.

I kind of expected it because, yeah, sure, he's pretty, I get that, but I thought I'd lucked out and avoided the extra headache of trying to get people to stop swooning over him and listen because the first five hotels I visited had male workers, but no, no of course not, the freakin annoying Caffrey charm worked on them, too."

The other agents sitting around her snorted their agreement.

"Same," Chang agreed with tired aggravation. "Every single worker, male or female, started drooling over him while I was trying to tell them he's wanted by the FBI.

One of the guys literally, literally, told me 'he's wanted by me, too’, so that's how my day's going..."

His response surprised loud laughs out of the agents around him, attracting Diana and Jones' attention and prompting them to drift over with questioning looks.

"What's going on over here?" Jones asked, with the first real note of interest Chang had heard in his voice since Peter died, so he played up his deadpan annoyance, hoping to at least get a smile out of the man in his retelling.

"I'm complaining about Neal," he informed them both, exaggerating his aggravated, scolding tone. "I was on hotel duty, right? So I knocked on doors in person and brought them a printed picture, and every - single - person I talked to, male or female, got distracted by staring at his face."

Diana and Jones snorted in unison, some of the pall of misery that had hung over the pair dissipating, and Chang played up his annoyance even more, encouraged by their response.

"I had a guy, I shit you not, I handed this man at the Langham Hotel front desk a picture of Neal's face and told him 'this man is wanted by the FBI' and the man literally, word for word, responded 'he's wanted by me, too'."

Diana closed her eyes in long suffering exasperation while her shoulders shook with suppressed chuckles, but Jones barked out a loud, surprised laugh, laughing harder the longer he thought about it.

Chang exchanged a bright, hopeful grin with the other agents sitting around him, soaking in the sound of Jones' laughter that had been noticeably absent in the past weeks.

"By me, too?" Jones repeated incredulously, his amusement obvious, and his question pushed Diana into actual laughter as well, making Chang beam proudly.

He schooled his expression back into playful annoyance as their laughter quieted and they refocused on him.

"I swear to you, one woman at the Equinox actually drooled," he told them, setting them both off again, this time joined by the other agents around him.

"One of the guys I handed the picture to went 'Hot damn! He's coming here?' all excited, as if I hadn't just told him Caffrey was a wanted fugitive," Varma added, rolling her eyes in mock frustration, re-sparking everyone's laughter.

"And then," she added a few seconds later when it was slightly quieter, "the woman next to him leaned over to see what we were talking about and went 'Oh! Dibs on checking in that one!' because they both completely missed the point!

I was not telling them to check him in or check him out, I wanted them to report him to the FBI because he is a federal fugitive that escaped Supermax!"

The agents around her howled with laughter, laughing harder than they usually would have, enjoying the sounds of their happy colleagues that had been achingly absent in the past two weeks.

"What in the blue blazes is happening out here?" Hughes demanded loudly, scowling down at them from the railing outside his office and they all turned to face him.

They tried to quell their amusement, with varying degrees of success, and Diana eventually calmed her laughter enough to answer.

"Sir," she said, still clearly amused, "the team had some problems today distributing Caffrey’s picture when they were requesting businesses be on alert to call in a sighting.

Apparently every single person they talked to, male or female, immediately got distracted staring at his face, regardless of the fact they had already been informed he was a wanted fugitive."

Hughes drew in a long breath and closed his eyes, visibly giving up hope on the rest of the conversation. He turned on his heel and walked back into his office with no further comment, sending his agents back into peals of laughter at their exasperated boss.

“Yeah, that’s how I felt,” Chang managed to push out through his laughter, the agents around him nodding their agreement as they laughed too hard to speak.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“I mean, I know I was there,” Jones said several hours later, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “but how in the world did Peter catch him twice?”

A slight pain shot through her chest at Peter’s name, but Diana pushed through it and shook her head.

“Magic,” she said firmly. “He was magic, that’s how.”

“At this point, I believe that,” Wallace sighed, staring at the board they were all gathered around. “How the hell? Neal broke out of Supermax and Peter found him in six hours. Neal breaks out of Supermax and I don’t even know if he’s in Antarctica or not.”

“.... he’s probably not in Antarctica?” Jones asked more than stated, receiving helpless shrugs from the rest of the agents around him. “I mean... at some point he’ll be going to that factory,” he pointed out, clearly unconvinced even as he said it that his reasoning was a legitimate argument for why Neal wasn’t in Antarctica at the current moment, biding his time.

“That’s what he wants you to think,” Saunders muttered irritably, glaring at the pins the IT team had carefully placed in the world map denoting all of the places the IP server address had pinged before they finally traced it to the Vostok Antarctica Research Base as the source.

The agents stared at the board for another long minute.

“Ok, well, Antarctica is out of our jurisdiction,” Diana eventually decided, “so let’s assume he stayed in the US.”

“Alright,” Jones agreed immediately, the other agents nodding along, looking relieved.

“So...” Seto said as the silence drew on. “Where in America?”

In almost perfect sync, the agents around him let out a despairing sigh, turning their exhausted eyes back to the map as if it would provide the answer if they just watched it for long enough.

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Phase four, solve the case.

Neal poured over files, personnel lists, and factory blueprints he had downloaded from the FBI database, looking for any hint of who had done it and where they had taken his handler.

Over an hour later, he finally found the clue he needed.

Matthew Haarman's file contained a scanned copy of his passport he had included in his company personnel file as proof of citizenship, and as Neal ran his eyes over it for the fifth time, he finally found the reason he kept coming back to the seemingly inconsequential file.

A smile slowly formed as Neal realized what he had unconsciously noticed. Matthew Haarman's passport was a fake. Neal felt a surge of victory as he finally found the right path. Why would a man who was the owner of half a dozen extremely successful factories need a fake passport? That couldn't be a coincidence, he had to be in on the plan, so Neal dug into any and all files regarding the man supposedly named Matthew Haarman.

Haarman had been in Japan for the week, but that didn't necessarily mean he hadn't coordinated with the crew he would have had to have in the factory.

He had apparently been exceedingly helpful in his statement the file said Jones called him to record the previous week, answering every question asked in detail. He had helpfully provided a recounting of each conversation he had with his foreman, an overview of his schedule from the day he boarded the plane to Japan to the day he got back, and the file ID numbers for the paperwork they had found with the odd entries.

Even better, Haarman had provided his hotel name in the details, and Neal didn't know why yet, but he his gut said that would be useful. Apparently hanging out with Peter so often had given him investigative instincts, and Neal wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.

The next clue came from Haarman’s Office Administrator’s statement, which had been flagged in Neal's search due to how often she had said Haarman's name as she recounted what she knew of what had gone on in the factory the week prior to the explosion.

The statement started with a question regarding her role and responsibilities in the company, and from her answer, Neal gathered that she was most of why anything got done in the factories. She was single handedly responsible for overseeing procurement deadlines, monitoring contracting schedules, finalizing shift rotations, creating meeting agendas, and running Mr. Haarman's schedule.

Her statement had two very interesting points.

The first was that it was Matthew Haarman, not Eileen Clark, who found the paperwork discrepancies, which even she mentioned was odd considering Haarman almost never even read the briefing she wrote for every stack of procurement forms she brought him to sign, just blindly signing what she handed him and trusting her to have done her job well.

He had been the one to catch the paperwork oddities before she had even gotten the chance to go over the forms, finding both that the truck was reserved for an already filled delivery, and that the reservations for truck and shop floor reservation were made under a retired ID.

In the statement, she chalked the reasoning up to the combination of that Haarman had been friends with the man who retired, had worked with him for years and knew the ID that was on every form and email he received from him, and the fact that Haarman had apparently been sick the entire time he was in Japan and had more time than anticipated to spend on work as he stayed in his hotel room instead of exploring the city, complaining to her daily he was bored but unable to go out. That was a tidbit that had not been in Haarman's overly informative retelling of his trip.

According to Eileen, who hadn't attended the trip but had coordinated multiple times a day with her boss to compile meeting notes, action items, and ensure he attended the next meeting he was booked for, Matthew Haarman did not attend a single meeting with the contractor in-person, not even the brunch that had been set up for introductions, citing the reasoning of being too sick to go out. He had attended all meetings and collaborations virtually from his hotel room, which the Japanese company had luckily been more than capable of accommodating.

She explained it as a side note before moving on with her statement, but to Neal, it was the most important paragraph in the file. There had to be a reason Haarman hadn't mentioned being too sick to leave his room for a week when he talked about all the meetings he had attended.

Grabbing one of the phones Mozzie had stashed away, he spent a few minutes fiddling with the settings to ensure his number appeared incorrectly on caller ID, and called the hotel name both Haarman and Clark had provided.

The call was disappointing. The hotel concierge confirmed that a man had arrived on the date Haarman had listed and checked in to the hotel, not leaving for the entire week before leaving for the airport on the same date Haarman claimed. He had ordered all his meals from room service and accepted cleaning services four times.

Neal hung up, vaguely disheartened. He wasn't sure what he'd thought he would learn from the phone call, but it wasn't that.

He tapped his fingers on the table as he tried to work through the reason why his instincts were still screaming that the Japan trip was the answer.

Maybe Haarman feigned illness so he could have more time to coordinate with his crew instead of being wined and dined by the company liaisons? If Neal could prove Haarman hadn't been sick, maybe it would convince Jones and Diana he was on to something and that there had to be a reason for him to so consistently lie to his O.A. about it when he hadn't sounded sick in the slightest when they had called him the morning of the fire.

After some light investigation, the hotel security cameras didn't supply anything helpful.

Neal had several pictures of Haarman from his employee file, and it wasn't difficult to pick out the noticeably blonde head that entered the lobby, moving to the counter to check in, before disappearing into the rooms, never fully facing the camera enough to see his face well enough to prove he wasn't sick.

Neal scowled.

Fine. Maybe the airport would have better footage.

Getting into the Newark International Airport security footage database was noticeably harder than getting into the hotel's system but considerably easier than hacking the FBI, and Neal was in and out with all of the security footage for both the date Haarman left and the date he returned with what appeared to be no one the wiser.

He disconnected the server again to be sure, but he was tentatively hopeful he didn't also have the airport security after him.

As he combed through the different camera options, Neal was pleased to find that a camera was mounted in the security station that was perfectly positioned to view both the person being checked and the passport the guards had obviously been trained to hold in a certain spot while they compared ticket and identity information.

He knew from both Haarman and Clark's statements what time the flight took off, and he knew from Eileen’s statement what time Matthew had gotten to the airport, as she had organized it, so he fast forwarded through the day's security tape until the time stamp read three thirty p.m. and paused it.

Fiddling with the controls, he was able to speed the footage up to one and a half the speed of usual, which was slow enough for him to study the person being checked, and fast enough that he wouldn't waste too much time on travelers that weren't Haarman.

He stared intently at the screen, combing through twenty five minutes of footage before the familiar blonde caught his eye and he paused it with a surge of victory as he noted the man's face was fully visible.

The man wasn't sick, and the man wasn't -.

Neal froze, staring at frame and wilting a little in disappointment. The hair was strikingly similar, an oddly light shade of blonde with a distinct comb over, but he wasn't actually Haarman and it didn't matter that he wasn't sick.

Neal's eyes lethargically dropped to the control bar to hit play, and he froze again, doing a double take on the screen itself.

The man was not Matthew Haarman, but the name listed on the passport the customs agent held up was.

What?

Neal stared in confusion, leaning in closer to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Sure enough, 'Matthew Haarman' was listed in clearly discernible black print.

Neal dragged his eyes up to the man staring almost directly into the camera as he answered the guard's questions.

Neal felt the first stirrings of hope grow into belief that he had finally found the breadcrumb he needed.

He studied the man's face closely.

He did indeed have an uncanny resemblance to Haarman, but his nose was unmistakably different. How had he gotten through customs?

Neal looked at the passport being held up by the guard again, and a slow smile spread across his face.

That was it. Haarman had, with deliberate casualness, 'accidentally' bent his passport directly down the middle of his face, presumably from shoving it in a bag with other things that had been heavy enough to crease it as they shifted around.

Unless the picture was intently studied, it was an excellent facsimile to the man standing in front of the customs agent. The man standing in front of the customs agent that was neither sick, nor Matthew Haarman, and was claiming to be both.

Neal combed through the outdoor security camera options until he found the one that recorded passenger drop off, scrolling to 3:30 and watching closely until a sneezing, miserable looking Matthew Haarman got out of a black car, waving pathetically at the woman who wished him a safe trip.

The woman pulled away, and Haarman watched the car disappear from sight, straightening as the car rounded the corner and striding across the street to the line of cabs waiting for newly arrived passengers, hailing the first car in the line, and pulling away.

That was it, that was exactly what he needed. Neal jotted down the camera codes for each of the relevant security cameras, as well as the times of interest, and set them aside for later when he compiled his evidence.

Ok, so he had definitive reason to believe Haarman was the mastermind behind the plot, or at least a key player, next he had to figure out where he had gone after he left the airport.

He couldn't possibly be stupid enough to keep Peter in his penthouse apartment in the heart of New York, but an intelligent business man like Haarman wouldn't risk keeping Peter somewhere that wasn't owned by either himself or someone in his crew, or at least somewhere they had control over who came and went.

He had control over his factories, but a quick check reported that all of his other factories were still running and fully staffed. They could be keeping him in whatever place the trap door led to under the factory, but there was no real way to guarantee there was enough soundproofing, and it would be extremely bold, and more than a little stupid, to keep a kidnap victim directly below the location Haarman knew would be swarming with federal agents for days after the event.

No, he would take him somewhere else, but where?

As a standard case file creation procedure, the FBI included the IRS forms of each person they compiled a file for, and Neal opened Matthew Haarman's, not surprised to see the only personal property listed was his apartment.

Neal checked the foreman's and all of the peoples’ files who had been working on the day the paperwork for the truck reservation was submitted, but only two of them had other properties listed, and both were well established lake houses in a populated area so Neal disregarded them without looking too closely.

It was possible Haarman had purchased the land under his actual identity, but it would be risky to be actively using it as well while the Feds at least peripherally investigated him. It was more likely that Haarman had used his position in the company to buy a property and bury the record in the parts of the company database no one ever visited.

Turning back to the computer, Neal studied the security around the company's firewalls. It was doable to get in, he could probably get in and get what he needed in under an hour, but he would definitely be noticed sooner or later, and it would ruin any evidence he may find as inadmissible in court without a warrant that he couldn't currently put in a request for while he was a fugitive.

Neal drummed his fingers thoughtfully. There was always a way....

An idea started to form, and he turned back to his computer, inspecting a few of the sections of the firewall as closely as he could without pinging any alarms. There it was.

He couldn't barge in through a hole in the firewall undetected, but he could potentially pass through the traffic point the firewall was designed to allow.

All he would need was an employee ID and an internal server port, and he had always been better at getting himself physically inside a system than electronically. Infiltrating the company itself without being caught was something he could do, and once inside it would be easy work to lift a badge and get into the computer database.

He nodded to himself, giving a light pass over the firewall gates to find that both a badge number and a password were required, before backing out and powering the laptop down.

His next order of business was finding a way to get into the factory location that Jones and Diana had no doubt locked down, and then on to the company after he decisively proved the fact there was a trapdoor, which would hopefully be the proof needed to get Jones and Diana on the same page of organizing a rescue mission.

He took a deep breath and let his memory of the day play again, trying to find how the trap door had been opened and timed correctly.

The guard had claimed no one else was in the building, which wasn't necessarily true, but it seemed highly improbable that someone could have been positioned well enough to see Peter through the smoke, after the fire had started, to open the trap door and have not been spotted by any of the FBI agents staring at the burning building as all of the massive doors stood open.

More likely, they had set up some kind of camera and had a remote control to open the door.

Someone could have opened it with a physical lever or switch, but they would have had to have the door opened and closed fast enough that if Neal hadn't been tackled off the ramp he wouldn't have seen it when he ran in, and they had to have known people would try to get Peter out.

Of course, they could have banked on the likely outcome that anyone who saw the trapdoor wouldn't live to tell about it, but that seemed like more of a chance than they would risk considering how meticulously the museum heist had been planned.

Neal stood, making his way back to the false-paneled closet and pulled out the box of electronics. Mozzie almost always kept... perfect, there it was.

Neal pulled the Radio Frequency signal hacking device out of the box and moved back to the table.

Neal knew the basics from the sheer number of times Mozzie had extolled the virtues of the device and the four times Mozzie had forced him to sit down and go over how to use various functions the machine offered.

Neal checked, and he was pleased to see Mozzie had already programmed the equipment with the function Neal needed and Neal wouldn’t have to struggle through more coding.

Remote doors, such as garage doors or secret handler-stealing trap doors, usually worked by having a transmitter that could broadcast a specific RF signal waveform, and a receiver that was programmed to register the same waveform as the cue to open the door.

Luckily, RF signals were not difficult to duplicate, and the door’s receivers almost never had multi-factor authentication, accepting the waveform delivered without ever double checking the source.

There were dozens of ways to hack garage door signals and create a generic opener, even without specialized equipment, but they required knowledge of the specific waveform being duplicated, which Neal didn’t have access to.

Thankfully, Mozzie had already done the difficult programming aspect of the set up. Once the algorithm was created, execution was simple.

Mozzie had collected a set of the hundred most frequently used waveforms and compiled them into a program that would only require Neal click through them to transmit.

Unless they had taken the time to design a custom security system for the door they believed no one would know to look for, Mozzie’s program would be more than enough, all Neal needed was enough time to run through the options until he found the one that matched the transceiver code.

There was the slightest possibility they had safeguarded against the approach, adding a security check that would verify the source, or would only allow a certain number of incorrect transmissions before locking the door, but the chances were slight and Neal would cross that bridge if he came to it.

Neal checked one more time to make sure the algorithm was already completed, loaded on, and ready to go, letting out a deep, relieved breath when he found it was.

 Excellent.

With that in place, the only thing left to prepare was his disguise.

Normally, he would con his way into any building he needed, and out of any trouble he got into, but this case was too important to mess up, and he couldn’t risk his handler on the chance of someone recognizing him.

In past jobs he had dressed for the role he was conning everyone into believing, but he had never gone the route of actually altering his appearance before, maintaining that the right smile worked just as well as a crooked mustache, but he had also never had Peter’s life riding on the success of his con before, and Peter wasn’t something he was willing to risk on a miscalculation.

Neal needed a disguise.

If he knew Jones and Diana, and he did, he knew they would have already visited the factory and shown the guards pictures of his face with explicit warnings not to let him in, so he needed to craft both a profession that would allow him to slip inside regardless of the warnings the two agents had no doubt peppered the guards with, and he also needed to craft an appearance that made him unrecognizable at first glance without depending on a hat or some kind of clothing shield.

A fake mustache and beard were also out. Not only was it difficult to find realistic looking fake mustaches at a moment’s notice, it was also difficult to keep them in place as the atmosphere’s humidity and the body’s sweat worked against the glue. Even besides the logistics, though, it was also the first thing people thought of when they imagined a disguise, and he didn’t need to hand them exactly what they were on the lookout for.

He’d find something he could make work, but he wouldn’t find it in the cabin.

Neal stopped himself as he stood and moved toward the door, forcing himself to make a trip by the pantry to snag some food to eat on the way, then climbed out the back window he had entered through and walked back down the road to the bus station.

Neal blinked as he arrived, noticing the sun was setting. He’d been so focused on the case he hadn’t even registered how much time had been passing. Hopefully a bus would still be running in and out of the nearest city.

Luckily, it turned out the bus station anticipated heavy tourist traffic at the start and end of each day, and ran continual buses for the next few hours back and forth to ferry hikers back to hotels in the city.

Neal bought a ticket and was on the bus within half an hour.

He made it into the city easily, spending the twenty five minute bus ride researching the various businesses in town on one of the smart phones from Mozzie’s electronics stash.

After almost a dozen unsuccessful searches he finally found what he needed.

Five blocks away from the bus station, there was an expansive Halloween store that stayed open all year round, catering to local theaters and cosplay customers in the off months. Perfect.

He stepped off the bus and made his way down the route he had memorized, turning the last corner and pulling a hat he had plucked from the backpack of a man sitting in front of him low over his eyes and made his way inside the store, using every trick in his book to keep from calling attention to himself.

He found exactly what he needed in the seventh row he checked.

A small bottle of temporary tanning lotion, essentially staining the skin until the next shower, a special bar of soap included with the package to help with removal, and their most expensive bottle of temporary hair dye.

He chose a deep, raven black that promised a natural looking shine, and made his way to the front, detouring by the costume aisle to pick up a generic, fairly realistic, construction worker costume along with dark sunglasses, a clipboard, and a pair of boots.

He doubled back into an aisle he passed right before the checkout line, walking through the costume accessories section until he found a usable duffel bag that could pass as a work bag.

An idea formed, and he walked back to the costumes aisle, this time perusing the selection for any proximity of a business worker’s suit.

He found several to choose from, selecting one that could pass as high end at first glance, and the briefcase and pair of shoes below it.

He paid in cash, glad he had pickpocketed so many people in his two hour wait at the overnight bus station, even though he had thought it might have been overkill at the time, and boarded the bus back to Mozzie's safe house after shoving everything into the duffle bag.

When he finally made it back to April with his newly obtained supplies, it was past midnight.

Neal resisted the urge to set out immediately, and forced himself to decide to stay in April another night.

Before getting ready for bed, he carefully laid out both the tanning lotion and the hair dye, making sure they were already out and ready for application the next morning when he got up.

He packed the duffel bag, returned the electronics he wasn’t going to use to their box, double checked that he had bought everything he needed for his planned subterfuge, set an alarm, and fell into the bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

It had been a long night.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Neal rose before dawn, even before his alarm he had set for five thirty went off, and after a cursory morning routine he began his transformation. Hair first, the bottle said it would require a rinse to properly set and clear the crustiness of the dye away.

He followed the directions, applying it carefully, making sure not to stain his fingers as well. He waited the allotted twenty minutes for the dye to set, tacked on an additional ten to be sure, then rinsed out the casting that had dried completely, making his hair feel stiff to the touch before he worked the hot water through it.

He stepped out of the shower a few minutes later and nodded in approval at what he saw. Gone was his chestnut hair, replaced with a deep, realistic black.

He borrowed a hair gel that he could think of no reasonable answer for why Mozzie had, and raked his hair into a slightly spikey style, the result jarringly different from his normal sophistication. Perfect.

Next, he pulled out the tanning bottle, making sure he slipped the soap into his bag so he wouldn't forget it later.

He followed the directions exactly, and twenty minutes later, his disguise was complete.

As promised, the tanning lotion did an excellent job of mimicking the natural glow of a real tan rather than the orange tinge of a salon tan. It was easier to achieve when the lotion was only intended for one day rather than to last for months, essentially more a body paint than a tan.

Neal studied his disguise, looking for anything that might give him away in the city that was no doubt on high alert for him.

The face staring back at him didn't look like him in the slightest, but it nodded approvingly when he did, and he made quick work of changing into the construction worker costume and packing his t-shirt, jeans, phones, signal decoder, clipboard, suit, dress shoes, and briefcase into the duffle that could easily pass for a workman's bag when he carried it while in costume.

With a deep breath and a set of his shoulders, he was off, locking up Mozzie's safe house and resetting all the proximity traps before continuing on his way to the bus station.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

A two hour bus ride later, then an additional inner-city bus ride, he stepped off at the closest bus stop he had been able to find, ironically across from the museum that had started everything.

Neal hailed a cab, giving the address of the factory, and dug through the workman's duffle bag in preparation.

He pulled out the smart phone, clipboard, and dark aviator sunglasses, setting them on the seat next to him while he packed everything else back into the duffle bag, making sure he left the RadioFrequency signal hacker laying on top.

"We're here, sir," the driver announced, glancing at Neal in the rearview mirror as he pulled the car into park in front of the factory gates.

"Thanks," Neal said, shoving forty dollars in cash at him, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, and making sure his sunglasses were on and clipboard was in his hands. "You can keep the change."

"Well, thank you!" the driver said, much friendlier than any of his previous communications, giving Neal a bright wave as he climbed out and shut the door.

Sunglasses on and clipboard in hand, Neal made his way inside the guard outpost.

There was only one guard inside, and he hadn’t noticed Neal's arrival, wrapped up in the book he was reading.

Neal pulled his duffle bag off and quietly set it on the floor below the counter where it would be out of view. He didn't expect to be questioned about it, but if he could avoid the possibility, that would be even better.

"Hi," Neal said, not letting himself smile when the man jumped, almost falling out of his seat, and looked at him with wide eyes. "I'm Inspector Halden, sent to do the forensics safety report for the Haarman factory."

Neal tapped his clipboard authoritatively, not letting the guard ask to see credentials before he plowed on.

"You should have gotten the notification by now, we called corporate this morning to give them a heads up. I'm supposed to go over the building remains and decide both current safety and the fire's source for the investigation."

"Oh," the guard said, sounding surprised, then exasperated. "Corporate never tells us anything. Ok, well, um, this is kind of awkward, but I have been... ordered to -, um, do some extra security checks."

"...alright," Neal drawled, unimpressed, "what are they?"

"Well, first, sorry, this is kind of awkward, but I'm supposed to -, these two FBI agents left this picture for someone they're looking for, I'm supposed to make sure you're not him."

Neal shrugged.

"Ok," he agreed, unconcerned. "Sure, do you have it or do you need to pull it up on the computer or something?"

The man shook his head, and Neal grit his teeth together to push down a surge of laughter as the guard pulled out an eight and a half by eleven inch full color printed picture of Neal's own face. Neal recognized it as one of the photos Mabena had taken when his badge had needed to be renewed.

Neal had expected a picture. He had even expected a printed picture that would be easier to verify against as well as a physical reminder of the guard's task, but he had expected a four by six photograph, not an entire printed page that was clear, and detailed, and printed in full color so there could be no mistake.

The man held the picture up to compare to Neal's face, and Neal wryly noted Diana's cell phone number written on the back with the words 'Call me immediately!' with the word ‘immediately’ underlined five times.

"Well," the guard decided after carefully comparing Neal's newly darkened, spiked hair to his brunette waves and his tanned skin to his pale picture, never once asking him to take off his sunglasses, "you’re not whoever this guy is, but they still told me to give them a call, so if you could just hold on a minute..."

Neal shrugged, nonchalant and unbothered.

“Sure, man,” he agreed easily. “But if you give me a half hour before you call, I could tell them which department I’m handing the paperwork off to. I won’t know until I run though some initial checks.”

“Oh,” the man blinked. “Do they want to know that?”

Neal shrugged again.

“Probably. You know what happened, right?”

The guard shook his head with wide eyes.

“It was a crime scene these Feds were investigating," Neal explained, propping against the counter and leaning closer, "and it blew up while they were here, hurt an agent. It’s personal. I’d be surprised if they don’t track every piece of paper related to this place for months.”

The guard looked at him in open mouthed shock.

“Oh,” he said simply, and Neal nodded along.

“Yeah, oh,” he agreed. “If you give me half an hour for an initial glance, you‘ll at least have the answers for the angry questions they demand.”

“Thanks, man,” the guard let out a relieved breath and nodded. “I will have to take your picture though, company policy for everyone who comes through the gates.”

Neal hitched a casual shoulder in agreement, taking a step to the left to step into the view of the camera he had very specifically been avoiding, and sliding off his sunglasses as the guard opened his mouth to request their removal.

He cast the camera a bored look, waiting for the man to snap the picture and wave him on his way.

The guard looked at the picture on the screen, nodded his satisfaction, and looked back up at Neal.

"Ok, perfect. Thanks, man. Come back in here with those initial reports in half an hour, and I'll call it in."

"Will do," Neal said, picking up his bag and flapping a wave as he opened the door, stepping out into the sunlight and walking much quicker once he was out of sight of the window.

He made quick time crossing the parking lot, and was climbing the ramp within a few minutes.

The building was a skeleton of what it had been, most of the walls burned away, but the enormous doors had been extensively braced, and still stood, heavy and closed.

Neal walked up the ramp and stepped around the closed doorway and through open wall that was no longer present.

He stood just inside, surveying the shop floor. He only had half an hour, he needed to get moving.

He set the clipboard aside and dug in his duffle bag, pulling out the RadioFrequency hacker, turning it on, and feeling his nerves rise. This was the moment of truth.

He slowly clicked through each waveform pattern, watching the area of floor he had seen Peter disappear from.

When he pressed the button for number fifteen, the gigantic door behind him rumbled upwards. Apparently the door’s underground connection to the power grid was still intact and the RF receiver had survived. Maybe it was high enough the flames hadn’t reached it completely.

Neal clicked on to the next waveform. No luck.

Neal slowly clicked through the list until, at last, waveform fifty-three surprised him by inciting a deep, low-pitched sliding noise, and a large portion of the floor pulled away within a second.

Neal stared, relief crashing over him.

He had known – suspected – for days, he had found Haarman’s lies, and watched his memory over and over, but the trap door felt like definitive proof that his handler was still alive and waiting to be found.

Neal let out a deep sigh, walking closer to the edge.

The hole that had opened in the floor was deep, more than six feet down, and the debris that had been strewn across the floor now laid in the bottom of the shaft, but there was unmistakably a tunnel that led further under the factory and away from the light.

Neal barely stopped himself from immediately leaping down and following the trail.

He forced himself to stop and think. This was his only chance to convince Jones and Diana he was right, and he couldn't blow it.

He had originally planned to simply leave the trapdoor open for them to find, confident they would be at the factory within the next forty minutes, and that they were both more than capable of finding a twenty foot hole in the floor, but what if the door had some kind of automatic closing mechanism? What if he left, the floor closed, and all he had done was fan his friends’ anger into homicidal rage?

No, he needed something more guaranteed than that.

He pressed the button again, watching closely as the door slowly slid shut, much slower than it had flown open. He pressed it again, then again, watching the door open and shut once more.

All in all, it took a little over a second for the door to open, but almost twelve seconds for it to shut again. Plenty of time.

Now he just needed to find a way to leave the opener where they could find it and in a way they would use it.

If he left the loading bay door open, they would most likely enter through it, so he focused his gaze on the area around the doorway until he found what he needed.

The ceiling had fallen, massive sections burning way or crumbling on impact, but large slabs of it had survived, blackened and charred, laying around the factory floor.

Neal made quick work of dragging a dozen pieces over to the top of the ramp and stacking them on top of each other, pleased to see he had a decent sized pile by the time he was done.

His clipboard had come with a pen, a checklist, and a small stack of sticky notes, so he pulled one off, wrote 'Push me!' in big letters and drew an arrow under it that he carefully lined up with the correct button.

There. Perfect. Either the agents’ anger or their curiosity would force them to push it, the door would open, they'd all be on the same page, and they could finally find Peter.

Neal cleared a narrow path between his makeshift table and the edge of the trapdoor, then retraced his steps back to the device to open the trapdoor before returning to the opening.

Neal looked carefully over the edge, deciding where the best place to jump down was, and dropped his duffle bag on the other side where he wouldn't accidentally land on it.

He walked back to the table and signal hacker, pulled the smartphone out of his pocket, and turned the flashlight app on. It would be dark once the door closed above him, and it would be easier to have the flashlight already on and ready.

He took a deep, bracing breath, made sure everything was in place, then pressed the button and hurried back to the trapdoor, jumping down quickly and standing up just as it slid completely closed above him, leaving him in darkness except for the small beam of his phone flashlight.

Picking his way through the debris, he collected his duffle bag and turned to face the tunnel.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a breath, he plunged himself into the darkness, one step closer to finding his handler.

Chapter Text

Diana’s phone rang, and she cast it an annoyed look.

“Berrigan,” she answered.

“I’m -, h-hi, Agent B-Berrigan,” said a hesitant voice she recognized as the guard from the day before. “You -, um, y-you told me to tell you if there was a -, if anyone tried to go in to the factory?”

Diana froze, focusing all of her attention on the phone.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Is someone there?”

“Uh -, um, yes, ma’am,” he said. “A -, um, a s-state inspector.”

“Can you put him on the phone?” she requested, trying to keep her patience.

“U-Um, n-no, ma’am,” the guard stuttered. “He -, h-he left to do an in-inspection.”

“Well, step out the door and call him back,” she ordered, “I want to talk to him.”

The man audibly swallowed, and Diana already knew she would not like his answer.

“Um,” he faltered, “h-he’s -, he -, he left a little b-bit ago. He said to w-wait to call you so h-he could tell you wh-what department he w-was handing the pape-paperwork to, s-said an a-agent was hurt and you g-guys would w-want to know.”

Diana took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, squeezing the phone so tightly she could almost hear the plastic straining not to snap.

Around the room, agents took note, edging closer as she said in an extremely controlled tone that did nothing to hide her aggravation, “What did he look like?”

“Um,” the man stalled again, and she grit her teeth in annoyance, “he -, he had, uh, b-black hair? I think? And um-, he was -, um -, kind of tall-ish?”

“What color were his eyes?” she demanded, sharing a look with Jones that he immediately understood to mean she suspected Neal had slipped through their net.

“Uh, w-well, um, gr-green, maybe? M-Maybe blue? He had s-sunglasses that he wore, it’s bright in the o-office, see, he took them off for th-the picture though -,”

“There’s a picture?” she asked sharply, cutting over him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed, sounding relieved to have something positive to give her.

“Fine,” she bit out angrily. “We will be there in fifteen minutes, do not let anyone in or out of those gates unless they show you an FBI badge.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am,” he gulped, and she slammed the phone back to the cradle.

“Caffrey is in the factory,” she told Jones, her frustration blatant. "Has been for over half an hour."

Jones sighed in annoyance and nodded, keys already in hand as he stood.

"Let's go," he said, aggravated the guard had let Neal through the net they could not have been more clear about.

"Someone tell Hughes where we're going, please," Diana requested as she pushed the office doors open, not bothering to check that the agents behind her agreed, trusting her teammates to figure it out.

She pushed the elevator call button with more force than necessary, angrily stewing about how anything in her instruction set could have possibly been even the slightest bit unclear.

"Damn it, Caffrey," Jones muttered, standing next to her as they waited for the elevator.

"Damn it, Caffrey," she agreed angrily.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They pulled up to the factory and Jones jerked the transmission into park, as frustrated by the situation as she was.

It had been more than fifty minutes since Neal had arrived at the factory, and they had no real hope of actually catching him on site considering he was well aware that they were to be notified, and he had been the one to provide the time estimate to the guard. The best they could do was collect the evidence of his latest disguise, knowing he had probably already shed it by now.

Getting out, they both slammed their car doors, letting out some of their frustration.

Before, they had been feigning their anger to intimidate the guard, this time it was all too real, and the guard clearly registered the difference, eyes flicking below his desk as if he were contemplating hiding underneath it.

"You have a picture?" Jones demanded, deadly serious.

It took an extreme amount of stress and frustration to get her partner to his boiling point, but once he reached it, Jones could be just as intimidating as she could, if not more so.

If she weren't so angry herself, she would be proudly beaming at her partner for the terrifying growl he had achieved, but her rage didn't leave room for anything else as she stared at the reason they had lost the only known location of their consultant.

If the Marshals caught and killed Neal, she would send all their asses to jail for murder and then send this man to jail as an accessory. He had blown their one chance.

"Y-Y-Yes, s-sir," he stammered, panting quick terrified breaths as he stared at them with wide, panicked eyes.

"Where?" Jones asked, sharp and threatening, his eyes hard as they bore into the guard's.

The guard reached under the counter and brought a printed page out with shaking hands, holding it out to them.

Diana snatched it from him, not bothering to acknowledge the fact he flinched back and almost tripped over his desk chair as she and Jones looked down at the paper, frustration only growing as Neal's face looked back at them.

He had changed his hair, he had somehow obtained a tan, but the roguishly bored look he sent the camera was unmistakably him, the mischievous glint in his eyes not quite completely covered as he tried to shove it down to maintain his character.

His lips were twitched up in the barest hint of a victorious smirk, and she was going to murder him when she found him, mental break or not.

"How -," she asked quietly, slowly looking up to lock her eyes on the guard who was inching backward in a panic, "could you possibly have misunderstood my instructions?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again when nothing came out, and swallowed hard.

"I-I," the man was now actively cowering, but he was the reason that one of her best friends may be shot on sight, and she offered him no mercy, holding his eyes and demanding an answer. "I d-did che-check that h-he wasn't th-the man i-in the pic-picture."

If possible, her glare grew even darker, and she could feel Jones' anger flaring higher as well.

"This is the man in the picture," Jones informed him, his tone controlled and deadly.

He surged forward and reached over the countertop, sending the guard skittering backwards in fear, and snatched the picture of Neal's face they had given him the day before.

Without turning to look, Jones held his hand out to her, and she slapped the printed image of Neal's disguise into it.

With a snap of the paper, Jones thrust both pictures forward at the guard, held side by side, shaking them slightly for emphasis.

"Look - at - his - eyes," Jones demanded. "This was your only task, and thanks to your incompetence we may have to attend another friend's funeral!"

Jones dropped both pictures carelessly as he spun on his heel and stalked out the door, Diana falling into step beside him without acknowledgment to the cowering guard.

"Ok," she said, their quick, angry strides eating up the distance to one of the loading bay doors that she was annoyed to see Neal had left open. It felt like a taunting gesture to prove he had been there, and she grit her teeth. She was going to kill him. "Do we want to split canvas or pair?"

"I'm thinking pair," Jones said, surveying the trucks and disregarding them. "The likelihood of him being here is next to zero, but we're more likely to find a clue if we look together."

"Agreed," she said firmly, leading them onto the long loading ramp a half a step in front of Jones.

She made a frustrated noise deep in her throat when she saw that immediately inside the doorway, Neal had stacked various pieces of wall and ceiling until he had a make-shift table that stood chest-high.

On top of it was a small electronic device, a little bigger than her cell phone, and a sticky note to the side with an arrow pointing to a particular button on the side and the words 'Push me!' written in Neal's distinctive handwriting.

"What do you think it is?" Jones asked, scowling fiercely down at the device. "Some kind of transmission device so he can rub in his escape?"

"I hope so," Diana growled, reaching past Jones and snatching up the device, "I want to inform him I'm going to murder him."

She punched the button, rage giving way to confusion as a sliding sound rang through the wreckage.

She turned with wide eyes to look at the factory, distantly noting Jones doing the same, and stared at the large, square hole that had appeared in the floor. From their angle, it hadn't been immediately obvious, but she abruptly realized there had been no debris on that section, only scorched, blackened flooring.

Now there wasn't even that, just an expanse of darkness in the middle of the factory floor.

She stepped forward, transfixed, stumbling slightly over the debris scattered over the floor as she was unable to tear her eyes away from the trap door that might fix what she had thought was unfixable.

Her movement broke the trance and Jones staggered after her, having just as much trouble tearing his eyes away long enough to avoid the debris piles as she did.

They walked forward, hardly daring to believe, and stood at the edge, staring down into the drop that was at least six feet straight down. There was an opening on the side, leading away from the truck lot toward the back of the factory premises, but it faded into darkness within a few feet, and there was no telling where it would end up.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jones whispered, a shocked smile slowly spreading across his face.

“He was right,” Diana breathed, hardly daring to let herself hope.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and punched in the number for Hughes’ office phone in a daze.

She looked down to hit the button to put her phone on speaker, and belatedly realized her fingers were shaking. Before she could contemplate that the phone connected.

“Hughes,” he answered shortly.

“Reese,” she greeted, sounding stunned even to her own ears and immediately catching his attention. “Reese, Neal was right.”

There was a stunned silence and then a strangled, “What?”

Her own shock started to fall away, leaving only a dizzying rush of hope in its wake.

She shared an awed, wonder-filled smile with Jones, each growing more ecstatic by the second.

“He was right!” Jones repeated, his tone quickly growing into giddy elation. “Sir! Sir, Neal was right! There was a trapdoor exactly where Peter was standing! Sir, he was right!”

“Peter,” Hughes breathed, and his own whisper seemed to break the spell.

“Everyone!” they heard him yell as he strode out into the bullpen. “Whatever you’re doing, drop it! I want everyone down to the factory site in the next twenty minutes to go over the entire property with a fine-tooth comb. Berrigan and Jones just called, Caffrey was right.”

There was a stunned silence and then an explosion of movement that faded from hearing when Hughes moved back into his office.

“Sir, we need flashlights and rope,” Diana said briskly as the noise quieted. “There’s some kind of tunnel under the factory floor and there’s no telling how far it goes.”

“Done,” Hughes announced with more energy than Diana had heard in his voice in weeks.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Barely ten minutes later, the pair looked toward the road as they registered a stream of sirens, five cars speeding toward them in a single file line, all with red and blue lights flashing on their dashboard.

Jones and Diana smiled widely, still riding high on their wave of all-encompassing relief.

The cars slid to a stop in front of the guard post, agents pouring out, and Diana snorted, just able to make out the shocked guard who had left the building to investigate what was happening.

Hughes said something to him, short and direct, and within moments he was nodding frantically and opening the gates, agents piling back in the cars and driving into the loading bay, the guard staring in open mouthed shock in the distance.

“Look,” Jones called eagerly, waving them over as soon as the agents had parked and started exiting their various cars. “Look, watch this!”

He and Diana had decided to shut the trap door again both so they could demonstrate how it worked and so they would have an easier time resisting the temptation to jump into the tunnel immediately.

Barely having the patience to wait until all of the agents had made it to the top of the ramp, Diana punched the button again, pointing eagerly to where the trap door slid open.

"Caffrey was right," Hughes whispered in wide-eyed amazement, and a piece of Diana's broken world slid back into place.

Chapter Text

Hours later, Neal walked into a cheap, sleazy by-the-hour hotel that was so far out of his normal comfort zone the White Collar team would never think to put an alert out for him with the people behind the counter.

The tunnel had stretched for almost two miles, coming up beyond the checkpoint between the export factories and the harbor, releasing Neal into an alleyway that conveniently had no cameras or foot-traffic to speak of.

Neal had made careful note of the surrounding area, and then caught a cab to a hotel for the night, arriving just as the sun set.

He tapped the bell on the counter, waiting for any sign there was a worker currently on the clock. Thus far he had seen no evidence.

He waited several long seconds, scrolling through the pictures he had taken with the smart phone he brought from April of the surrounding street signs and the grate he had pushed aside to finish climbing up the ladder and out of the long, dark tunnel.

When a long two minutes passed with no one appearing, he rang the bell again, more insistently, prompting a tired, unenthusiastic older man to come slouching out of the back room.

"One bed or two?" the man asked carelessly.

"One," Neal said, digging his cash out of his pocket.

"Would you like the nightly or hourly rate?" the worker asked in the same bored tone.

"Uh, nightly, please," Neal said, wishing he had been able to risk a classier establishment.

"Sixty," the man said shortly, accepting the cash without a glance.

"Will your visitor need a key?" he asked, holding out a room key to Neal.

"No visitors," Neal assured, taking the key from his hand and stowing it in his pocket.

"Yeah, ok," the worker said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Room twenty-four."

"Ok, tha-," Neal trailed off as the man turned and disappeared through the employee door without a backwards glance. Well, alright then.

Neal readjusted his duffle bag on his shoulder and turned to leave the office, glancing to each side before deciding twenty four would be on the left.

He found the room easily, sliding the key into the lock and letting himself in, doing a cursory check as he clicked the door shut behind him, making sure to slide the lock before he turned his attention back to his room for the night.

The room was... clean enough, he supposed. He carefully inspected the mattress, relieved to find no bedbugs or lice lurking in it.

The bathroom was bare, but surprisingly clean, and Neal nodded approvingly, moving back to the main room.

He pulled the curtains closed, double checked he had locked the door, and sat heavily on the bed, his several miles of walking and hours of uncomfortable bus rides catching up to him.

He was hungry, but while his relative guarantee of going undetected may be ensured inside the room, there was no guarantee it would continue if he went out in search of food.

He used the room phone to order pizza, then refocused on what he needed to do as he waited for its arrival.

The first thing he would need to do was prepare his next con. Where he was going next demanded a business-class entry, and his rakishly spiked hair and construction get-up wasn’t going to cut it, not to mention, Diana and Jones had surely seen the picture by now, and he would need to shed the disguise they were on the lookout for.

He scarfed down the pizza when it came, not realizing how hungry he had been, and only belatedly remembered that he had forgotten to eat anything since dinner the night before, too excited to make progress on the case.

He showered, glad to see the tan came off cleanly without leaving any streaks, and his hair reluctantly turned back to brown after a long, vigorous scrubbing that had Neal wishing he had thought to pack the overly large bottle of shampoo from the safe house that he was also unsure why Mozzie had.

He did his best to steam the suit from his duffle bag in the bathroom as he had showered but the hot water was barely warm, sliding to tepid as the shower wore on. It would have to do, he decided reluctantly, leaving it to hang over night.

Going over the remaining steps of his plan in his head, he climbed under the scratchy, uncomfortable sheets, and fell asleep almost instantly. 

Chapter Text

Neal woke up at five the next morning, eager to get going. He could feel himself getting closer to Peter, he just needed to connect the dots.

He checked in the bathroom and reluctantly deemed the suit acceptably steamed and pressed, even if it was far below his usual standard.

He laid out his supplies, surveying what he had gathered.

For this con he needed the three phones he had brought from the safe-house, two flip phones and one smart phone, and the briefcase itself, so everything else - the rolled up duffle bag, construction uniform, cash, pocket knife, clipboard, and sunglasses - was shoved into it, leaving the phones on top both for ease of use and to keep the electronics slightly more protected.

On second thought, Neal pulled the smart phone and forty dollars of the cash out and stowed them in his pocket before re-latching the slightly straining briefcase.

He briefly considered throwing the construction disguise out, but reluctantly kept it in case he needed it to get into wherever they were keeping Peter. The boots wouldn't fit, though. He'd have to get rid of them. 

With that decided, he double checked the address of the corporate building, verified the metro line, and finalized his plan.

He dug through the briefcase one more time to pull out one of the two flip phones, re-latched it, double checked the room, and made his way to the metro stop as the sun rose over New York City, only pausing along the way to give the work boots he’d bought for his construction role to a homeless man with shoes that looked about Neal’s size.

He joined the crowd of people milling around on the platform, waiting for their train, and pulled out the flip phone.

'Dear FBI agent that reads this message,’ he typed into a text to both Diana and Jones after he verified he had blocked the outgoing number. ‘I would like to place an anonymous tip.

I have noticed suspicious behavior occurring on to cameras at the Newark International Airport. It would be worth your time to obtain a warrant for camera 65w-31 time stamp 3:57 and camera ID 72r-22 time stamp 3:32.

I would like to report a blond man with the remarkable ability of both self-duplication and the gift of recovering from a supposed illness almost instantly. One has to wonder why a successful businessman would hire a body double, call in to every meeting he had for a week, and have a fake passport logged into his company personnel file....’

He hit send just as his train arrived, and he watched the phone screen long enough to make sure being in the metro tunnels wouldn’t block his message from being sent. Luckily, he was waiting to get on the shallowest line, and the phone struggled, but eventually sent it.

He nodded, threw the phone in the nearby trashcan, and stepped on to the metro just as the doors were closing.

Next step, infiltrate the company.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Neal found the office building easily, hanging back for a moment before he crossed the street to watch the people going in.

Employees walked inside in ones and twos, sometimes calling out greetings to people they knew, but always holding their employee ID badges up to the guard for verification and then tapping it against the badge reader. That might be a problem.

Neal continued to watch through the lobby’s glass doors and floor to ceiling windows, and an idea sparked as he watched a large crowd of people walk through.

Each of them showed the guard their badge, but it was difficult for the employees on the opposite side of the crowd from the reader to reach it, and the guard nodded his acceptance and let them pass without scanning it in. Huh.

Neal made his way up the stairs, stopping inside the door and bending down in the corner out of sight of the guard desk under the guise of tying his shoe.

A woman walked in, making her way to the check-in point with a bounce in her step.

“Mornin’, Raul!” she called happily, giving the guard a friendly wave.

Neal poked his head up just enough to see the guard smile widely and return the wave before he dropped back out of sight.

“How was the anniversary dinner?” the woman asked eagerly.

“It was perfect!” Raul told her happily. “Thanks for that salmon recipe, Liza loved it, said I made her the best meal she’d ever had.”

There was a distinctive beep as the woman tapped her badge in, and Neal grimaced that the noise was loud enough Neal wouldn’t be able to feign Raul just hadn’t heard it when Neal went by.

“That’s great!” she cheered, her voice growing softer as she moved past the guard’s desk and on to the elevators. “I’m so glad it went well!”

Neal’s mind whirled, searching for a way to make his entrance plan work, and a little over three minutes later, his question was answered.

The traffic light outside had turned green, allowing a large crowd to cross the intersection, and almost twenty people streamed into the lobby, clogging the check point area. Perfect.

Neal stood and joined the crowd, waiting until one of the men on the far side had shown the guard his badge, receiving a nod of approval and moving further down the hall as he slipped his badge into his pocket.

Neal pick-pocketed it, sliding discreetly back against the wall and moving to the back of the crowd that hadn’t been checked yet.

Glancing down at his newly stolen ID, he made sure the picture and the name reading ‘Thomas Baurn’ were covered in his palm, so when he flashed the badge it would only be the employee ID number and corporate return policy visible on the back.

As the guard turned his attention to Neal, Neal flashed him a familiar smile, as if he were friends with the man and expected the guard to recognize his face, and confidently held up his backwards badge for the guard’s approval.

The guard opened his mouth to comment, but Neal pressed the badge against the reader with an admitting beep and cast the security guard a friendly nod.

“Have a good one, Raul, happy late anniversary,” he chirped brightly.

“Thanks, I appreciate that.... man,” Raul said, a slight pause as he searched for Neal’s name and couldn’t find it, landing on a generic term instead.

Neal flashed him another friendly smile and slipped into the elevator with the group in front of him, sliding the badge back into Thomas’ pocket.

He watched carefully as the doors opened on each of the floors people got out of the elevator on, and when he was finally alone he hit floor nine, retracing back down to the busiest floor he’d seen, packed with cubicles and plenty of foot traffic.

It was not the type of floor people brought briefcases to, so he stepped into the break room and discretely slid it between the refrigerator and the wall before he was on his way again.

He snagged a plain notebook off a passing desk and matched his gait to the harried, stressed tempo most people in the room moved with, fixing his face into an expression of stress, exhaustion, and slight aggravation, and he felt himself melt into the hustle and bustle, people’s eyes sliding over him but only seeing another stressed co-worker and paying him no mind.

He surveyed each cubicle as he passed, surely someone had to... there it was. Every office had one, the person who wrote their computer’s password on a sticky note and stuck it to their screen so they wouldn’t forget it.

Neal paused, slipping his phone out of his pocket and pulling it under the cover of the notebook he opened, making a show of reading something on the page as he subtly zoomed his camera in and took several pictures of the man’s sticky note that had several lines of writing on it.

The man himself didn’t even notice Neal was in his cube, too busy attempting to get a word in edgewise on whatever call was on his headset.

Neal slipped away as unnoticed as he came and moved to the end of the row to stand by the printer.

The printer ran continually as someone had evidently decided to print an entire tree’s worth of pages, and Neal stood next to it as if they were his, keeping the man’s desk in his peripheral vision.

Ten minutes later, the end of the print job was nowhere in sight, but the man stood from his desk, dropped his headset on his keyboard with an annoyed huff, and strode down the hall toward the sign marked ‘Restroom’.

Neal followed, slipping the badge off of the man’s belt and slowing his pace, letting the man march into the bathroom without him.

Neal surreptitiously glanced to each side, but no one was paying him any attention, all caught up in their own work, and he slid his phone out to snap several pictures of the front and back of the badge.

That done, he waited another long moment and then pushed the door open, glad to see the man was done at the urinal and had moved to the sink.

Neal slid the badge back on his belt and ducked into one of the stalls rather than risk standing next to him and possibly being remembered.

In the stall he flipped through the pictures, satisfied with how clearly they had come out.

The man’s name was Joseph Lampuna, and his employee badge number was listed clearly on the back. Excellent.

Neal ducked out of the stall as soon as he heard Joseph leave, slipping unnoticed into the elevator where he hit the button for floor fourteen, which he had seen earlier had considerably less foot traffic, but considerably more conference rooms.

The doors lined every wall, and Neal hurried out of the elevator with the determined stride of an underling late for a meeting.

No one even glanced up from their screens, clearly used to the flow of unknown employees using the rooms.

Neal made a beeline for the room in the furthest corner, tucked away and looking like the least used option.

The door opened easily, and Neal shut it behind him with a decisive click.

The room had a small meeting table, a phone sitting in the center of the tabletop, and a desktop computer set up on the opposite side of the room as the door.

Neal got to work.

There were several phrases on the paper, but as suspected, the ‘ILoveMyDog!’ that Joseph had written on the first line of the sticky note was indeed his password, the computer granting Neal access on the first try.

It took Neal several long minutes to orient himself with the server system and company repositories, but once he understood the system he was off, pouring through land purchases, subletting requests, and office rentals.

He combed through various files, not stumbling upon the one he needed - buried deep, deep under layers of useless data - until he had been looking for well over four hours.

Finally, he found the start of the trail he needed. The same ID that had reserved the truck had also transferred a large sum of company money, masking it under several layers of bureaucratic hand waving that Neal eventually traced to a land purchase and construction order.

He started with the land purchase.

The address had been redacted, but measurements were still listed, which was a start.

The land was listed at thirty thousand square feet, and the address may have been redacted, but the inspection stamp read New York State.

In a surely unrelated coincidence, the same ID had authorized a construction order on a thirty thousand square foot building. That had to be it.

Neal smiled, his eyes gleaming with victory as he found what he needed.

The land purchase may have had a redacted address, but the construction order did not. The order had been buried several layers deeper and all ties to the original purchase were obscured except the ID authorization and the funding account, but Neal knew it was for the same place.

He meticulously copied the address and construction order number onto a scrap piece of paper he found on the table, tucking it very carefully into his pocket, then set about covering his electronic trail and getting out of the buried file system as quietly as he had gotten into it.

He was nowhere near as good at computers as Mozzie was, but he’d been on the lookout and hadn’t noticed any alerts or alarms he may have tripped and was tentatively hopeful he had gone undetected.

Next, he had to get out of the building just as undetected.

As expected, it wasn’t difficult.

He waited for the elevator for a long eight minutes, but no one looked his way.

The elevator doors opened and he buried his nose in his notebook to keep the six people already inside from getting a good look at his face and faded into the background.

He got off at floor nine, retrieved the briefcase, and fell into step back into the elevator with a group of friends all leaving together, talking about a contractor meeting on another campus they were going to.

As the group exited the elevator on the ground floor, Neal walked close enough behind them it would be assumed he was part of the friends in front of him, discreetly dropped the stolen notebook onto one of the waiting area chairs, and walked confidently out the lobby doors, peeling away from the group once out of sight of the guard desk.

He walked three blocks before he found an empty bench, digging through his overstuffed briefcase to find the other flip phone he had snagged from April.

He pulled the carefully written construction order out of his pocket and typed out a text to Jones and Diana.

‘If we have a warrant for the company and its files then you should look at construction order NY-5932476, more specifically the address listed in it. If we don’t have a warrant, I’d like to place an anonymous tip that you should get a warrant and look at construction order NY-5932476, more specifically the address listed in it.’

He took an extra moment to double check his number would be blocked, and hit send.

He watched the screen, making sure the message went through, then snapped it shut and threw it in the nearest trashcan.

He stood and picked a random direction to walk in, blending in with the crowd for several blocks before he found a small coffee shop he could sit in unnoticed.

Next, he needed transportation.

He pulled out the third, less disposable, phone he had taken from Mozzie’s safe house and made a mental note that he needed to buy Mozzie a replacement for this one as well, before he found an empty table where he could tuck himself into the corner with a quick snack and plan his route.

He paused, remembering to delete the pictures he had taken of Joseph’s badge and password, no use leaving proof he has broken into the company laying around and easy to find.

He deleted them, then deleted them from the recycle bin as well. They could still be recovered by a forensics team, but as long as he didn’t give them any reason to suspect it would be good enough. Satisfied he had deleted them off the phone as completely as he could, he turned his attention back to the next part of his plan.

He could steal a car, of course, it would be easy enough, but then he would have to find somewhere to stash it where it wouldn’t be noticed, and he didn’t want to risk tipping his hand by having them find his vehicle.

He pulled up google on his phone as he ate the food he had bought, both because it had been a long time since he had eaten, and because he needed a reason to be able to sit and use their wifi for an extended amount of time.

According to the internet, the place was almost an hour away by car. There was a bus line that ran to the area, but he would still need to cover eight miles on his own. He could walk it, but time was ticking, and he didn’t want to waste that much of it walking to the building.

He dug further and found a small cab service. Excellent.

Next, bus tickets. Scanning the station’s website found a bus leaving in the next forty minutes, making no stops along the way. Perfect.

He bought the ticket with Peter’s credit card that he had memorized once as a joke, but figured the man would probably forgive him for using just this once.

He checked the arrival time and booked a cab to pick him up from the station, promising to pay in cash upon arrival.

With travel arrangements made, he turned his attention to his briefcase, digging through it to separate the items he would be keeping.

The construction order had long since been filled, so he would have better luck slipping in unnoticed as a nondescript businessman than as a construction worker, he decided.

The cash from days ago was tucked into his pocket. The pocket knife was salvaged as well and slid into the pocket of the suit-pants he was wearing. He would also keep the smart phone, but everything else would only slow him down.

He finished his coffee and walked out onto the busy street, detouring one block out of his way to go by a Goodwill store and dump the entire briefcase into the donation bin after one final check.

Traveling much lighter, he made his way to the bus station, picked up his ticket, and boarded his bus, snagging a seat in the very back to avoid the view of the bus driver, who was no doubt familiar with the picture of him hanging inside the doors of the terminal building.

Neal was vaguely amused that Jones and Diana had bothered, considering how often people slipped by the posted warnings, but he had to give them points for effort.

He grinned. He sincerely hoped they had called the research base and tried to explain to the Russian scientists that a wanted American fugitive was inside and using their internet.

He chuckled softly to himself. They were going to kill him when they finally found him.

Chapter Text

A little over an hour later, Neal stepped out of the cab, tipping the driver generously rather than risk the jingle of change or the chance of dropping loose bills, and shut the door.

The driver sent him a grateful wave and peeled away, leaving Neal alone on the dark street, a block and a half from the address listed on the construction order.

Neal found himself grateful for the early sunset of late winter, equally grateful the early March weather was mild for a change.

He walked lightly as he neared the holding, staying out of view of the occasional working streetlight.

Crossing the intersection, his destination came into view.

It was large and gated, but there was new barbed wire atop the unrusted ten foot chain link fence, and the three guards he spied seemed focused on the front gate.

He slunk along the perimeter away from the front entrance, across the street and in the shadows, now glad the dress shirt that came with the costume was a deep green and the jacket was black, blending in remarkably well with the foliage of the overgrown bushes of the abandoned neighboring lot.

The building was large, and there were dozens of ground floor windows and a number of emergency exits.

A dilapidated sign on the side of the building read ‘Triumph Legal Law-firm’.

It did look like it had been a once-lavish campus. It seemed, from the outside, to have large, sprawling rooms and a once-beautiful lawn around it, but had fallen into disrepair as the area around it declined, the previous owners presumably leaving it for a more uptown neighborhood.

The chain link fence was new and out of place, clearly added by Haarman after his purchase.

Neal carefully looked for security cameras and found one at every door along the way. The doors were monitored without even a hope of a blind spot, but Neal couldn’t find any evidence the long stretches of windows were monitored as well.

There was a chance they were alarmed, but that would be very expensive, and Neal was willing to bet that Haarman had counted on the fence and obvious door security to keep people out, not that he would expect heavy traffic through the near deserted area.

Neal completed a full lap of the building, arriving back at the front gate, the same three guards patrolling the front entrance.

On second glance, from his closer viewpoint, Neal saw they were each carrying guns and seemed more than willing to use them. He wouldn’t be attempting to charm his way through, then.

He doubled back to the longest stretch of windows along the back wall and scaled the fence after a quick check for patrolling guards, laying his jacket over the barbed wire to protect his skin.

None appeared as he landed in the overgrown grass, and he climbed back up to retrieve his suit jacket before he crept closer to the building, peering inside the windows.

The room was dark and empty, so Neal slid the pocketknife between the window and the frame, quietly clicking the latch to unlocked.

He listened carefully, scanning both the room and the outside perimeter for a sign that he had tripped any alarms.

When nothing changed for several seconds, he slid the window an inch or so upwards, freezing again and listening for any sign of an alarm going off.

None came, so he quietly pulled himself inside the room, sliding the window shut again and flipping the lock. No need to announce there was an intruder.

Neal cracked the door and closed it back, pleased to find the hinges didn’t squeak, and froze just before he could swing the door open again and step into the hallway, registering approaching footsteps.

The footsteps walked steadily past his hiding spot, and once they were several paces down the hall, he silently cracked the door open, peering at the hallway through the sliver between the door and doorframe.

A guard, by the looks of it, also very armed. The man looked competent, but bored, looking carefully at each door, but not checking inside any of the rooms he passed. He also had a slight sweat stain on his back while it was slightly cool inside, so apparently he was continually checking the premises. Noted.

Neal counted slowly to ten after the guard’s footsteps faded before he opened the door and carefully crept out into the hallway.

He tried the next door, glad to find it unlocked as well. At least there were options if he needed to hide at a moment’s notice.

The inside of the building looked much nicer than the outside. Evidentially, Haarman cared more about the portion he would be seeing, and the decrepit exterior did make it seem as though there would be nothing inside worth bothering over.

Neal made it down two more hallways before he heard another set of footsteps that had him sliding into the nearest room and silently pulling the door closed.

He cracked the door again after the guard passed, grimacing as he realized the passing guard was a different man than the previous.

Evidently, Haarman was serious about the security, even if the bored body language of both guards implied they were slightly less so.

It seemed excessive to have patrolling guards if the only thing they were hiding was Peter, so they must have the artwork stored inside too, tucked away, probably near the center of the building.

Neal didn’t care, he wasn’t going to waste his time looking for it. He came for his handler, and only his handler, White Collar could handle tracking down the paintings after Neal had gotten Peter to safety.

He counted to twenty, listened carefully, and then continued on his way.

He paused when he came to the next turn, hearing loud laughter and overlapping voices up ahead.

A discreet peek around the corner revealed the hallway to be empty, but there was a doorway a few feet down that seemed to be the source of the noise.

Neal doubled back into the nearest door, hoping it would share a wall with the room full of people.

He shut the door, crossing the room silently and pressed an ear to the wall, relieved to be able to make out the conversation with a little concentration.

“Fourth hand in a row!” one voice crowed victoriously. “Told ya it was my lucky night!”

There was a chorus of grumbling and heckling that was interrupted by a door hitting a wall as it swung open.

“Hey, idiots,” a new voice said, more serious and authoritative than the joking tones of the at least six other people in the room. “Is boss in yet?”

“Nah,” a voice close to the far end of the room responded. “He had that company meeting today. He’s supposed to be here in ten.”

“He’s working on the export plans today, remember? I bet he’ll go straight to the executive suite, if you’re trying to catch him when he gets in,” a new voice laughed.

“You know he doesn’t like it when you call it that,” the authoritative voice said sternly.

“Yeah, well,” the previous man muttered, sounding sullen and chastised, “corner office, big sunrise windows, it looks like an executive office.”

“He doesn’t like it,” the other sharply replied, and there was no further argument from the other man.

“Anyway,” the authoritative voice that Neal guessed was one of the patrolling guards said after a pause, “alright, boss is in soon. Where’s Miller?”

“Feeding the pet,” the man who won the fourth round in a row said carelessly, and Neal felt a flare of rage at the statement.

“Fine,” the guard snapped, moving closer to the door. “Shift change isn’t for another hour, get back to work and do your damn jobs.”

The door shut loudly behind him, and there was a long pause as his footsteps faded before the room broke into mocking grumbles.

Neal didn’t stick around to listen to them, he had what he needed. Haarman’s office was in the east corner, and if anywhere would have the next clue to finding Peter, it would be there.

Neal tried to orient himself, laying the route he had taken over what he had seen of the outside. He had entered on the south side, so he left his hiding place and doubled back, taking the right turn instead of the left he had walked down to find the break room.

Tracing the outer edge, Neal found the office he was looking for almost five minutes later.

He let himself into the room, doing a quick check to make sure it was empty.

Luckily, enough light streamed in from the streetlight to illuminate the room so he didn’t turn the overhead light on, not wanting to risk the light being noticed under the crack of the door.

He shut the door behind him, and crossed quickly to the desk. He didn’t touch anything, aware his time was ticking and any minute he would need to find cover, but he surveyed what was sitting on top.

A few maps were laid out, pencil markings drawn across a set of blueprints that Neal didn’t have time to pursue, registering a faint set footsteps coming closer.

Neal strode quickly and silently to the closet he had noticed in the corner, opening the door and slipping inside, shifting backwards behind the several coats hanging inside until he was pressed against the back wall and spreading his legs to each side of the narrow closet to hide his pants and shoes behind the multiple umbrellas propped against the wall.

The door to the room opened, and the footsteps walked closer.

“Fine, Gradwell,” a voice Neal recognized as Haarman’s said, walking inside. “We can work with that. I’m working on the other thing with Miller, we’ll crack him any day now.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard Neal heard earlier said.

Neal’s heart stopped in his chest when the closet door opened, the fabric in front of him moving as Haarman shoved his jacket inside to hang from the bar and shut the door again.

“Gradwell,” Haarman said bracingly. “You let me and Miller worry about the Fed, you just handle preparing the artwork for transport. We’ll get what we need any day now.”

“... ok, sir,” the guard agreed reluctantly.

The door opened again and a set of footsteps left the room, the door to the hallway clicking shut behind him.

“Hopefully,” Haarman muttered to himself, moving across the room and sitting heavily at the desk.

Neal edged forward. The closet door had wooden slats built in to the design, letting air flow through inside of the closet so a musty smell didn’t build up in the coats stored inside. They were slanted, blocking visibility both in and out of the closet, but they did allow the sound to travel though clearly without the muffle of a door.

As he stood in the closet, Neal realized how little he had thought his plan through. He need Jones and Diana’s help if he had any hope of getting his handler out.

He hadn’t even arranged a get-away plan, so focused on getting to Peter, he’d made no plan for what to do once he found him.

He’d also been working under the assumption Peter would be able to escape under his own steam once released, but Neal abruptly realized how naive it was to assume Peter wouldn’t be injured after being held captive for almost two full weeks.

He was in so far over his head.

Neal pulled out his phone, double checking it was switched to silent, ensuring the volume was all the way down, and removing the vibration notification for incoming texts and alerts.

He typed the numbers for Jones and Diana’s phones that he had long since memorized into a text message, enabling location tracking so he could share his location with them both.

Surely they would know who was sending them a location link, but just in case, he hit edit on the location sharing icon and changed the title from the default to ‘Tracking Anklet 2.0’.

Just before he hit send, there was a deep sliding sound in the office, and Neal’s head came up, brow furrowed, wishing he could see through the slatted door.

It came from the opposite side of the room, and he didn’t remember there being a doorway or anything overly movable in the area, besides, he hadn’t heard Haarman get up from the desk.

“Evening, Miller,” Haarman greeted.

“Hey, Boss,” a new voice returned.

Neal blinked at the wood in front of him for a confused second before he dropped his gaze back to the phone and hit send, watching in relief as the message delivered.

“How is our prisoner today?” Haarman asked, and Neal’s attention snapped back to the conversation.

“Difficult,” Miller said, sounding distinctly annoyed, “as always.”

If they were discussing their treatment of Peter, that was something the WC crew should hear, maybe they’d be able to fill in paramedics on the way if they were needed.

Triple checking that his volume was all the way silent, Neal did what he should have done several hours ago and called Diana’s number.

With any luck, Jones would be nearby and listening as well, but he couldn’t take the chance of calling Jones first when he only noticed his cell phone ringing a little more than half the time.

He watched the screen anxiously, breathing a near-silent sigh of relief when the call connected instead of going to voicemail, and resituated the phone so the phone’s receiver was as close to the open space between the slats as he could get it.

With that taken care of, he refocused on the conversation in the room, wondering how he was ever going to get out of his hiding spot and save his handler.

Chapter Text

Diana had woken up at six oh four that morning when Jones called her, excitedly informing her Neal had found the next piece of the puzzle before she could even say hello.

That woke her up faster than a shot of espresso, and she and Jones had filled out the warrant paperwork for the airport security tapes and been waiting outside the door when Judge Hickman walked into his office at eight o’clock on the dot.

Hickman let them into his office without an appointment, mouth dropping open as they explained their discoveries of the day before.

He had always been fond of Peter, having worked with him for over a decade of signing warrant requests, and he readily agreed to prioritize any warrant requests that came in for their case above any other, and signed the request they brought him while they were in the office.

The trapdoor revelation was the only convincing they needed to be completely onboard with Neal’s kidnap theory, and they both moved with an energetic determination the other agents immediately noticed upon their arrival.

“Caffrey texted us,” Jones announced to the room.

“He found the next step,” Diana grinned. “We stopped by Judge Hickman’s office this morning and got the warrant we need.”

“Apparently there’s something interesting on a few airport security tapes,” Jones finished, smiling widely as they made their way to their desks, having already broken down the next steps they needed to take in the car on the way to the office.

“We’ll let everyone know when we get them,” Diana called, striding up the stairs to Hughes’ office as Jones handled calling the airport and obtaining the camera footage.

She knocked on the door, barely made herself wait to be acknowledged, and blew into the room.

“Sir,” she said excitedly, immediately receiving Hughes’ full attention, “Caffrey did it again. He texted Jones and I this morning. We’ve already stopped by to get the warrant, Jones is getting the airport security tapes Neal told us to look at.”

“I’m not even going to ask how Caffrey got those,” Hughes said, but he was smiling widely, which negated the scolding tone.

“I like to just think of it as an anonymous tip,” she offered, her elation not dampened by the semantics of how Neal had found the data. “Technically we don’t know it was him, the number was blocked and he didn’t sign it.”

Hughes nodded, his smile growing as he stood to follow her out into the bullpen.

“I’ll take it,” he agreed.

They walked out the door and looked down at the bullpen.

“Jones,” he called. “How long until we have it?”

“I just got it on the system, sir,” Jones called back, “they were extremely motivated, can’t imagine what I could have done to imply we needed this yesterday... I’m sending it to the conference room server so we can all watch it.”

Hughes nodded his approval and made his way to the room, powering the computer on while Diana found the remote to turn on the display screen.

Jones appeared a moment later, followed by the entire office of agents streaming in behind him and taking their places.

He made quick work of pulling up the footage, referencing his phone for the camera ID and time stamp of the first clip they needed.

“Ok,” he announced, “this is it, started five seconds before he told us the relevant footage was. Everyone keep your eyes peeled, he didn’t tell us exactly what we’d see.”

Every agent stared, transfixed as the footage played, scanning the screen for useful details.

“Pause it,” Diana said faintly, standing and moving closer. “Does that say Matthew Haarman? That man is not Matthew Haarman.”

“You’re right,” Jones agreed, pulling up the picture from his employee file for comparison.

“He never went to Japan,” they both realized in unison.

“Neal was right. He has to be in on it,” Diana said, looking back at the room.

“That would explain the tip he left,” Jones nodded along. “And on the call, Haarman mentioned three or four times that wood under machines was a fire hazard, and he asked us when we would be coming.”

“There was another clip Neal wanted us to see,” Diana reminded the room, “can you pull up that one?”

“On it,” Jones nodded, clicking back through the list of cameras until he landed on the right one.

“Here’s the time stamp he sent,” Jones announced, clicking play.

They all watched as Haarman got out of the car, looking miserably sick.

“Now that is Haarman,” Jones said, the other agents nodding their agreement.

They watched as he straightened, all hints of sickness falling away, and made his way to a cab in the next lane over.

“Track down that cab,” Hughes ordered, “I want to know exactly where he went.”

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They were well on their way when another text came in from a blocked number, and she pulled it open, tapping Jones’ shoulder to get his attention as she read.

He leaned over to read as well, excitement growing as they got to the end.

“Alright,” she said, sharing a grin. “We have the warrant and the files already, let’s find that order.”

“Let’s do it,” Jones grinned, pulling his computer closer.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“I found the order!” Jones announced to the room a little over an hour later. “It was buried, but Neal was right, it has an address on it.”

“Get a no-knock warrant for it today,” Hughes ordered, “go to the judge’s office and stop him from leaving if you have to.”

“Got it, sir,” he nodded.

“Jones, while you bring the paperwork in person, I’ll call Hickman and be explaining why we need it so he doesn’t hold you up,” Diana said, watching him stop by the cabinet to pick up the forms he needed to fill out.

Jones nodded gratefully as he gathered the paperwork, filling in the details on his way to the door.

With the paperwork on its way, Diana walked back to her desk and dialed the number for Judge Hickman’s office. They were getting close, she could taste it.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Jones got the warrant signed without a problem, there and back in twenty minutes, and they gathered all of White Collar in the conference room to put together their entrance plan.

They had just gone over the building’s perimeter and surrounding area when both Jones and Diana’s phones pinged with a request to share a location with them, the title labeled as ‘Tracking Anklet 2.0’.

Diana accepted it, watching as the location dot revealed Neal to be at the exact place they were planning an entrance for. Thank goodness the no-knock warrant had already gone through and they wouldn’t have to throw the evidence out as inadmissible.

“Neal is already there,” Jones announced to the room. “He shared his location with me and Diana, he’s in the building.”

Agents around the room groaned in a curious mix of grateful and annoyed, and Hughes pinched his nose, looking aggravated, but didn’t comment.

Diana rolled her eyes, but before she could return to the planning meeting, her phone rang, caller ID listing the number as blocked.

That had to be Caffrey.

She answered it and put it on speaker, exchanging a glance with Jones before returning her attention to the phone, but it wasn’t Neal’s voice that they heard.

“Yeah,” a male voice said, deep and resigned, and Diana recognized it as the voice of the factory owner from the call almost two weeks ago.

She looked sharply at Jones, who was already returning the look. She was glad he had caught it as quickly as she had.

She mimed writing to him, not sure if making noise would give Neal away and he nodded, holding a finger to his lips to the room while he walked past the other agents and picked up a white board marker.

Good thing she’d complained to him last month her phone’s mute button wasn’t working, she thought to herself with a slightly hysterical edge of relief.

“Are we gonna change the plan?” a second male voice asked the first.

‘Diana’s mute button doesn’t work. Voice one is factory owner,’ Jones wrote in clear, blocky letters on the white board, big enough everyone in the room could see.

The room tensed even further, collectively turning their attention back to the phone.

“Yeah,” the owner said decisively. “We’ll break him eventually, no one’s that strong. Although,” he said, a slight note of admiration in his voice, “I have to say I’m impressed. Apparently FBI agents are as tough as they claim, I expected him to crack days ago.”

“Me, too,” the second voice said, impressed despite himself. “He still won’t even tell me the names of the people on his team, let alone anything useful, do you really think we can get what we need?”

“We’re going to have to,” the boss said simply. “Our team may be more than capable of pulling of museum heists, but you know none of us have any experience predicting how the Feds lock down customs or how to get a painting fenced.

He’ll tell us what we need eventually, he just needs a little more pain to be convinced, and then we’ll have our own pet Fed to help us plan all those future heists we’re going to run.”

Diana’s hand tightened on the edge of the table, and a glance around the room showed she wasn’t the only one having trouble reigning in their fury.

The other voice laughed.

“Yeah, it’s going to be awesome. Hope he breaks soon, though, at this point, I don’t know all that much more we can do to him without actually killing him or breaking our no maiming rule.”

“We need him to be able to move quickly without being carried if we have to cut and run in the future,” the owner said in the tone of repeating himself for the hundredth time.

“Yeah, I know,” the lackey agreed, “but we’re out of fingernails, and there’s only so many broken ribs one man can take before it becomes a legitimate problem.”

“We haven’t done the cutting yet,” the owner mused.

“He still only drinks when we hold his mouth and nose closed, and he’s going strong on his hunger strike, so blood loss might be a problem.

He spit his bread at me today and told me to screw myself. He’s still quite convinced his team will find us, believing him dead or not.”

“Huh,” the owner considered, and Diana felt a flare of pride in her boss. “And he wonders why we don’t give him hot food anymore...”

The other voice snorted.

“I think Rosser cleared that confusion up for him after that damn idiot was stupid enough to splash the hot soup in his eye.”

They both chuckled and Diana’s rage felt like a physical force, ready to teleport her through the phone line and into the room with them so she could take care of the problem.

“Yeah,” the owner agreed. “Remind Rosser to lay off the head shots, ok? We need his brain functioning when we eventually get his cooperation.”

“Will do, boss,” the voice agreed.

The door clicked shut and there were a few more moments of silence before the call ended.

Diana reached across the table to drag her phone back to her, and it vibrated with an incoming text just as she picked it up.

‘SOS + Ambulance! Peter needs ambulance YESTERDAY!!!’ Neal’s blocked number had sent.

“It’s Neal,” she explained to the room while Jones typed a response, “he’s double checking we heard everything.”

Letting her partner handle the communication, she refocused the planning efforts, glancing down each time her phone buzzed to keep track of that conversation as well.

'We heard you loud and clear. We have a warrant,' Jones texted the three way text thread, 'in office putting together entrance plan now.'

'Good,' Neal responded almost instantly. 'Make sure ambulance ready, pretty sure I won't be able to carry Peter out.'

When she saw Neal’s text Diana stopped mid-sentence to pull up a reply, sliding a page of information at the agent next to her to take over what she had been saying.

'Do NOT try to move him unless ABSOLUTE NECESSITY,' she typed and sent. 'Broken ribs mean strong potential for puncturing lungs or heart if moved. Need paramedics. Only move if immediate danger,' she added and sent.

'Ok,' Neal agreed. 'Not sure I'll find him before you get here, still stuck in hiding spot, big boss still in room. In office all the way down the hall, east corner. Guards are armed, don't know how many, at least 12.’

'Ok,' Jones sent before she could. 'STAY PUT, we'll come get you.'

'Ok,' Neal responded, 'if boss doesn't leave, I'll stay put.'

Diana rolled her eyes to the ceiling and counted in her head to five, peripherally noting Jones doing the same.

"Problems?" Hughes asked, the slightest bit bemused despite the serious situation.

"Caffrey," she ground out, annoyed, and he nodded his understanding.

'Caffrey,’ she texted, ‘if you die, I will kill you. Do not get hurt.'

'I'll try my best not to, just for you,' came his cheeky response a few seconds later, and she took a long moment to remind herself that she was incredibly fond of the man and would be sad if she murdered him, even if he deserved it.

'And for me,' Jones insisted a second later. 'I will help Di kill you if you die.'

'Noted,' Neal sent, 'and for you.'

She exchanged a resigned look with Jones. That would have to be good enough.

Chapter Text

Neal stood in the closet for another long, tense half hour as he waited to see what Haarman would do, inexpressibly grateful the team had texted they were on their way and even if he didn't get out of the closet anytime soon, help was coming.

The factory owner stopped typing as the door to his office opened and someone walked in.

"I'm going to head out, boss," Miller, the same man from before, said. "I checked the perimeter, and made sure the delta team was in place before I sent the rest of my crew home."

"Good work," the owner said, closing his laptop and sliding it into a bag, by the sound of it, and Neal slid backward just in time for the door to open as Haarman grabbed his jacket, shutting it again a moment later.

“I'm heading out for the day as well,” Haarman said. “We'll try again tomorrow, I think I have some ideas that may work."

"Sounds good," the other man agreed, and there was the sound of the door opening again, this time two sets of footsteps as they both walked out, clicking the door shut behind them, and locking it a moment later.

Neal waited several long minutes to make sure they didn't forget anything and come back in before he crept out of his hiding spot and ventured out into the room.

He turned the desk light on, casting a soft glow around the area without the bright light of the overhead lighting that may alert any rotational guards someone was in the room.

He followed the direction he had heard the sliding sound and made his way to a wall with no visible doors in it, only a heavy bookshelf in the center.

It must be a secret door, but how to open it?

Neal studied the floor in front of the bookshelf, there was nowhere in the thick carpet that had an indentation or scrape marking. Peering to the sides, he found the same lack of markings on either end.

Disappointed, he stood up and studied it again. He was almost positive the shelf was where the noise had come from, so in lieu of a direction to push, he instead studied all of the books and decorations on the shelf.

Aha! All of the books and decorative art had a thin layer of dust on them except one item, a small marble bust of someone Neal couldn't be bothered to identify.

He covered his hand with his sleeve, prodded it lightly, and was rewarded with a slight give to the back.

He pushed a little harder and frowned when the bust stopped, hitting something that kept the door from opening. He leaned closer and gently twisted it to each side, pulling his hand back when the bust twisted easily to the left and the entire center of the shelf moved back, and then slid neatly behind the lefthand section of the bookshelf.

Neal stood frozen in the doorway, ears straining for any sounds coming down the newly revealed hallway, hoping his handler was the only one in front of him.

He didn't have any real idea of what he would do if he did run into one of Haarman’s men, his need to find his handler overriding his need for a plan.

Neal waited for several long, tense moments before he crossed the room to unlock the door to the hallway, then returned and crept through the bookshelf doorway, eyeing the button on the left wall of the hallway.

He warily pressed it, watching the door slide closed.

To quell his rising anxiety, he pushed it again, breathing a sigh of relief when the door opened again with no additional action needed.

He pushed the button more confidently, closing the door one more time, and turned his attention down the hall.

The hallway was cement, sloping downward as it stretched away from the entrance, and no interior decorating had been applied except the mounted bare-bulb lighting in the ceiling.

There was just enough space between each bulb that there were areas of shadow, and the effect was ominous and foreboding.

Before he went any further, he pulled out his phone, typing, ‘Secret doorway in office bookshelf, twist marble bust left to open.’ in the three way text thread and hit send, stowing the phone back in his pocket without waiting for a reply once he verified his message had gone through.

Neal silently edged down the sloped hallway, on high alert for the sounds of any guards coming, not that there was anywhere to hide with only two doorways in the unnecessarily long tunnel.

Halfway down the hall, Neal reached the first door. Heavy and wooden, there was no telling what was on the other side.

He pressed his ear against the door itself, listening for any movement. He didn't hear any, and he hoped it wasn't just because the door was too thick for sounds to make it through to him.

He took a deep, bracing breath and cracked the door open slightly, peering inside.

He didn't see anyone in the sliver of the room he could see, so he hesitantly pushed the door open further, stepping inside when he saw that the room was empty.

It was immediately obvious from first glance that it was not where they would be keeping Peter, but he stepped inside and slid the door shut with a quiet click anyway, investigating in case he needed somewhere to hide later.

It appeared to be some kind of break room. There were couches and chairs strewn about, a few tables in the corner, and a fridge and microwave tucked against the far wall.

There was a closet door, and Neal quietly walked over to open it, nodding in satisfaction when he saw it was big enough for him and Peter to both hide in, if the need arose, and there were loose items they could shift to the front to cover their presence.

Excellent.

He shut the closet door, and surveyed the rest of the room, cocking in his head when he spied the area to the side.

There was a whiteboard in the corner, and Neal stepped closer to read the long list of text written down the side. Each of the lines had little tally marks next to them, and Neal peered at the handwriting announcing each category.

Oh.

Neal swallowed hard as he realized what the different lines were. They were each a response that Peter had told them, some more often than others, apparently, and Neal felt a flare of rage that they seemed to have be keeping a scoreboard for their own amusement.

His heart clenched when he read the things Peter had said.

'Screw you,' had thirty-seven tallies next to it, and 'Never' had twenty-five.

'My team is coming' had one hundred and eighty three marks next to it, and Neal blinked the rising tears from his eyes and refocused on his mission, turning and crossing the room to the door without reading the rest.

He cracked it open, listening hard for a moment before he peered out into the hallway, relieved to find it still empty, and continued down the hallway toward the only other door.

He hovered for a second outside the door, thick and wooden as well, but didn't hear anything from inside.

He didn't have the patience for the caution he knew he should be exercising, cracking the door open for a fraction of a second before declaring that test passed and peering inside.

Neal edged the door open and his knees went weak with relief.

Peter. He had finally found Peter.

Neal poked his head in a little further, forcing himself to look away from his handler to check the rest of the room, relieved to find it empty.

He crept all the way inside, pulling the heavy door shut with a quiet click.

Once the door was relatched, he immediately spun to give Peter his full attention.

His handler looked... he looked...

Neal swallowed hard as he took him in.

Peter’s wrists were in a set of thick-banded, medieval looking manacles, which were strung through a hook in the middle of the ceiling, forcing his arms far above his head.

He was noticeably thinner, and he was a mass of bruises and smears of blood, hanging limply from his wrists, his legs having long since given up trying to take his weight after his knees had apparently collapsed out from under him.

His shirt was in tatters, and although it was mostly still present, the various gouges and tears revealed Peter’s midsection to be a mottled patchwork of deep greens and purples striped with scattered wounds and dried blood.

Neal walked toward him in a horrified trance, and Peter blinked awake, squinting up at the newcomer as he tried to support some of his weight with his legs.

“Oh, hey, Neal,” Peter said with a fond, tired grin on his face when he recognized who was approaching.

Neal stared at him in confusion. That was not the reaction he had been expecting at all.

“I was wondering when I’d get to the hallucination stage,” Peter confided lightly, rolling his head on his shoulder to smile at Neal more directly. “I’m glad it’s you. I wanted to see you again before...”

“You are not going to die,” Neal interjected firmly, stepping closer and raising a hand, wanting to touch to reassure himself Peter was real, but not sure where he could make contact that wouldn’t hurt him more.

“It’s me, Peter,” Neal told him, his eyes wide, begging Peter to believe him. Neal didn’t notice the tears in his eyes until a few rolled down his cheek, but he ignored them, focusing all his attention on his handler. “I’m actually here, we’re here to get you out.”

“But... but you thought I was dead, why would you...?” Peter mumbled, brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to make sense of what Neal was telling him.

Neal tried to smile reassuringly, even as more tears fell, and he shook his head.

“Peter, we knew you couldn’t be dead,” he told his handler earnestly. “The sun was still shining, the world was still turning, you couldn’t be gone.

We found the trap door, we’ve been looking for you for days.”

Peter’s face crumpled in relief, and he pushed into the hand Neal had set on his cheek to turn his head slightly to inspect the bruises.

“Oh, thank god,” he whispered, finally believing Neal was real.

Peter’s shoulders trembled, but he only let himself bask in the relief of being found for a moment before he pulled his head up again, his expression becoming more alarmed by the second.

“Neal,” he said, more focused then he had been the whole conversation. “Neal, you have to get out of here, they’ll find you. Go! Go find the others, what are you doing? If they catch you, they will hurt you, Neal, you have to get out!”

“Peter,” Neal said in a reassuring tone, gently laying a hand on each cheek to make his handler look at him instead of the door he had focused on with laser intensity. “Peter, it’s ok. The team is coming too, they know where I am, we’re going to be ok.”

Peter studied him, more than a little desperate, but leaned into the physical contact after a long moment and nodded.

“Thank you,” Peter whispered through his tears, and Neal brought his arms around to carefully hug him, pulling Peter’s head into his shoulder and burying a hand in his hair.

“I have this partner that has this motto,” Neal said, lightly resting his head on Peter’s as some of his own tears fell into Peter’s hair. “He says we don’t leave anyone behind.”

Peter let out a quiet sob and pushed his face further into Neal's shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispered through another wave of tears, and Neal pulled him in tighter.

"Always, partner. We will always come for you."

Neal stood, hugging Peter, for a long moment, soaking in the feeling of his handler alive and not yet safe, but at least found.

Peter relaxed into him, letting Neal support most of his weight as he huddled into the hug. Neal felt a lance of pain shoot through his chest as he realized this was probably the first time in almost two weeks that Peter had been touched without it causing him more pain.

Peter sniffed quietly, a few more quiet tears falling onto Neal's shoulder, but as Peter calmed further, his tears slowed too, although Neal suspected that was more to do with dehydration and exhaustion than anything else.

The comforting silence was broken by the low sound of the secret door being opened, multiple footsteps coming down the hallway toward them.

Peter tensed, his breathing picking up as he heard them too.

"Neal," he pleaded, finding a few more tears to push out desperately, "Neal, you have to go, run, please. Don't let them hurt you, you have to hide."

"It's ok, Peter," Neal reassured, hoping he wasn't lying to his handler for the first time ever.

He slowly pulled away, helping Peter readjust to holding his own weight so Neal could stand protectively between the door and his handler.

"It's ok, it's just your team," Neal said, praying he wasn't wrong.

He wanted to believe what he was telling Peter, but as the people came closer, his doubts snuck in.

It was extremely possible that the guards around the building had noticed the arrival of the FBI and were all congregating down in Peter's cell to make their last stand, knowing the agents wouldn't open fire if one of their own was in the room.

Maybe the guards planned to use Peter as a hostage to ensure a safe passage out of the building, and Neal had accidentally handed them a two-for-one deal.

If the White Collar team had really left when they texted, they would have had to break several land speed records to get there in time and mobilize, and Jones had mentioned they weren't done with their planning yet.

Neal's heart rate picked up by the second, not helped by Peter's pleading whispers for him to hide, but he wasn't going to leave his handler alone. One way or another, they'd face whatever was coming together.

Neal reached a comforting hand back to squeeze Peter's shoulder with a quiet whisper of, "I'm not leaving you, partner," before he turned back to the door.

He had one more moment to take a deep breath and square his shoulders, trying to emulate every time Peter had stood protectively between Neal and a threat, and then the door opened.

Chapter Text

Jones led the team down the hall to the office, flashing hand signals to the agents behind him so they could move silently into the room. If Neal was wrong and guards were down in the cell with Peter, they didn't want to give them enough warning for them to position Peter as a hostage.

The office had been left conveniently unlocked, presumably by Neal, and Jones burst in, flashing his gun in every direction as he cleared the room, nodding over his head to the agents behind him when he found it empty.

After a cursory check of the closet, he moved to the bookshelf, six other agents flowing into the room behind him.

He signaled one to stay at the door to the hallway as lookout, and the agent nodded, taking her post.

He ran his eyes over the various decorations on the bookshelf, almost immediately finding the marble bust Neal had told them about.

He made eye contact with the remaining five agents, signaling another agent to stay at the entrance, ready to call for reinforcements if the lookout needed a runner.

The man nodded, moving to a defensible position that wouldn't block the other agents from the opening door.

Jones made eye contact with the other four, receiving nods that they were ready before he twisted the bust and burst through the opening door, gun at the ready.

No one was in the hallway, and he waved the others forward, nodding when they fell into formation behind him.

There was a door on the right, and he gestured to two of the agents behind him to clear the room while he kept watch for people coming down the hall, the fourth agent watching the way they had come.

The two agents reappeared a few seconds later, nodding it was clear, Agent Wallace signing that it was a break room, and Jones was grateful she had forced him to sit down with her months ago and learn a few basic signs.

He nodded his approval and led the group further down the hall, coming to the only other door in the hallway.

Jones took a deep, bracing breath and shared a look with each of the agents, double checking they were ready for whatever they would find.

With a final round of nods, he nodded as well, signaling to Saunders to swing the door open so Jones could surge into the room, ready for any hostile guards trying to use Peter as a bargaining chip.

Jones quirked a grin when the door to Peter's cell slammed open and they did find a guard, just not one intending to use Peter as a hostage.

Neal stood between Peter and the door, shoulders squared and eyes blazing, and for once in his life, Jones thought that Neal might have actually come out on top of a fight had they been someone trying to hurt Peter.

Jones had always known Neal was brilliant, charming, talented, determined, the list went on and on, but he had never thought of the man as fierce until the moment he saw him standing over his handler like an avenging angel, his eyes promising that whoever tried to hurt Peter was not going to live to tell about it.

After a second of assessment, Neal realized who they were, and his shoulders slumped in relief, turning back to Peter with a shaky smile.

"See, Peter," he said, putting a hand on his cheek and ducking to make eye contact, "I told you it was just your team. You were all worried over nothing."

Jones snorted, his own relief sending a tidal wave of giddiness through him, but that was quickly dampened when he really got a look at Peter as Neal stopped shielding him from view.

"Clear!" Jones yelled over his shoulder, holstering his weapon and moving further into the room, approaching Peter with a hesitant hand raised, wanting to touch, but unable to find any part of him that wasn't injured.

Neal noticed and cast Jones a knowing smile, stepping out of the way and gesturing for Jones to take his place, and Jones pulled Peter into a gentle hug that his boss leaned into in relief.

"We got you, Peter. We finally found you, you're coming home," Jones whispered into Peter's hair, and he felt Peter's shoulders jolt under the hand Jones ran down his back.

"Thank you," Peter breathed, barely audible, and Jones hugged him tighter for a second before he stepped back, nodding for Neal to take his place in front of Peter again as Jones turned his attention to the other agents starting to come in.

"Alright," he announced seriously, the other agents' attention snapping to him from where they had been anxiously looking at Peter. "I know everyone wants to see Peter, so say hi, assure yourself he's alive, and then get to work clearing this building. We can't get paramedics to him until we've got the whole place cleared, and it's big, so we need to double time it."

The other agents around the room straightened their shoulders and nodded. In a truly impressive display of unspoken synchronization, they approached Peter one by one, reassuring themselves he was alive and found, and then turned, backs straight and determined, to clear the building.

Neal stood next to him, pressed against Peter’s side, taking most of the man's weight from his straining shoulders, which were trembling under Neal’s hand.

By the time all of the agents except Jones had left the room, Neal was completely supporting his handler’s weight as Peter slumped into him, hurt and exhausted.

Jones looked at the pair, but resisted the urge to reclaim the space closest to Peter, instead switching the volume of his radio on and announcing, “We found him, behind the secret door, just like Neal said,” into the radio and then listening to the momentary crackle of static as he waited for the others to answer.

“Oh, thank god,” Diana’s voice said, and Jones could almost feel her relief.

“How bad?” Hughes asked anxiously.

Jones was having a hard time not feeling thrown off by having Hughes on a field operation with them, but no one in the office would allow themselves to be left behind, ASAC included.

“He’s...” Jones cast his gaze back across the room to where Neal was smiling though his tears and saying something to Peter, hugging him a little tighter as he supported all of his weight. “He’s bad. Real bad. Ambulance sooner rather than later bad.”

“Understood,” Diana’s voice said, suddenly all business.

“We’ll report when we’ve cleared the south wing, over and out,” Hughes announced.

Jones stepped into the hallway to receive reports from his team, most using hand signals from down the hall and then turning to continue the search after he nodded.

Normally everyone would have a radio, but normally everyone in the entire office didn’t participate in a single operation, so they had run a little short, and they had rushed out of the office in too big a hurry to improvise.

In between check-ins, Jones looked into the room, swallowing hard as he watched Neal sway slightly while he ran a hand down Peter’s back, which occasionally shuddered and jolted under Neal’s soothing hand, the comforting position made slightly awkward by their inability to cut Peter down yet, but Peter didn’t seem to mind, pushing himself closer to his consultant and burying his face in Neal’s chest.

Sometimes when he looked over Neal seemed to be telling Peter something, probably reassuring ramblings and promises of safety, but sometimes when he looked into the room between reports Neal was humming something Jones couldn’t quite make out, head resting lightly on Peter’s.

Jones tore his attention away from the pair when a determined set of footsteps echoed down the hall, turning to find Hughes striding toward him.

Jones stepped back out of the way and silently pointed into the room.

Hughes froze for a moment in the doorway, taking in the sight of Peter, bruised and bloody and broken, held protectively to Neal’s chest.

The consultant continued whatever he was saying, then seemed to notice the audience, glancing over at Jones and Hughes and nodding his understanding when he met Hughes’ eyes.

It was enough to get the ASAC moving again, and Jones drifted after him across the room, keeping an ear out for another agent coming down the hallway.

“Hey, Peter,” Neal said in a warm, comforting voice. “Look, Peter.”

Neal gently moved his shoulder, encouraging Peter to lift his head enough to resituate it to be able to see the room, squinting at Hughes with exhausted eyes.

“Reese,” Peter whispered gratefully, surprising Jones by slumping even further into Neal as his relief fully set in.

“Peter,” Hughes breathed, and Jones turned to look at the ASAC, surprised for a moment that voice had come from his mouth.

Jones knew Hughes was concerned, of course he was concerned about his people, but Jones had never seen the man so affected before.

Even when Peter had been kidnapped by Lang, Hughes had been frantic with worry, anyone with eyes could see that, but he kept it tightly locked under a mask of control that hadn’t faltered until Peter had announced he had escaped the cell, and even then it was only for a split second.

Hughes and Peter had always had a special bond, and Peter was closer to the ASAC than anyone else in the office. Hughes looked out for all of his people, but everyone knew Peter Burke was his favorite.

Jones wasn’t as scared of Reese as Neal was, but he still had a healthy dose of respect for the man, finding it difficult to fall into the fond and sniping grumblings Peter could pick up so easily with him.

Hughes finally reached the duo, a hand ghosting to Peter’s face, not seeming to know what to do next.

Lost was not often a look Jones saw on Reese’s face, in fact he couldn’t think of a single other instance he had seen the expression, but Neal knew what to do, gesturing for Hughes to take his position of hugging and supporting Peter’s weight in equal measure, and Hughes nodded.

Neal slid out of position at exactly the right time as Hughes took his place, managing to resituate Peter against Hughes with almost no uncomfortable jostling, and in the one smooth motion Peter was leaning into Reese’s chest instead of Neal’s as the consultant stepped back to give them more space.

“Reese,” Peter’s breath hitched, in tears for the first time in Jones’ memory. “It hurts,” Peter cried harder, “everything hurts, Reese.”

Peter stifled a sob in Hughes’ chest as the ASAC pulled him closer. Jones caught a heartbroken expression on Reese’s face before it was buried in Peter’s hair.

“I know, Peter, I know. Help is coming,” he promised in a calm, reassuring voice that Peter responded to instantly, his cries slowing as he listened, burrowing further into the protective comfort Hughes was offering. “We’re almost done clearing the building, just another few minutes then we’ll get the paramedics in here. They’re already outside, just waiting for the go ahead, then we’ll get you down.”

Hughes buried a hand in Peter’s hair, and Jones looked away, feeling like he had intruded on a moment too personal to watch.

He glanced around the room, surprised to see Neal missing, and vaguely remembered his devastated look as Peter told Hughes about his pain.

Jones cast another look around the room, not that it would be possible to miss anyone with nothing to hide behind in the empty space.

He looked at Peter and Hughes one more time, heart clenching as Hughes murmured something too low to hear while Peter cried into his chest, and Jones stepped quietly out of the room, even more confused as to where Neal could be when he didn’t find him hovering outside the cell.

Another two agents appeared to check in at the end of the hallway, and Neal still hadn’t reappeared. Jones wracked his mind, but couldn’t fathom where he might have gone.

As if summoned, Neal arrived at the end of the hallway just before Jones began to ask into the radio if anyone had seen the consultant.

Neal strode down the hall, holding up his hand when he got nearer.

Jones squinted in the dim light, making out a key as Neal walked closer.

“Handcuffs,” Neal explained simply, placing the key carefully in Jones’ hand, and Jones held it tightly, understanding the importance as he glanced back into the room, following Neal’s look.

Hughes let out a wet chuckle and removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder just long enough to double finger point at Neal before it returned to rubbing his agent’s back.

“Y’u s’re Ne’ ‘k?” Peter slurred, barely audible, and Hughes let out another chuckle and an affectionate eye roll, hugging Peter tighter.

“Yes, Peter, I’m sure your consultant is ok. Neal, Peter was wondering where you disappeared to.”

The warmest, fondest look Jones had ever seen in his life spread across Neal’s face as he stepped around Hughes so Peter wouldn’t have to move to see him, laying a light hand on Peter’s closest shoulder and ducking to catch his eye.

“I’m right here, Peter,” Neal reassured, brushing a hand through Peter’s hair when he sighed in relief.

“I need to coordinate with Jones and Berrigan,” Hughes said regretfully, looking at Neal, who nodded his understanding and moved in to take Hughes’ place just as smoothly as the first switch.

“I was just finding the handcuff key,” Jones heard Neal explain quietly. “I would never leave you, partner, I promise.”

Peter nodded and his eyes fluttered shut, nearing the end of his rope.

Hughes watched them for another long second before he made eye contact with Jones, nodding his head toward the door, and Jones reluctantly followed him out of the room.

Chapter Text

Jones followed him out into the hallway, using the radios to check on the other agents’ progress.

“Rodriquez, scene is cleared, wave the medics in,” Hughes ordered into his radio two minutes later, receiving a crisp, “Yes, sir,” almost immediately.

Before Jones could radio Diana to ask her location, she appeared around the corner, walking quickly down the hall, giving them both a nod and continuing past them to Peter’s cell without slowing down.

Jones exchanged a glance with Hughes, and the ASAC nodded, releasing Jones to follow Diana into the room.

Jones needed no further convincing, entering the room just as Diana made it to the duo.

“Boss,” she greeted, a small waver in her voice as she took in his condition.

“Di,” Peter breathed, drained, but straining to keep his eyes open so he could talk to her.

“We’ve missed you, Boss,” Diana sniffed, wrapping a gentle arm around the back of his head to pull Peter into a side hug without disconnecting him from Neal.

Peter quirked an exhausted smile at her, leaning in to the hand she laid on his cheek when she stepped back from the hug.

“Missed you, too,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear, and Jones swallowed hard, looking away for a moment to shove down the tears that were trying to rise.

He heard a growing noise of footsteps, becoming louder when they left the carpet of the office and moved into the concrete of the hallway.

Jones walked to the doorway to push the door as wide open as it would allow and stepped into the hallway to check on the coordination effort, letting Diana spend another few seconds with Peter.

As he expected, his team had everything under control, Hughes speaking to the paramedics as they strode down the hall, obviously bringing them up to speed on what they knew of Peter's injuries.

There were three EMTs, all nodding seriously as they listened, pushing a gurney between them.

The situation was under control, and quickly approaching, so Jones slipped back into the room, moving toward the trio in the center.

"Peter," he called softly, moving to Neal's side so Peter didn't have to move to see him.

Peter looked at him, tired and hurt, his mask falling further by the second, leaving nothing to cover the pain and desperation in his expression.

"The EMTs are here," Jones told him, running a hand lightly over Peter's shaking shoulder. "We're going to get you down, get you some pain meds."

Peter's eyes closed in relief, a tear falling off his cheek and onto Neal's shoulder, which was still supporting all of Peter's weight as Peter slumped into him.

Before Jones could say anything else, the room was filled with movement and sounds as Hughes, the three medics, and a stream of agents entered.

Hughes and the EMTs made a beeline for Peter, while the other agents filled in around the walls, trying to stay out of the way, but still wanting to be close.

The paramedics paid them no mind, focusing on their patient, and Peter didn't seem to realize they were there, pushed past his endurance point as he struggled to hold on.

"Ok," one of the two women said, tightening her long, black ponytail before she stepped closer. "We're here to help," she continued, her tone taking on a warm, reassuring quality as Neal fixed his wide eyes on her, some of his fear breaking through the calm mask he had been putting on for Peter.

"I'm Larketta, and these are my co-workers Nicole and Joshua. We're here to help. What's our patient's name?"

"Peter," Neal answered, his voice rough, "his name is Peter."

Larketta nodded her approval.

"And your name?" she asked.

"Neal," he said quietly. "This is Jones and Diana," he added, nodding to the two agents hovering nearby.

"Ok, good, thanks," she acknowledged with a calming smile, giving off an aura of calm and controlled that dampened the growing fear in the room. "Ok, first thing we're going to do is see what we're working with, alright? My co-workers are going to come up and take some vitals, is he conscious?"

Neal swallowed, looking down and running a hand through Peter's hair.

"Hey, Peter," he called quietly, "you awake in there?"

Peter gave the barest hint of a nod, and Neal gave a light squeeze of acknowledgement.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, looking back to the paramedic.

"Ok," she said decisively, moving to Neal's other side.

"Peter," she said, "we're here to help you. The first thing we need to do is take your blood pressure," she explained.

She glanced over Neal's shoulder and nodded to the other two.

"My co-worker, Josh, is going to slip a blood-pressure cuff around your arm, ok? It'll be just like when you go to the doctor, it'll tighten, and then it'll release, and then we'll get it off."

She nodded again and the man moved forward, gently slipping the cuff around Peter's bicep.

Peter's breath picked up slightly at the unfamiliar touch, but he didn't try to pull away.

After a long few seconds, the device beeped, and Josh slid it off, murmuring the results to the other two paramedics.

"Alright," Larketta narrated again, flashing a few incomprehensible hand signals to her colleagues, who nodded and immediately busied themselves with whatever the task assigned was. "My other co-worker, Nicole, is going to check your ribs while Josh puts the blood pressure cuff away and I get the wrapping ready.

She's going to be putting her hand under your shirt and running her fingers over your ribs, we'll need to know what we're working with before we try to move you."

Peter tensed as Nicole's hand made contact, not pleased by yet another stranger touching him, but he didn't protest.

Nicole's brow furrowed in concentration as she ran her fingers over the parts of the ribs she could reach.

"Ok," she said, looking up to meet Neal's eyes, "we're going to have to pull him out a little so I can get to the front."

Neal didn't look happy about it, but he nodded and shifted Peter back a bit, supporting his handler's weight slightly awkwardly as he kept one arm wrapped under Peter's right shoulder, and his other falling to Peter's left hip to balance the strain.

Diana stepped forward, slipping an arm low around Peter's hips to support more weight without being in the way, and Nicole quickly did the checks she needed to do.

"Ok," she nodded, stepping back and gesturing that Neal could return Peter to his previous position.

She turned, catching the other medics' attention.

"We've got three broken on the right side, and an additional four cracked, three on the left, one on the right. None are out of place at the moment, but the three broken have strong potential."

Larketta and Josh nodded their understanding, and the three medics leaned their heads together to have a quick, whispered planning session before they straightened again.

"Ok," Larketta said, stepping back to the position that Peter could see her if he opened his eyes.

"Peter, we're going to do this in three steps," she said. "First, we're going to wrap your ribs so we don't risk them being displaced when we get you down.

Then, we're going to find a way to get you out of these handcuffs."

"We have the key," Neal interjected softly, nodding toward Jones, who held up the key Neal had given him as proof.

"Good," Larketta said, a note of relief in her voice, "that makes things easier.

Ok, then second, we're going to unlock the handcuffs and get you down.

Third, we're going to load you onto the gurney and get you to the hospital, and more importantly, get you some pain meds."

Josh walked around the group to stand next to Larketta, carrying the packet of wide bandaging Larketta had laid out on the gurney.

"We'll need you to hold him back a little again," he said to Neal, then included Jones and Diana in the statement.

All three nodded, shifting Peter until they all braced some of his weight, but his ribs were easily accessible.

"Good," Larketta nodded. "Ok, Peter, we're going to step forward and start wrapping now. You might feel a dull ache from the pressure of the wrap, but there shouldn't be any sharp, shooting pains, ok?

If there are, I need you to do your best to tell us, but we'll be watching for the signs as well."

Peter nodded slightly, his head hanging to his chest with his eyes shut.

"Excellent," she said, waving the other two into place, "good, thank you, Peter. We're about to start, Josh is going to start the wrap on your left side."

The three medics worked efficiently, passing the wrappings to each other until they had bound Peter's ribs, only pulling a few unhappy grunts out of the man.

"Alright," Josh narrated, "I'm almost done tying the wrapping off, aaaaaand, done," he announced, dropping Peter's shirt back over the bandages.

"You can step back in and support his weight again," Nicole directed Neal, who moved back into position, and Peter relaxed a little at being held by Neal again instead of being touched by strangers.

The three medics stepped to the side and exchanged looks and nods, and then Larketta stepped forward to warn Peter what was going to happen next.

"Peter," she said, "next up is getting you off the ceiling. Your people already found the key, so that's going to make it easier, but I'm going to be completely honest with you, this is going to hurt.

I suspect you've torn the muscles in your shoulders, and your hands and fingers are only getting minimal blood flow as your heart tries to pump it straight up.

When we lower your arms, feeling is going to return to them, and it won't be pleasant, but we're going to load you onto the gurney and get you back to our ambulance as quickly as possible.

We'll be able to start an IV run there and get you some pain medication. The next few minutes won't be fun, but they will end. As soon as we get you to the ambulance, it won’t hurt so much, ok?"

Peter's breath hitched, but he nodded against Neal's chest.

Neal clutched him tighter, looking more nervous than his handler about her statement.

"Alright," Larketta said decisively, turning to Jones. "I believe I heard Neal say your name is Jones?"

Jones nodded silently, waiting for instructions with wide eyes.

"I need you to take the key and unlock the handcuffs, one at a time. First do Peter's left arm, and you're going to wait until I let you know I'm ready to take the arm's weight before you fully open it, then you're going to do the same with the right when Nicole says she's ready for you."

Jones nodded seriously, moving so he could reach the handcuffs better.

"Peter," Larketta said moving to his left side, "I'm going to grab your arm. We don't need you to do anything, I'll lower it, and Nicole's going to lower the other, you just need to work on breathing and remember that we'll be able to get you pain meds as soon as we get to the ambulance."

She reached up, bracing his upper arm with one hand, and holding his forearm with the other, as close to the manacle as she could get without being in the way.

She gave Jones a nod.

"Nicole," she said, watching Jones' progress carefully, "we'll want to move as quickly as possible on that other arm, we might be able to get it unlocked before he starts feeling this one."

Nicole nodded, already moving into place.

"I got it, Larketta," she assured, watching Jones as he slid the key into the manacles and twisted.

He pulled the left manacle open, and Larketta immediately took control of the arm, as promised.

"Ok, Jones," Nicole took over, "I'm ready for you to do the right side."

He nodded, pulling the right open as well, and she supported Peter's arm as he fell more into Neal once free from the ceiling.

Jones stepped back out of the way, standing next to Diana to watch anxiously.

Peter's breathing picked up as the paramedics slowly lowered his arms. He grunted into Neal's chest, Neal pulling him closer and whispering reassurances in his ear Jones couldn't quite make out.

Peter's pained noises grew louder until he was muffling screams and sobs into Neal's shoulder, his consultant doing his best to console him as the medics ran hands over Peter's arms and shoulders, assuring themselves there was nothing that needed to be fixed immediately, and loaded him onto the gurney.

Peter's eyes clenched shut as they laid him out on the bed, but he tossed his head back and forth searchingly, his cries becoming more desperate until Neal stepped forward and laid a hand on his hair, leaning down to keep up a continuous stream of reassurances that Neal was still there and that pain meds were coming.

Peter calmed slightly, some of the desperation fading, but tears still leaked out of his clenched eyes and he grit his teeth together, which didn't completely silence the stifled sobs of pain.

Within another minute the gurney was moving, Neal running along with the paramedics as he kept up his steady flow of reassurances.

Jones and Diana exchanged a quick look before they both took off after the gurney, keeping stride behind it as they followed their boss out to the waiting ambulance.

The paramedics moved quickly, loading Peter into the back of the ambulance barely five minutes later.

"Sorry, Neal," Josh said, raising a hand to Neal's chest as Neal tried to follow them in the back. "We need room to work. In a minute or five we'll call for someone to ride with him, but right now, we need the space."

Neal nodded, looking lost as the door shut and he was disconnected from his handler.

Jones and Diana both stepped forward, and Jones beat Diana to Neal by barely a second, pulling him into a hug that Neal sank into gratefully.

A moment later, Jones felt Diana add her arms to the hug, squeezing them both tightly as she watched the back of the ambulance with sad eyes.

"I think Neal should ride with him," Diana said softly, and Jones nodded his agreement.

"Yeah," he said, "me, too."

Neal sniffed, pushing further into both of them.

"Thank you," he whispered, and Jones could hear the tears in his voice.

The ambulance's door started to open, and Jones pulled back from the hug, nodding at the door when Neal looked at him in confusion.

Larketta poked her head out, announcing, "Whoever you picked can come in now, we're leaving in two minutes," and disappeared back inside.

Hughes stepped forward from the crowd of agents gathered behind them, and Jones saw Neal tense, waiting to see if Hughes would insist on being the one to ride with Peter.

Hughes drew level with them and touched Neal’s arm in an unnecessary move to secure the consultant's attention.

“Good -,” Reese cleared his throat. “Good job, Caffrey. You did good, damn good. Now get gone, the medics are waiting.”

Neal smiled gratefully at him with a nod, turning on his heel to pull the door open and climb into the back without pausing to respond.

Chapter Text

The agents stood, watching the ambulance fade from view in a stunned silence for several long seconds before they pulled themselves back to the present and turned to Hughes for instructions.

"Do you want me and Diana to lead the teams, sir?" Jones asked expectantly.

"No," Hughes shook his head, his relief at finding Peter bringing a warm tone to his orders. "No, I want you two to go tell Mrs. Elizabeth Burke that her husband is alive."

Diana's breath stuttered for a moment as she realized that they could fix Elizabeth's broken world.

Her smile grew, sharing an eager nod with Jones before she turned back to Reese.

"Yes, sir," she accepted happily.

"Good," he nodded approvingly. "Afterwards, I want you to go to the hospital and keep an eye on Caffrey."

"I really don't think he'll go anywhere while Peter's in the hospital, sir,” she pointed out. “He broke out to find Peter, not because he was trying to run."

Hughes rolled his eyes with a fondly annoyed huff.

"No,” he agreed, "I trust Caffrey will be in that hospital until they discharge Peter, but I don't trust that he won't convince the staff he's a visiting doctor so he can go back into the ER bay and sit with Peter instead of waiting until they’re done."

Jones and Diana both snorted their amusement, reluctantly nodding their agreement.

“Fair point, sir,” Jones acknowledged. “We’ll let you know when we head to the hospital.”

“Make sure you drive Elizabeth,” Hughes instructed seriously. “With that kind of shock, she shouldn’t be on the road.”

Diana and Jones nodded their understanding and turned toward the lot they had left Diana’s car in, several streets over.

They walked two full blocks before the full force of their relief sank in.

“He’s alive and we found him,” Jones said, sounding dazed and ecstatic.

Diana felt her laughter bubble up as she finally emotionally registered that fact.

“He’s alive and we found him!” she laughed, giddy and a bit lightheaded in her relief.

Jones joined her slightly hysterical laughter, and if it turned into a few collective hysterical tears, she wasn’t going to tell anyone.

She unlocked her car, sliding into the driver seat feeling dazed and relieved. The world seemed brighter than before, and suddenly even the dingy, flickering streetlights were beautiful and captivating.

She shook her head slightly as she and Jones took a moment to stare out the windshield in relief before finally sliding her key into the ignition and putting her car into drive.

She huffed another shocked, disbelieving laugh as she pulled out onto the road, pointing her car toward the Burkes’ house.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Twenty minutes later, she put her car into park as she pulled into a spot in front of the Burkes’ home.

She pulled the key out of the ignition and exchanged a wide smile with Jones, both of them getting out and practically floating to the front door.

Her boss was alive, the world was a beautiful place.

She reached out and rang the doorbell, bouncing slightly where she stood and glancing eagerly at Jones, who looked just as excited.

They heard the click of Satchmo's nails as he trotted over to the door, followed more slowly by the trudging sounds of Elizabeth's footsteps.

She pulled the door open in her pajamas, her eyes red-rimmed and hair uncombed.

She brightened slightly when she saw it was them, waving them inside and flapping a hand at the couch.

"Do you want a drink or something?" she asked, her voice sounding dull and tired as she sat across from where they had settled on the couch.

"No, that's alright," Diana shook her head, her eyes bright, and Elizabeth's brow furrowed in confusion at the excitement pouring off the pair.

"We have news," Jones told her, barely restraining his beaming grin.

"News?" Elizabeth repeated, her curiosity pushing through her haze of grief.

"Yes," Diana confirmed, "news. Good news."

Elizabeth sat up a little straighter, listening intently.

"So you remember we told you Neal broke out of jail?" Diana asked, slightly giddy.

Elizabeth slumped back in her chair again.

"Oh," she said tonelessly, "you found Neal?"

"Well, yes," Jones confirmed, "but that's not the news, and it was more like he found us, or at least told us where he was.

So, we told you he broke out, but we didn't tell you why because we honestly thought he was having a mental break and didn't want to add even more stress to your life."

She cocked her head in silent question.

"We went to visit him last week," Diana picked up the explanation. "He was excited, enthusiastic, energetic. We were worried. He started this disjointed explanation of how he realized Peter hadn't died, he'd been kidnapped, and Elizabeth, he was right!"

Elizabeth gasped, watching them with wide eyes, sitting completely frozen as she waited for them to explain further.

"Neal led us on a long game of follow the leader," Jones grinned, "and eventually brought us back to the factory, where he was right! There was a trap door, an electronically activated trap door.

They must have had a camera mounted in the factory so they could tell when Peter walked over it or something, and then they set the fire, dropped out the floor, waited until he fell through, and then shut it again. The camera must have melted."

Elizabeth swallowed hard, tears flooding her eyes.

"Really?" she whispered, her voice full of hope. "He could still be alive? We just have to find him?"

"Better than that," Diana told her, beaming. "We -or rather, Neal- already did find him. He's alive, Elizabeth! Peter is alive and on his way to the hospital!"

"Oh my -," Elizabeth's words choked off as she burst into relieved tears, accepting the hug that Diana moved to the armrest of her chair to give her, letting her friend cry out her relief in her shoulder.

"He's alive," Diana repeated, squeezing Elizabeth tightly. "That consultant of his found him.

Neal broke out of Supermax just to find him, and then he did. Peter was hurt, but he's alive, and he's in the hospital by now, being taken care of."

"Thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou," El repeated over and over, clutching Diana tightly.

Jones chuckled, perching on the other armrest and rubbing her back.

"Thank Neal," he said fondly, "he's the one who found him, we just called the ambulance."

Elizabeth cried for several more minutes as she absorbed the news before she finally sniffed and wiped at her eyes as she stemmed the flow.

"Why did they want Peter?" she asked in a whisper, not lifting her head from Diana's shoulder.

"They didn't want Peter in particular," Diana told her. "They wanted an FBI agent. They were the same people that pulled that last heist Peter was working on.

They knew enough to successfully rob the museum, but they didn't know anything about customs lockdowns or how the FBI would be looking for them, so they thought they could keep their own little FBI agent as a pet to help them come up with ways around the various protocols."

El snorted wetly into Diana's shoulder, despite the seriousness of the explanation.

"They needed someone to teach them how to get around the law, and they chose Peter?"

Jones and Diana laughed in agreement.

"Yeah," Jones noted wryly, "they could not have chosen a worse agent to kidnap if that's their goal..."

"Apparently he told them literally nothing," Diana confided proudly. "Neal snuck into the boss's office and called us while the man was monologuing to his minion. They were both in grudging awe of how tough Peter is, apparently he hasn't answered a single question they asked."

"He's always so stubborn," Elizabeth laughed weakly, a few more tears falling down her face as she sniffed and swiped at her cheeks more determinedly.

"Yeah," Diana agreed, warm and fond, rubbing an arm down her back.

"You said he's in the hospital?" Elizabeth asked, as if that statement had just caught up with her. "What are his injuries?"

Diana and Jones exchanged a look over her head.

"Well," Jones started, some of jovial tone fading, "he... he's got a few injuries. He's not in great shape.

To start with, he was refusing to eat. Apparently he spit his food at them every time they brought him a meal and they could not make him do anything. He's gotta be dehydrated for the same reason..."

He trailed off, trying to find words for the rest.

"He has broken ribs," Diana added softly. "Three broken, four more cracked. They weren't displaced, so the medics wrapped them up for transport so they wouldn't shift around.

They... they -, they pulled his fingernails," she admitted in a pained voice, squeezing Elizabeth tighter when she buried herself further into the hug.

"He's got bruises everywhere," Jones continued the list, "and he's got torn shoulder muscles from having his arms over his head for so long, and also from his shoulders supporting his whole weight for days."

"Arms over his head?" Elizabeth echoed.

"Yeah," Jones winced. "They had him handcuffed to the ceiling."

Elizabeth sucked in a pained breath but didn't comment, so Diana put a hand in her hair and rested her head on Elizabeth's.

"The important thing is he's alive," she reminded Elizabeth softly and sincerely, so glad to have her boss back in the land of the living.

"He is," Jones agreed, firm and sure. "He's alive, and after a few days in the hospital, he's going to come home to you."

"Thank you," El whispered emphatically. "Thank you."

"If you want us to," Diana said, not accepting the gratitude she felt Neal deserved, "we can drive you to the hospital. You probably shouldn't be driving after such a shock, but we can take you when we go."

"Yes," Elizabeth said, sitting up again and wiping her eyes. "Yes, please. Let's go."

Jones laughed at her enthusiasm, watching her stand up and look at them as if ready to walk out the door that very second.

"Why don't you change into something warmer," he suggested gently. "And grab some socks and shoes."

She looked down at herself and considered his statement, clearly weighing if she should insist on going barefoot in her pajamas, or if she should take the extra minute to change.

"We came straight here from the crime scene," Diana told her, "It'll still be a little bit before we're all allowed to see him. Go change, grab a bag and pack a blanket, pillow, toiletries, medicines, and a book, and then we'll drive you, ok?"

Elizabeth nodded, letting out a shaky breath of relief.

"Do your neighbors ever watch Satchmo for you?" Jones asked as she made her way to the stairs. “Do you want us to drop him off?”

"Yeah, they do," Elizabeth nodded, "but they come over here. They know where the key is, and the alarm code, and where his food and stuff is. I'll text them on the way."

The agents nodded their agreement.

"Oh," Diana called as she disappeared from view, "grab your phone charger!"

"Thanks!" El's voice called down to them.

Jones and Diana grinned at each other. Life was looking up.

Chapter Text

Jones led the way into the hospital waiting room just under half an hour later, Elizabeth and Diana following close behind.

He scanned the room for Neal, pointing him out to the other two when he found him tucked into the corner, watching the double doors that led back to the exam rooms with a laser focus.

Jones took a moment to study his friend as they made their way across the waiting room. At the crime scene, Jones hadn’t been able to look too closely at anything or anyone that wasn’t Peter, but now that he was really looking at Neal he felt a flare of concern.

Neal had pulled one foot onto his seat, wrapping an arm around his knee and clutching it to his chest, barely blinking as he stared at the double doors separating him from Peter.

He looked thinner than usual. His baggy orange prison jumpsuit had done a fairly good job covering his weight loss, but the vaguely fitted dress shirt he currently wore did not.

Neal had always been slender, but his physique had slid from lithe to fragile, and Jones added ‘make sure Neal eats’ to the top of his to-do list for the coming days.

There were bags under Neal’s eyes and an exhausted slump to his shoulders that Jones hadn’t registered in the excitement of finding Peter, and Jones wondered abruptly if Neal had slept in the past few days. If he had, it couldn’t have been much.

In a little less than five days, Neal had escaped Supermax, gotten to wherever it is he went, hacked the FBI, solved the case, obtained his disguise, conned his way into the factory, erased his disguise, infiltrated the company, and found Peter, which didn’t leave a lot of time for sleep or taking care of himself.

Jones exchanged a quick glance with Diana and she nodded, confirming she had noticed the same things and had also added ‘take care of Neal’ to her to-do list.

“Neal,” Elizabeth called before they could continue their silent conversation, striding out in front of the agents as they neared the consultant.

Neal’s focus broke from the double doors for the first time since the trio had arrived, eyes searching for the person who had called his name and locked onto Elizabeth.

Neal blinked at the oncoming group for a moment, and if Jones had any doubts of Neal’s exhaustion levels before, they were dissipated by the long moment it took Neal’s tired face to morph into excitement as he realized who was approaching.

“Elizabeth,” he greeted, springing to his feet to meet her in the hug she offered.

Neal squeezed her tightly, burying his face in her hair, and she hugged him back just as fiercely.

“I’ve missed you,” she told him quietly, voice rough as she pushed down a wave of tears.

Neal sniffed before he pulled back, his smile slightly wet, but bright.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he told her.

“Thank you for finding him,” she whispered sincerely, a tear escaping down her cheek. “Thank you, thank you, Neal.”

Neal pulled her into another hug and whispered into her hair, just loudly enough for Jones to hear, “You don’t have anything to thank me for.”

“Thank you for finding him,” she repeated into Neal’s shoulder.

“We will always find him, Elizabeth, always,” Neal promised.

She nodded, finally pulling back from the hug and sending him a wet smile that he returned.

“Let’s sit down,” Diana suggested when the pair didn’t seem to know what to do next, and they nodded, splitting themselves evenly between the two perpendicular benches in the corner, Elizabeth pressing against Diana’s welcoming side on one bench while Jones and Neal took the other.

At the crime scene, Neal had been scared, but he had been in control and protective, a calming and reassuring presence for Peter that hadn’t faltered.

In the waiting room, when there was no handler nearby to comfort and protect, Neal looked young and lost.

Jones edged closer, setting an arm across Neal’s shoulders, and the consultant immediately huddled into him, tucking himself further under Jones’ arm as he slid closer.

Jones smiled fondly at his friend, who had refocused on the double doors, before glancing up to see both Diana and Elizabeth watching him warmly, and he tried to shove down the growing heat in his face.

The group lapsed into a comfortable, if slightly tense, silence as they waited for Peter’s name to be called by a staff member coming through the doors to the ER.

Neal slumped further into Jones by the minute, his adrenaline finally running out, and Jones eyed the slight tremor growing in Neal’s hands in concern, not that Neal seemed to notice the shakes he had developed as he stared intently at the door.

“I’m going to see if I can find a vending machine,” Diana announced, eyeing Neal’s shaking hands as well, squeezing the arm she’d laid around Elizabeth’s shoulders one more time before she stood.

Diana was as efficient as ever, and within five minutes she was back, bringing an armful of trail mix bags with her.

She handed one to Neal, then reclaimed her seat next to Elizabeth so she could set the rest in her lap rather than letting them spill on the floor as she tried to grab one from her armful.

“I’m surprised you both got away from the scene so quickly,” Neal noted, trying to tear the bag Diana handed him open.

“Hughes sent us to babysit you,” Diana grinned, plucking the bag he was struggling with from his hands, opening the trail mix for him, and handing it back with a shake of her head. “He was worried you’d convince them you were a visiting doctor just to go back and sit with Peter.”

“I considered it,” Neal snorted, accepting the gift and pouring a handful into his palm, eating as if he had just realized he was hungry.

Diana rolled her eyes affectionately, handing Neal another opened package that he accepted gratefully, and then turned to give Jones and Elizabeth their own packages.

The food helped Jones’ flagging energy levels, and it seemed to do wonders for everyone’s mood, the scared pall that had fallen over the group fading slightly as they reminded each other Peter was alive and getting the help he needed.

It was another two hours before a woman walked out in a long white coat and called Peter’s name. Jones shot off a quick text to Hughes, who had been demanding constant updates via text as the white collar agents worked to process the scene, and stood to follow the others to the doctor.

“Is he ok?” Neal asked anxiously as soon as they were close enough.

The woman looked between Diana and Elizabeth.

“Are one of you two Elizabeth Burke?” she asked.

Elizabeth nodded and raised her hand slightly.

“I am,” she said, looking at the doctor with wide eyes.

“His form lists you as his medical proxy, may I share his medical information with the people here?”

Elizabeth nodded emphatically.

“Yes, ma’am. These three are welcome to hear any medical update you have, even if I’m not in the room.”

The doctor nodded with a smile, extending her gaze to the whole group.

“Alright, then let’s start off with the important thing, my patient is going to make a full recovery.”

She paused as the whole group let out sighs of relief.

“His ribs have been unwrapped for now, if they bother him tomorrow when he wakes up we can rewrap them briefly, but we can’t leave them wrapped for too long or he’ll get pneumonia.

When he’s awake tomorrow his nurse will go over some deep breathing exercises he’ll do for the next few weeks to make sure his lungs completely expand.”

Her audience listened attentively, nodding their understanding.

“Next up, his shoulders. They were a bit trickier. We did have to go in arthroscopically to fix a few small tears, but over all I’m not worried about them. He’ll have physical therapy sessions, but as long as he does all the exercises prescribed, he should regain full range of motion.

In the meantime, he can move his arms, but make sure he doesn’t try to raise them above shoulder level, or we risk pulling out his internal stitches. The internal stitches are designed to dissolve in a certain amount of time, so he won’t have to worry about getting them back out.”

They all nodded again, glad Peter wouldn’t need a second surgery to remove the stitches.

“He was moderately dehydrated, and worryingly malnourished, but we’ve started him on an IV and a nutrient mixture, so that will clear up within a few days.

We’ve checked all of his cuts, cleaned them, and bandaged them. With the antibiotics we’re starting him on, none of them should get infected, and his bruises will heal within a week or so.

As for his fingernails, we’ve cleaned and disinfected the nail beds, and the antibiotics he’s on for the surgery should help those as well, but we’ve also applied an antibiotic ointment and wrapped each of the nails. They may start to itch in a few days, don’t let him pick at them.

All in all, the bruises and cuts will take about two weeks to heal, the ribs will take between three and six weeks, his shoulders will take about twelve weeks, and all his fingernails will grow completely back in about six months, but he will make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank god,” Elizabeth breathed

The doctor sent her a warm smile.

“Would you like to see him now?”

“Yes,” they all said emphatically in almost perfect unison, making the doctor chuckle before she waved them through the double doors and down the hallway.

“We’ve got him on some serious pain meds,” the doctor informed the group over her shoulder, “not to mention the anesthetic from the surgery, so if he wakes up tonight, you can expect him to be a little disjointed and out of it, it’s nothing to worry about.”

She turned left, leading them down another hallway, turning right halfway down the hall as she strode confidently through the maze of identical corridors.

“We’ll be switching him off narcotic pain meds tomorrow morning, so he should be more lucid then, although he will still have medicine in his IV line, so you can expect him to feel the effects. Most patients don’t have overly noticeable reactions, they’re usually just slightly more open with their emotions, a bit like being a little drunk.”

They nodded as she finally led them to a stop at a door at the end of the nondescript hallway.

“The paramedics filled us in on his situation,” she said seriously, turning to face them without going into the room. “I talked it over with my superiors and we all agreed that he would do better in a private room.

We’re also waving visiting times, although if it‘s between nine PM and seven AM, we ask you keep it to four or five people, and we ask you give the nurses plenty of room to work when they come in.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said sincerely, and the doctor nodded with another warm smile.

“His nurse will be popping in periodically, but for now he’s had his pain meds and IV and should be set until the nurse comes in. There’s a call button on his bed you can press if he starts moaning like he’s in pain, or if he wakes up and feels like something is wrong.”

They nodded their understanding and she waved them into the room, turning back down the hall to see her other patients.

They wasted no time going in, surrounding the bed close enough they could each reach out and touch Peter to reassure themselves he was alive and found.

“Peter,” Elizabeth whispered, brushing a lock of hair out of his face and tracing his cheek with a light touch.

She snagged the nearest chair, dragging it as close to the bed as she could, and planted herself in it, turning her attention back to her husband as she picked up his hand.

Neal smiled and exchanged a glance with Jones and Diana, squeezing Peter’s shoulder one more time before stepping back to give Elizabeth some time with him.

The two agents and the consultant made their way to the small couch in the far corner by mutual, unspoken agreement, Jones and Diana taking seats on each end while Neal squeezed himself in between them in the center.

Far from bothered by the tight space, Neal relaxed into them at the contact, and Jones huffed a laugh, slinging his arm over Neal’s shoulders again, which had the same effect as before of Neal immediately burrowing into him, his wide eyes staying transfixed on Peter.

Diana smiled at Neal, leaning against him so she covered most of his side, and he relaxed even further, sinking into the two agents with a relieved sigh.

Jones knew from Neal’s determined expression that he was planning to stay awake until Peter was conscious and talking to him. Jones also knew from Neal’s utterly exhausted body language, he would be awake for maybe another half an hour.

He glanced at Diana, and she smirked and nodded, agreeing with his silent assessment.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later Neal’s blinks became longer and slower, and barely two minutes after that he was snoring softly into Jones’ collarbone, clutching Diana’s hand to his chest.

Jones huffed a laugh as he looked fondly down at the consultant sleeping on him and settled in to get comfortable as he took all of Neal’s weight.

Elizabeth was still holding Peter’s hand and talking softly to him, but he exchanged a look full of understanding with Diana. They’d better get comfortable, it was going to be a long night.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Jones blinked awake, several hours later, groggily checking his watch, squinting at it as he read five forty nine. He’d only fallen asleep around one, why was he awake?

Jones blinked tiredly, looking around the room as he tried to find what had woken him, and his eyes landed on Peter’s bed.

Peter’s bed that had a consultant sitting on it with his back to Jones, his hip pressed against his handler’s side as one of Neal’s hands ran soothingly through Peter’s hair and the other sat lightly on his chest, humming softly.

Peter’s breathing was quick and sharp, his head tossing back and forth in panicked jerks, but as Neal continued humming Peter calmed, eventually sinking back into his pillows without waking up.

Neal continued the song he was softly humming, even after Peter fell back into a peaceful sleep, and Jones took a moment to survey the rest of the room.

To his right, the space Neal had filled previously was now filled with Diana. Neal had apparently shifted her into a more comfortable position after he got up, and she lay across the small couch with her head pillowed on Jones’ leg, breathing deeply as she slept peacefully.

Jones noted in amusement that Neal had tracked down two blankets and spread one over each agent after he had apparently removed their shoes.

Jones quirked a grin and let a light hand land in Diana’s hair, letting his attention shift to the final occupant of the room.

Elizabeth was in the same chair she had been sitting in, pulled up as close as it could possibly get to her husband’s bed on the opposite side Neal sat on.

She was laying sideways in it, curled in a small ball facing Peter, fast asleep, also with a blanket spread over her and her shoes off.

Neal’s lilting tune ended, drawing Jones’ attention back to the bed.

“I liked your song,” Jones whispered, his voice still rough with sleep.

Neal didn’t jump, but his back tensed and he cast a furtive look over his shoulder at Jones before resituating on Peter’s bed so he could face the agent.

“Thanks,” Neal said quietly, picking up Peter’s hand in an unconscious gesture that had Jones quirking a tired grin.

“What song was it?” Jones asked curiously, trying to make himself wake up enough to finish the conversation.

“It’s called ‘The Music Box Dancer’,” Neal answered with a light blush.

Jones nodded.

“It was nice,” he said simply. “It seemed to do the job on Peter’s nightmare. I guess we can add nightmare banishing to your list of skills. How’d you know it would work?”

Neal chuckled softly, shaking his head ruefully.

“Peter taught me,” he said wryly, and Jones raised an eyebrow in question.

He watched in fascination as Neal blushed a little brighter, looking down at his handler so he didn’t have to look at Jones.

“When I first started consulting I had problems with... I had a lot of problems with nightmares.

I swear I had seen more guns in six months of consulting then I did in two decades of being a criminal, but anyway.... I fell asleep at Peter and Elizabeth’s house after dinner one night about four months in, woke up.... woke up from the nightmare loudly enough to wake up Peter, and you know how he is. He wouldn’t let me get away with brushing it off, made me tell him, and he taught me this trick.”

Neal shrugged as if that had answered everything, but Jones was only more intrigued.

“The trick is to hum ‘The Music Box Dancer’?” Jones asked curiously.

Neal huffed another laugh and shook his head again.

“No, no, he had this whole explanation, you know how he does.

He had this reasoning about how brains work through the events of our lives as we sleep and we have nightmares when the brain works through an unresolved or dangerous situation and can’t prove to itself it’s not still a problem or that it’s not still there in the situation, thereby activating fight of flight so you essentially have to wake up and check to see if it’s a current danger or just a-, I don’t know, Peter called it an alarm bell to talk about something.”

Neal huffed another laugh and rolled his eyes fondly at his handler.

“Made me promise to tell him if I had one, but in the meantime, the trick is to fill the room you sleep in with things that couldn’t possibly be in the situation you’re remembering.

The brain’s always taking in data, even when you’re sleeping, right? It’s why people wake up when they smell smoke or hear their alarm. Just because we don’t register it, doesn’t mean the brain doesn’t take it in, so you find something that couldn’t possibly be there, like someone humming, and have it happen while you sleep.

He had all kinds of suggestions for me, I could find a new strong-smelling detergent so my pillow smelled like pine or lavender or something that wasn’t on the operation, or play music that couldn’t have been there, get an oddly colored light to set up in my room, things like that.

You give the brain an assurance you’re not still there, and something else to think about, and nine times out of ten, no more nightmares. It certainly worked for mine.

But anyway,” he continued quickly, looking a little embarrassed he let himself tell Jones what Neal clearly considered a personal weakness, “that’s why. I would assume the nightmares are about the past week, but I guess it could also be about the fire, but either way, no one would be humming, there wouldn’t be calm voices, and the only time someone touched him it would have hurt.

He does seem to respond particularly well to touch, so I’d say it’s a fair bet to say he’s a little touch starved.”

Jones nodded seriously, making a note to be more tactile with Peter than usual.

“He should be getting enough hugs in the next few days to even out, but we’ll keep an eye on it,” Jones agreed. “Good job, man, I’m impressed you picked up on that.”

Neal flashed him a grin, and Jones was amused to see the grin was shy and pleased at the compliment.

“Nightmares, plural?” Jones asked, brow furrowing as Neal’s previous answer filtered through his still exhausted brain.

“Yeah,” Neal said softly, brow furrowing unhappily. “He’s had eight so far, only one he woke up for. He panicked a bit, but fell asleep again fast enough when he realized he was out and his team was safe.”

“Eight?” Jones repeated, shocked, and Neal nodded his confirmation.

“How long have you been up?” Jones asked in concern, trying to disguise the fact he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

Neal shrugged carelessly. “Since about one thirty.”

“You only got two hours of sleep?” Jones demanded.

Neal shrugged again, waving away Jones’ concern.

“It’s fine,” he brushed off. “It’s not like I have to get up early tomorrow.”

Jones opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a jaw cracking yawn that took the chance to escape.

“Go back to sleep, man,” Neal instructed with a warm smile, his hand gently carding through Peter’s hair as he smiled at Jones.

Jones pried his eyes back open and stubbornly shook his head.

“I’ll help you sit Diana up enough to squeeze back in when you’re done,” he insisted sleepily.

Neal’s smile grew warmer, but he shook his head gently.

“I’m going to stay over here for a while. I was doing that at first, but Peter starts falling into another nightmare about every half hour, so I’m just going to stay up with him. Go to sleep, Jones.”

“Ok,” Jones relented, his eyes finally slipping shut. “Wake me up for a shift when you get tired.”

He barely heard Neal hum a noise that could have been agreement before he let his exhaustion and relief lull him back to sleep.

Chapter Text

"Jones, hey, Jones," someone said, shaking his shoulder gently.

His brow furrowed, trying to figure out who could be in his room with him, but he didn't actually open his eyes. Maybe he could figure it out after he slept a little longer.

The someone laughed softly and shook shoulder a little harder.

"Jones, there's food, come on."

Food? Jones cracked an eyelid.

Diana's face smiled at him, huffing an amused breath.

"Knew that one would work," she told someone over her shoulder.

Jones squinted at her for a long second before the night before came rushing back to him and he suddenly remembered why he was in a hospital room.

Feeling marginally more awake, he yawned widely, stretched his arms over his head, and sat up straighter, finally blinking both eyes open to look around.

Diana was beside him, and she held out a breakfast sandwich in offering, which he accepted gratefully, unwrapping it and taking a large bite as he surveyed the rest of the room.

"Sorry," Diana said, settling beside him on the couch with her own sandwich, "we wanted to let you sleep later, but the cafeteria stops serving breakfast at nine, and then it closes until eleven thirty for lunch, and we were all already hungry, so we thought you probably wouldn't want to wait until then."

Jones nodded gratefully, chewing and swallowing before he answered.

"No, I'm glad you woke me," he assured. "I am starving, I guess I should have eaten more than trail mix for dinner..."

He finished off his sandwich in two more large bites, glancing at his watch to see it was nine oh five and sighing that it would have to hold him until eleven thirty because he had no intention of leaving the hospital.

Beside him, Diana huffed a laugh and dug into a bag at her feet.

"Here," she grinned, offering him another. "I figured you'd want this."

"Thanks," he said, staring at her in grateful awe. His partner was amazing.

Neal laughed from his chair next to Peter's bed, and Jones shot him a look, too busy unwrapping his newly found food to verbally respond.

Jones studied the other four occupants in the room as he ate his breakfast.

Diana sat next to him, feet tucked up underneath her thighs, leaning on his shoulder slightly as she ate her own food and watched the steady heartbeat trace across the monitoring screen.

Elizabeth had pulled one leg up onto the chair she sat on next to Peter's bed, finishing off her breakfast with one hand while she held Peter's hand with the other.

Peter looked to be sleeping peacefully, but from the bags under Neal's eyes, that was a recent development.

"How many more nightmares did he have?" Jones asked Neal, balling up his second wrapper and tossing both in the trashcan.

"Nightmares?" Elizabeth echoed, sending Neal a worried look.

"We only got up about fifteen minutes earlier than you did, and we mostly talked about food," Diana explained to Jones at his questioning look before she fixed Neal with her own questioning expression. "Peter's been having nightmares?”

Neal nodded unhappily.

"Yeah," he admitted, "a lot. He had about fourteen total last night."

Jones let out a disappointed sigh, but Diana cocked her head.

"He did?" she asked, confused. "I didn't hear him at all, I would have thought I would have woken up for that."

Neal opened his mouth, thought for a moment, then closed it again and glanced at Peter.

"That's because Neal can coax him out of it without Peter waking up," Jones announced for him, meeting Neal's light scowl with an unbothered smile.

"I woke up for a few minutes last night," Jones explained proudly to the other two, "Neal was great, Peter didn't wake up at all, but he was falling into nightmares pretty often, so Neal stayed up with him."

"You didn't sleep at all?" Elizabeth asked, sounding concerned.

Neal shrugged.

"I got a solid two hours, at least," he offered. "I woke up when he had one at one thirty. I caught some naps between the first ones, but when he kept having them, I thought it'd be easier if I just stayed up."

"Oh," Elizabeth said, looking from Neal to her husband, then back to Neal with a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"It was nothing," Neal brushed off, and Jones was amused to see he was blushing slightly.

"Actually, it wasn’t nothing," Jones disputed, rolling his eyes, "but ok, Neal."

/`/`/`/`/`/`/`/`/`/

The door opened quietly, several hours later, and all of the room’s occupants looked up curiously. Neal relaxed back into his seat beside Peter as he recognized Hughes walking through the door.

“Reese!” Elizabeth greeted happily. “It’s good to see you, come in, come in.”

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he greeted warmly as he stepped inside and pulled the door softly shut behind him. “Berrigan, Jones, Caffrey,” he nodded in each of their directions.

“The scene is all cleared and processed?” Jones asked from the couch.

“Yes, the place was damn huge, but we finally found all the art and got everything processed and done,” Hughes confirmed with a nod. “I sent everyone home with explicit orders to stay there for at least twelve hours, but you can probably expect a stream of White Collar visitors after that.”

 Neal smiled fondly, thinking of the agents that would no doubt be lined up outside Peter’s door as soon as their mandatory resting time was up.

“They are all more than welcome,” Elizabeth said with a smile. A second later her expression turned to surprise, eyes widening as a thought struck her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Reese. Not to be rude, but I’ve just remembered I haven’t told Peter’s parents he’s alive, so I’m going to step out and do that. I don't get any reception in here, unfortunately, so I'm going to run down to the end of the hall by the big windows, hopefully I'll get some there. It was wonderful to see you, thank you for visiting him, sorry to step out as soon as you come.”

Hughes nodded his head in understanding.

“Elizabeth, that is much more important," he assured, "go do that. I’ll be back to visit him again, go call his parents.”

She smiled at him, gave Peter's hand one more squeeze before gently laying it back on the bed, and ducked out of the room, her footsteps fading as they echoed down the hall.

"So," Hughes said, breaking the silence that fell as Elizabeth left, "did the doctors have anything to say about his injuries?"

"Yes, sir," Jones said with a nod and a smile growing on his face. "His doctor predicts a full recovery. His ribs will take a few weeks, his shoulders will take a bit longer than that and some physical therapy, and his fingernails should be completely back within six months."

Hughes let out a sigh of relief.

"Ok, that's -,"

"Well, look who crawled back out into the light," sneered a voice everyone in the room recognized, and they turned to find Danielson in the doorway.

After a scornful glance around, he invited himself further into the room, surveying Peter with a distasteful look.

Neal stood casually, peripherally noting the other three agents standing to face the Marshal as well, all placing themselves between Peter and the Marshal without seeming to realize it.

"I had to track down my handler," Neal shrugged in easy explanation.

“You’re awfully loyal to a man who only keeps you around because you’re vaguely useful. You know he doesn’t care about you, right?” Danielson sneered. “He’s using you, plain and simple, and you’d still be rotting behind bars if you weren’t slightly less useless on the outside than the inside, don’t trick yourself into thinking Burke actually cares about you.”

Hughes, Diana, and Jones all opened their mouths to refute that statement, but Neal beat them to it, meeting the angry Marshal head-on with an unimpressed look.

“Peter doesn’t care?” Neal repeated derisively. “That’s what you’re going with? Peter doesn’t care?”

Neal huffed a laugh and surveyed the Marshal dispassionately, doing absolutely nothing to hide the disdain in his eyes.

“If you spent two seconds with him you would be able to see Peter cares, and that Peter is the best man you will ever meet in your life.”

Neal shook his head, an expression of pure pity growing on his face.

“If you could pull your head out of your ass for long enough to understand that Deckard made his own bad decisions, and his incarceration is his own fault, you’d realize you’re wasting your chance to get to know the best man on this whole damn planet.

You think I’m the one who’s made mistakes in my life? You’re passing up the chance to befriend Peter Burke, so at least I can feel better knowing there are people out there making bigger mistakes than I ever did.”

“One of these days you’ll both get what’s coming to you,” Danielson said in a threatening undertone, taking a menacing step forward.

Neal nodded, unconcerned.

“Yes, I’m sure we will,” Neal agreed lightly. “Peter’s been working on convincing me actions have consequences, so it’ll be nice to see Peter get the well-earned reward for putting away a dirty Marshal who caused all of his own problems.”

Danielson fumed, his face turning redder as he grit his teeth, his eyes glinting angrily.

“I’m here to drag your ass back to Supermax where it belongs,” Danielson informed Neal furiously.

The three conscious agents tensed, but Neal merely crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Well that’s not very legal,” he noted lightly. “My handler is here, and as per our agreement, I am with him, exactly where I am supposed to be.”

Sparks all but flew from Danielson's eyes.

“It is legal to send your ass back to prison,” Danielson seethed, “because you broke out of prison, which is breaking both the law and the contract.”

“No,” Neal argued self-confidently. “No, I  was not the one that broke the contract, Marshal. There are only three reasons I should have been in that prison.

One, if Peter had decided he was done with the deal and requested my return. Two, if I decided I was not happy with our deal and requested to be returned, or apparently three, if Peter had died in any instance that was not an operation.”

Neal shrugged mockingly.

“Well, Peter did not request my return, I did not request my return, and my handler is not dead, so I believe you’ll find it was unlawful and unacceptable to have me in the prison in the first place. I did nothing to breach the contract," he said firmly.

Danielson simmered with rage.

“The agreement says you have to wear an anklet if you’re not actively on an operation, and you’re not,” Danielson spat out.

“Well, sir,” Neal noted innocently, “the Federal Marshal’s office took my anklet, and I would assume there was a legal, law-abiding, non-personal-grudge-related reason for that, but if you really want to bring it up, we can address the fact that the Marshal’s office breached my contract and opened my case to the possibility of a retrial.”

Danielson grit his teeth.

“You will wear an anklet,” he commanded, his tone making it sound more like a threat than an order.

Neal shrugged, unbothered.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed easily. “Whenever you want to bring it by, I’ll be here.”

“You will have your anklet put on and then you will go home,” Danielson ordered, eyes flashing.

Neal shook his head in disagreement.

“Sorry, sir, I’m not allowed to be out of contact with my handler on weekdays unless Peter notifies you of an official vacation, I'm too sick to work, or ASAC Hughes orders an exception,” Neal reminded him helpfully. “If the Marshal’s office returns my anklet, I will be wearing a tracker, you’ll know where I am, and I’ll be in contact with my handler, and thereby following the rules of my contract. There should be a copy in the New York White Collar office that wasn’t shredded if you wanted to read through it,” Neal finished with a smile of faux helpfulness.

"Fine!" Danielson snapped angrily, "A Marshal will be here with an anklet within an hour, and you'd better damn well be here!"

Neal nodded, utterly unperturbed by his anger.

"Yes, sir. As long as Peter's here, I'll be here waiting."

Danielson made a wordless sound of frustration and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and Neal shot a worried glance at the bed, but Peter was still asleep, unbothered by the Marshal's fit of temper.

"Rude," Neal noted indignantly.

"Hot damn, Caffrey," Jones crowed quietly, giving Neal a wide smile and a high five when the consultant turned his way.

Neal returned the smile and the high five, his smile brightening when Diana added "Well done, Neal!" in a vaguely awed tone.

Neal tried to cover his shock when he looked over to see that even Hughes was smiling, but judging from Jones and Diana’s smirks, he probably fell short of successful.

“It’s nice to see you being a pain in someone else’s ass for a change,” Hughes said, sounding amused.

“Thanks, I think?” Neal said, unsure of the correct response to that statement, and Hughes chuckled.

“Sir,” Diana said, looking at Hughes. “There was something else exciting that happened. Peter woke up around nine thirty this morning! He wasn’t awake for very long, but he stayed up for probably forty minutes talking to us, asking about what had happened and how the team was. The doctor’s confirmed that he has no concussion and no brain damage.”

“So he’s really going to be ok,” Hughes noted, sounding relieved.

“Yes, sir,” Jones confirmed, “he really is going to be ok.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, Reese, you’re still here!” Elizabeth said, walking back in almost half an hour later and retaking her chair at Peter’s side.

“Yes,” he said, sending her a friendly smile and Neal did his best to shove down the wary confusion at the sight. From the stifled snort Jones let out, he doubted he completely succeeded, though. 

Hughes ignored both of them, keeping the disconcertingly friendly expression on Elizabeth as he continued. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay too much longer. I just wanted to come make sure he was alright.”

Elizabeth beamed.

“Thank you, Reese,” she said sincerely. “He is, the doctor said he’ll make a complete recovery.”

She smiled happily at her unconscious husband, picking up his hand and holding it with both of hers.

“That’s what they said,” Hughes said, nodding at the other three in the room. “They said he’ll need physical therapy, but should get full range of motion back?”

She nodded her confirmation, firm and sure, and Hughes’ shoulders relaxed a little more.

“Sir,” Diana said, catching the ASAC’s attention. “Jones and I are planning to stay here today and tomorrow, do you need an official email requesting vacation?”

Hughes waved her statement off and shook his head.

“You two have been working almost around the clock. It’s not vacation, just don’t come back to the office until you’ve gotten some damn sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Jones agreed with a smile, Diana nodding beside him.

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Hughes said, turning to face her, “since you are the acting medical proxy for Peter, may I have your permission to announce to the New York Bureau that Peter Burke is alive and found?”

She nodded with a wet smile.

“May I give a brief overview of his injuries and an expected recovery time?”

She nodded again and he sent her a warm, “Thank you,” before turning to Neal.

“Caffrey, do I have your permission to tell the New York office the specifics of what happened with the failed contingency in the contract and announce you’ll be coming back? People were worried about you.”

Neal smiled, feeling a wave of surprised happiness wash over him at the news.

“They were?” he asked, knowing he sounded as touched as he felt, but not having the energy to cover the sentiment. “I had wondered if they’d notice.”

“If they’d notice?” Hughes repeated indignantly. “Caffrey, you’re either blind or stupid. The day they took you there were a hundred and fourteen people traipsing up to my office to demand to know why you were taken and emphatically inform me the arresting Marshals were using unnecessary force.”

“Really?” Neal asked incredulously, his voice a stunned whisper, and Hughes rolled his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

“Really, Neal,” Diana said seriously. “The whole Bureau was prepared to riot when they heard what had happened. We had to make a building wide announcement on the situation just so people would stop flooding the office to demand to know why they took you.”

“It wasn’t just agents,” Jones added, capturing Neal’s shocked attention as his mouth hung open slightly in disbelief. “The janitors, the security guards, cafeteria workers -even that guy who runs the gym-, it was everybody man, and they weren’t happy.”

“Oh,” Neal said, blinking at him in shock.

“Oh?” Reese repeated, annoyed. “How can this be news to you, Caffrey? You’re a damn social butterfly with an aggravating ability to make everyone like you, how can the Bureau’s reaction possibly be a surprise to you?”

Neal stared at him with wide eyes, unable to provide an answer, and Hughes huffed an annoyed sigh.

“Anyway,” he continued pointedly, “do I have your permission to announce you’ll be back?”

“Uh, yeah,” Neal agreed, voice rough, and Hughes nodded his approval.

“Good. You somehow managed to be an even bigger pain in my ass when you weren’t working for us than when you were, which I didn’t think was possible.”

Neal smiled at him, for once able to hear past his annoyed grumbling to what he was actually trying to say.

Peter had always told him Hughes said things in two layers, what he meant and then the annoyed grumbling on top, but this was the first time Neal had been able to hear both layers without Peter's translation.

“It’ll be good to go back,” he said sincerely. “I missed White Collar.”

Hughes nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and with one more nod to the room’s other occupants, he strode out the door.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

In the silence that fell over the room, the yawn that escaped Neal’s mouth was distinctly obvious.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, sweetie?” Elizabeth asked, looking worriedly at the bags under his eyes and the tired slouch of his shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Neal shook his head, straightening his posture as he tried to wake himself up.

Elizabeth exchanged a knowing glance with Jones and Diana, confirming they hadn’t been fooled either, all three of them able to tell Neal was utterly exhausted.

“Well,” Diana said, standing up and shooting Jones a look that said ‘play along’ before Neal swung his tired gaze to her. “Cafeteria closes in half an hour, why don’t we run down and grab something.

We probably shouldn’t leave Peter alone in case he wakes up, Neal, do you want to sit with him? We can bring you some food.”

“Ok,” Neal agreed, looking relieved to have been offered a way out of the long walk to the cafeteria. “Just bring me a hamburger or something easy.”

“Will do, man,” Jones said, standing up as well. “Thanks for watching Peter.”

Elizabeth stood as well, detouring by the chair he was in before she moved to the door.

“Thank you, Neal,” she said, dropping a kiss on his hair and then following the two agents, who were waiting for her in the doorway with fond smiles on their faces.

Neal smiled sleepily at her when she turned back to look, offering a small wave that she returned, and she quietly pulled the door shut.

She, Jones, and Diana walked further down the hallway, out of earshot of the room behind them.

“He will be asleep in twenty minutes,” Elizabeth predicted with a fond shake of her head.

“Probably ten,” Jones grinned. “For a second there, he blinked so long I thought he had fallen asleep before he pried his eyes back open.”

“I’m actually surprised he lasted as long as he did,” Diana said, “I mean other than the two hour catnap he’s been awake more than twenty four hours...”

“We’ll leave him in the quiet room with a living and breathing Peter, and the rest will take care of itself,” Elizabeth said confidently.

“Yeah,” Jones said, sharing a grin with Diana, “yeah, I think it will.”

Chapter Text

Diana held the door open for the other two to walk inside before her, Elizabeth pausing on her way in to set the bag of food she had brought Neal on the table in the corner before she reclaimed her previous chair.

Peter grinned, looking up at them as they took their seats and followed their amused looks back down to his peacefully sleeping consultant, who was tucked into Peter’s side, pressed as close as was physically possible.

Peter shrugged his other shoulder with a huff of laughter.

“He tried to sit next to me to show me something on his phone,” Peter explained in fond amusement, rolling his eyes, “and then he promptly fell asleep before he even finished the sentence.”

The other three laughed softly, pulling their chairs closer quietly as they tried not to wake him.

“At least he took his shoes off first,” Diana noted fondly, glancing at Neal’s sock covered feet that were on the bed tucked under Peter’s leg, holding Neal’s knees pulled in to his chest in a tight ball that almost completely fit under Peter’s arm.

Jones muffled a laugh behind his hand, his eyes still bright with amusement when he lowered it.

“In his defense,” Jones said, “my man, Caffrey, has had a very long two weeks.”

El and Diana nodded concedingly while Peter cast him a considering look.

“Neal had a hard time?” he asked the group. “What happened?”

“Oh, boy,” Jones muttered, exchanging glances with Diana and Elizabeth.

Peter quirked a grin at the reaction.

“Apparently it’s a long story, start at the beginning. After the factory, what happened?”

Jones and Diana shook their heads ruefully.

“Gotta start at the factory for the whole picture,” Jones explained.

“You were coughing,” Diana started, splitting her gaze between Peter and Elizabeth when she noticed the attentive look on Elizabeth’s face. “I don’t know how much you were aware of, but Neal bolted up the ramp making a beeline into the factory the instant he saw the fire. He...” Diana cast an apologetic look at Peter, “he was determined to run in after you and we thought you were already gone and all he’d do was burn to a crisp.”

Peter shook his head at her self-recrimination.

“You made the right call,” Peter said firmly, extending his serious look to Jones as well, and both of his agents’ shoulders lowered a little in relief.

Diana smiled weakly at him as she picked up the tale again.

“I was too far away, but Jones tackled Neal off the ramp. If not for the circumstances it would have been awesome, they went flying. Luckily Jones was able to mostly roll them with it, he seriously plowed into Neal hard enough they were a solid ten feet away before they landed.”

Peter turned to Jones and cocked a bemused eyebrow at him.

“Ok, I wasn’t trying to tackle him,” Jones said defensively, much to everyone else’s amusement. “I was trying to stop him. He was running toward that factory like it was his only mission in life, and I figured you’d haunt me forever if I let Neal die not even one day into being his handler.”

Peter nodded in mock seriousness.

“I would,” he confirmed jokingly.

Jones’ huffed a laugh and shook his head at his boss.

“Also,” he admitted reluctantly, “Neal is really light and only like a third of the weight of the guys I used to play football against, so... oops?”

Peter snorted but Diana just rolled her eyes at him as Elizabeth giggled in the background.

“Ok,” she relented, “but he was right the first time, it would have been almost impossible to stop Neal without full on tackling him.”

Jones nodded emphatically, the story cemented as far as he was concerned.

Peter nodded along in faux-agreement.

“Ok, so you tackled my CI, then what?”

“Then I found out that your CI may or may not be made of rubber,” Jones informed him indignantly, as if that were a fault and it was Peter’s.

“Made of rubber?” Peter laughed, looking in confusion between Diana and Jones, who both nodded their confirmation.

“Seriously, boss,” Diana agreed, “it was actually impossible to keep him down. Jones tackled him off that six foot ramp and he was up and running again within a second or two.

The factory exploded, like full on wave of fire explosion, threw him back at least four feet and he hit his head and hit the ground hard enough to bruise his spine and ribs down to the bone, but I swear he just bounced to his feet like it was nothing.

He was on his feet and running toward the factory in about four seconds. Luckily Jones caught him again, because otherwise he was going in and no little campfire was going to stop him.”

Peter dropped his warm gaze to the consultant tucked against his chest and squeezed a little tighter with a smile.

“So you caught him and convinced him not to run in?”

“I’m not exactly sure convinced is the right word...” Jones trailed off, looking at his sleeping friend. “I grabbed him, but he fought like a wild animal, I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Then the roof collapsed,” Diana said softly, “and so did he.”

Jones nodded his agreement and both Peter’s and Elizabeth’s expressions became pained.

“It was like someone just cut his strings,” Jones added in a quiet voice, remembering the moment Neal had watched the roof fall, his legs giving out a moment later. “All he could do was sob. The building supports were threatening to fall on us, but all he could do was cry where he fell.”

Peter pursed his lips, unconsciously moving his arm into a more protective hold that covered more of Neal’s body.

“He was just going to lay there,” Diana whispered. “I know he knew the building was coming down in every direction, but he was just going to lay down and sob until it took him, too.”

Peter closed his eyes with a devastated look on his face.

“Jones didn’t want to be haunted, though,” Diana added with a bare hint of humor, breaking some of the mood that had fallen over the room. “He picked Neal up and carried him out, no way was he going to try to explain to your angry ghost he couldn’t even keep your trouble magnet alive for one day.”

Peter snorted, some of the earlier amusement returning as Jones nodded along in pseudo-sincerity before becoming more serious.

“He... he -, I thought I knew what heartbroken sobbing looked like, but Neal...” Jones shook his head, unable to find words to explain.

“Devastated is too casual a word,” Diana agreed in a somber tone. “He... sobbed doesn’t even begin to explain it.”

Jones nodded along to her statement.

“Thinking he lost you, Peter," he said, "it destroyed him. He -, he cried so hard he passed out, we had to take him to the hospital. Severe shock, they said. Burns on his forearms, bruises down to his bone, head injury, but thankfully not a concussion.”

"We told Elizabeth what happened and then I bullied Jones into going home," Diana said, forcing herself to meet the Burkes’ eyes, trying not to wince at the pain in them. "He'd been hurt as well, being that close to the fire, so I sat with Neal. He didn't wake up until the next day. He... it was like his light just went out. His eyes were empty and he'd drift along behind wherever you took him."

Peter swallowed a wave of emotion, resting his head on Neal's hair, shifting his arm forward slightly so Elizabeth could run her hand down Neal's back.

"Diana brought him to White Collar to give his statement. We were all worried about him. He came in like a zombie, couldn't even smile when he tried."

He exchanged a pained look with Diana.

"He gave his statement," Diana continued, "Jones and I were supposed to go home with him, spend the night so he wasn't alone, you know?"

Peter and Elizabeth both nodded gratefully.

"We..." Diana trailed off, glancing at Jones again who gave a slight shrug. They'd find out eventually, one way or another. "We were walking out when we were stopped by the Marshals. Marshal Danielson," she specified disdainfully.

Peter's expression darkened.

"Danielson?" he asked, surprising the others with his angry tone. "The Marshal convinced we framed Deckard?"

Jones nodded, looking surprised.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

Peter scowled.

"He called and emailed me for months after Deckard's arrest, claiming we planted evidence and framed him. It got to the point I had to have Hughes issue a harassment warning to make him stop."

"Oh," Diana said, wide eyed. She’d had no idea Peter had been bothered about that case. She’d had no idea there was anyone who had seen the mountain of evidence presented and could possibly not have concluded that Deckard had done everything he plead guilty to.

"What did he do?" Peter asked with a hard note in his voice.

"He stormed into WC," Diana said, flicking a quick glance to Neal to make sure their conversation hadn't grown too loud. "He and Hughes had a full on shouting match, but apparently if you take the contract to the letter, then Neal has to go back to prison if you die in any situation that is not an active operation, and Danielson was arguing that you died at a crime scene, not on an operation."

"What?" Peter and Elizabeth demanded in outraged tones.

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "We'll need to redo the contract as soon as you're out of the hospital, I think," he mentioned to Peter, who nodded emphatically, hugging Neal closer to his side.

"I thought you meant he was in prison until the paperwork transferred," Elizabeth said, shocked.

Jones shook his head.

"No, I guess we should have been more clear. We meant that we were trying to get the paperwork transferred. If they had followed the spirit of the contract, Neal should have transferred to me instantly. Diana and I have been researching case law to challenge their interpretation."

"Ok," Peter said decisively, "first day I'm out of the hospital, we're starting work on this. I want the relevant case law you gathered and copies of those contracts."

"Already compiled, boss," Diana nodded.

"We have a working draft going," Jones added, and Peter nodded approvingly at them both.

"Good," he said firmly. "Good work. Ok, that's an action item on the to-do list, don't let me forget. So Danielson transported Neal back to prison?"

"He didn't just transport him," Diana snarled, her rage reigniting as she remembered the way the Marshal had slammed her grieving friend into the desk and dragged him from the room.

"When you're out of the hospital, I want to talk to Neal about charging Danielson with excessive use of force,” she said. “Neal was completely compliant, didn't even argue, didn't resist at all, and Danielson slammed him into the desk hard enough his face bounced off it. Almost dislocated his shoulder yanking him back up, dragged him out the door."

Peter's face darkened with every word until his fury came off of him in waves, his expression promising repercussions, Elizabeth's expression echoing the same.

"We will be following up on that," Peter promised, voice deadly, and Diana and Jones both nodded their approval.

"So he was transferred out of state?" Peter asked, moving on to the next part of the story.

Jones shook his head.

"They sent him back to NY Supermax."

"What?" Peter demanded. "He's worked with the FBI for two years and they sent him to the same prison as the people he's been putting there?"

Diana nodded.

"We were not happy," she agreed. "We were blocked by the Marshals, but the warden was reasonable. Allowed us to rearrange both cell blocks, we moved anyone even vaguely connected to a past case to the other cell block and managed to convince the warden to give Neal a single cell so he didn't have to deal with a cellmate."

Peter nodded, gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath through his nose, trying to rein in his frustration.

"You two did excellent work," he praised after he regained control of his emotions. "You both did good. Thank you. Remind me to commend the warden as well, and get Danielson fired and possibly incarcerated."

Jones and Diana exchanged a smirk.

"Well," Jones hedged, "you might want to hold off on the commendation until you hear the rest."

Peter studied them both, some of the tension leaving his shoulders when he found amusement rather than anger.

"Oh?" he asked curiously.

"We'll get there," Diana promised. "So he was in Supermax. The guards waived visiting time for us so we could see him before we went into the office in the morning, which had the added bonus of ending right before the cafeteria opened for breakfast, so we could usually convince him to grab something to eat before he went back to his cell."

"Back to his cell?" Peter asked in a pained tone. "He hated his cell when he was in prison the first time. Took any excuse to be out of it, he basically only slept in it."

Jones swallowed, his gaze dropping to his lap.

"Well, this time he hardly left," he confided softly. "We'd get reports from the prison guards, he sat or laid in his cell all day and just curled up on his bed, staring at the wall.

As a personal favor to us, they'd try to cajole him into eating meals, but they said they were only successful a handful of times. He'd consistently come to our visits, but he didn't leave his cell for anything else without convincing."

Peter's eyes clenched closed, visibly trying to push away the pain that statement caused.

"So how'd you get him out?" Peter asked, voice rough. "Was he out on a probationary arrangement?"

Jones snorted, glancing at Diana's smirking face.

"Uh, not quite, boss," she said, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.

"Yeah, that isn't exactly how I'd describe it," Jones agreed, chuckling at the fondly resigned look Peter shot his consultant.

"What did he do?" Peter asked in the reproving tone of a parent receiving a behavior report on their mischievous toddler, sparking a quiet round of giggles from El that she unsuccessfully tried to stifle in her hand.

"Well," Diana shoved down her laughter, "in his defense, he did try to do things the right way first."

Jones rolled his eyes and she laughed brightly.

"So we told you about how we visited him every day," Jones started, receiving nods from both Peter and Elizabeth that they remembered that detail. "We came in to visit one morning and he all but bounced into the visiting area. His spark was back, he was excited, overflowing with energy. He - correctly- told us he'd realized Peter had been kidnapped, not murdered."

Diana snorted, taking over the story.

"We told him he was having a mental break," she said wryly, and Peter and El both chuckled at her deadpan delivery. "We told him there was no way, he insisted there was and it was what had happened.

We asked him to go to the prison psychiatrist, and I now realize that the little sneak didn't technically lie to us because he promised he would talk to someone who could help."

Jones groaned dramatically, throwing his head back as he realized she was right, rolling his head on the back of his chair to glare balefully at the sleeping consultant.

"He did," Jones realized, annoyed.

"He did," Diana confirmed with a chuckle. "So, we went back to the office, glad we had been able to help our friend make the decision to see a psychiatrist.

Neal left the visit, immediately began planning, and that afternoon at three o'clock he walked out the front door of the maximum security prison."

"He did WHAT?" Peter demanded as loudly as he dared without waking the man sleeping against his chest.

Jones took over when Diana started laughing too hard to answer.

"Yeah," he said dryly. "That was my reaction, too."

"Did you ever figure out how he did it?" El asked, her amusement evident as she watched her husband's horrified face.

"No," Jones shook his head, "we were too busy trying to figure out where he'd gone. The prison was supposed to be looking into it, but so far they've found exactly zero leads."

"If they don't know how he did it then how do they know what time he left at?" Peter questioned, cocking his head.

"Well," Diana's grin grew, "they know he walked out the front door, past the guard checkpoint, dressed as a janitor, and no one raised the slightest alert until they found the janitor he'd locked in the supply closet at ten o'clock that night."

Peter stared at them both with open mouthed shock, pushing their amusement still higher.

"That's what they know," Jones confirmed. "What they don't know is how he got past the cameras, how he got out of the cell block, how he got the janitor's uniform, or how he got the tracker off the maintenance vehicle without tripping the alarm."

"Are you telling me that he broke out of Supermax in less than twelve hours?"

Diana nodded, her grin bright.

"Now that I know he's not going to get himself killed by the Marshals, I'm not nearly as aggravated about it. I have to say, I'm actually a little impressed."

"I mean, yeah," Jones agreed in reluctant fondness, "but you can't tell him that."

Diana rolled her eyes at Jones as she scoffed.

"Well, yeah, duh. Of course we can't tell him, he'd be impossible."

Peter chuckled, shaking his head fondly at their antics.

"So, he strolled out the front door and no one noticed for another seven hours, then what'd he do?"

"What didn't he do," Diana muttered, a spark of her previous annoyance returning as she thought about it.

Jones snorted, nodding his agreement to her grumblings.

"Well, there's a lot of 'we don't know' in the answer, but what we do know is that he went off the grid, he was completely gone by three miles down the highway from the jail. He dumped the tracker in the back of a pickup and disappeared somewhere, we don't know where.

What we do know is that it was somewhere with internet, because less than a day after he walked out of the prison, he hacked the FBI case file database."

Peter's mouth fell open and he spluttered wordlessly at them with wide eyes.

"What?" he eventually demanded in a strangled whisper.

"Yeah," Diana laughed, sharing a look with Elizabeth as they laughed at Peter's expression. “He pulled off all the files related to the case we'd been looking at and then took the time to fix the hole he made in the firewall before he led the IT team on a worldwide chase as he pinged his IP signal all around the globe until it landed in the Antarctica research base, which we were about forty percent certain he wasn't at."

"Neal," Peter groaned, looking down at his CI in vague despair.

"So in the two and a half days or so he was off the grid," Jones said, "he apparently solved the case that the factory owner was doing business under a false identity, and never actually went to Japan.

Once he figured that out, he somehow transformed himself into a black haired, tanned construction worker, which annoyed me at the time but in retrospect is pretty hilarious, remind us to bring you guys the picture.

Anyway, we had literally given the factory guard an eight and a half by eleven color picture of Neal's face, and Neal strolled in, had a conversation with the guy, convinced the guard he was from the state safety inspection office and to wait to notify us because we would want to know what office his paperwork was being sent to, and then meandered back out, given free range of the entire facility."

Peter huffed a disbelieving laugh, his eyes closing in surrender as he shook his head, Elizabeth howling with laughter beside him, trying to muffle the noise so she didn't wake Neal, who showed no signs of being bothered, still peacefully tucked into his handler's side.

"So the guard called us half an hour later," Diana said when the room was slightly quieter.

"Diana was less than pleased," Jones interjected with a smirk, and she playfully glared at him.

"It's true," she sniffed, "I wasn't happy. I gave this guy a picture, I told him to call me the instant anyone stepped a toe over the property line, I told him not to let anyone in, and he calls me half an hour after he let Neal wander around wherever he wanted, because he couldn't find the inspector we had sent...."

Elizabeth's laughter was almost silent as she brushed tears out of her eyes, and even Peter was laughing harder than he would admit to.

"So we go down," Jones nodded in teasing seriousness, "Diana oh so valiantly resisted the urge to murder the guard."

"It was a close thing," Diana muttered audibly.

"It was," Jones nodded, "and we go to the factory floor to find that Neal was right about the trap door, and he'd left an opener for us and everything."

"We called Hughes and followed the tunnel," Diana picked up the retelling, "as you would expect, Neal was long gone. Apparently he had gone to the company and hacked their system from the inside, thankfully we'd already issued a warrant for all of their files, and he dug up the construction order for the place we found you."

"Then he walked out their front door," Jones added, "no one any the wiser, and texted me and Di the construction order number. We found it, realized what it must mean and got the warrant."

"We had just gotten started on our entrance plan," Diana tried to say sternly, but couldn't quite keep the smile off her face, "when this little brat shares his phone location with me and Jones."

Peter barked a laugh at his CI's audacity, then turned his attention to Jones who was flapping a hand to catch their attention.

"He called it 'Tracking Anklet 2.0',” Jones told the Burkes through his laughter, sending Peter and Elizabeth into a round of laughter as well. “He went into Haarman’s office in the place, hid in the closet and called Diana's phone so we could hear the confirmation you were there."

"Then," Diana said, getting ahold of her own laughter, "he tells us -, we texted him to stay in that closet until we came to get him and he had the nerve to send us a text back that he would stay in there just like we said if the boss stayed in the office."

She and Jones rolled their eyes in perfect sync while Peter and El laughed harder at them.

"So then he snuck down, found you, we showed up, got you to the hospital, and that was that," Jones concluded.

"Well," Diana refuted lightly, "you forgot about round two with Danielson..."

"Round two?" Peter asked, sobering quickly, at the same time Jones said, "Oh, you're right!"

"Yeah, round two," Diana confirmed with a smile. "It was amazing. Danielson came to your hospital room claiming he found Neal and he was dragging him back to prison, but Neal wasn't going without a fight this time.

He started arguing about how it wasn't legal to have him back in prison since you weren't dead and neither of you had requested an end to the deal.

Danielson tried to argue that Neal wasn't wearing an anklet, but he shot back that the Marshal's office had taken it, and they went back and forth until Danielson literally stormed out of your room and slammed the door because Neal won."

Jones chuckled at Peter's proud smile as he glanced at his sleeping consultant.

"You forgot to mention the best part," he pretended to scold her. "The part where Neal told Danielson he was stupid and that he was passing up the chance to befriend the best man on the whole damn planet, Peter Burke, so at least Neal could feel better about himself that there were people out there making worse mistakes than he ever did."

Peter looked touched.

"Did he really say that?" he asked quietly, and both of his agents nodded emphatically.

“Yeah, boss,” Diana confirmed warmly, “he really did.”

Chapter Text

“Suit, you’re being unreasonable,” Mozzie’s voice complained through the speaker of Peter’s new phone as Neal slipped back into his room, holding up the hard-won popsicle he had brought for Peter from the nurses’ station.

“I’m being unreasonable?” Peter repeated heatedly, nodding his thanks to Neal.

“Yes,” Mozzie confirmed, and Peter rolled his eyes dramatically in exasperation.

“Hey, Mozz,” Neal said with a grin, pitching his voice loud enough to be clearly heard. “I just came back in, what’s Peter being unreasonable about?”

He smiled mischievously when Peter glared at him for taking Mozzie’s side.

“Finally, someone with sense!” Mozzie said in relief. “Neal, convince your suit that -,”

“He wants me to get micro-chipped!” Peter cut over him indignantly.

“Yes, I do,” Mozzie confirmed without a trace of shame.

Neal’s smile widened.

“Well, you know -,” Neal started to tell Peter.

Peter crossed his arms and glared.

“No,” he said firmly.

“Yes!” Mozzie argued, just as firmly.

“Maybe,” Neal nodded, his tone relenting.

"Neal!" Peter scolded while Mozzie reveled in victory.

"Yes?" Neal asked innocently.

"Stop it," Peter commanded.

"We'll table the discussion for now," Neal nodded concedingly, passing Peter the opened popsicle.

"We'll table it forever," Peter muttered, accepting the offering.

"For now," Mozzie agreed. "Neal, talk him around. Suit, be reasonable. Neal, since you're there to watch Suit, I need to go work on that thing," he said significantly, in an inflection Neal knew was only there to frustrate Peter.

From the look on Peter's face, it worked.

"Ok, Mozzie," Neal said in a tone of complete understanding, smiling sweetly at Peter when his handler transferred his glare to Neal.

"Bye, Neal. Goodbye, Suit," Mozzie said, barely waiting for them to return the farewells before he hung up.

"What's he doing?" Peter demanded, and Neal felt vaguely like he was being interrogated.

"Oh, you know," Neal said lightly, sitting in the chair beside Peter's bed and lounging back in it, "Mozzie things."

Peter rolled his eyes, finally starting on his popsicle.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered loud enough for Neal to hear.

Neal huffed a laugh.

"So, Mozzie called?" he asked, less surprised the longer he thought about it. His friend had always had a reluctant soft spot for Peter.

Peter nodded with a wry grin.

"Yeah, called me and told me that he has no real personal interest in keeping a Fed safe, but if I die, you go back to jail, so I'm not allowed to do that anymore, then launched into all of the protective measures he expects me to take in the future."

Neal snorted, laughing harder when he saw Peter's expression.

"And you're going to do all of them, right?"

"I am going to do none of them," Peter nodded, as if he had just agreed to Neal's statement, sparking more laughter from his consultant.

"Mozzie will be heartbroken," Neal commented.

"He'll get over it," Peter brushed off, unconcerned.

"He'll take matters into his own hands," Neal countered, allowing himself to enjoy Peter's horrified look for a long second before he continued. "He's got a point, though, you are not allowed to die."

Peter let himself be redirected with a small huff of laughter.

"Actually, I wanted to let you know, you don't have to worry about that, Jones, Diana, and I are rewriting the contract so you wouldn't be shipped back to Supermax."

Neal felt an unexpected and overwhelming wall of anger slam into him at his handler's statement, and he tried to breathe through his sudden fury.

"You think that's why I don't want you to die?" Neal demanded sharply, his voice hard and cutting.

Peter was visibly taken aback, which only fanned the flames of Neal's anger higher.

"I mean," Peter tried to explain, backtracking as he studied Neal's darkening face, setting his melting popsicle in the empty glass by his bed and pushing it aside, "I know it's not the only reason -,"

"It's not any reason!" Neal cut over him angrily, his vision tunneling oddly on Peter, his peripheral vision falling away until his confused handler was all he saw, his anger rising until it started to burn into rage.

"I think it's important you have a back-up handler," Peter argued, his own anger starting to spark in response to Neal's, which in turn skyrocketed at his handler's argument.

"Backup?" Neal repeated, fuming, springing to his feet as he glared at Peter furiously. "Backup? How would you feel if I told you it would be fine if I died because I got Mozzie to agree to be your backup CI?" Neal spat, his eyes sparking.

Instead of yelling back like Neal suddenly found he wanted Peter to, Peter took a calming breath and studied his consultant, his face softening at whatever he found in Neal's furious expression.

Peter let Neal's question hang in the air while he reined in his own anger, perfectly in control when he responded, much to Neal's displeasure.

"I know it's not the only thing you care about," Peter told him calmly, too much understanding in his eyes.

"It isn't any of the things I care about!" Neal shot back angrily. "If you die, do you think I care about where they send me?"

"I care about where they send you if I die," Peter said, equal parts firm and gentle, and some of Neal's rage dissipated, leaving him with the fear and the remnants of his devastation that he wanted to deal with even less than his anger.

Peter seemed to understand though, his eyes warm and sympathetic.

"I care about what happens to you," he repeated softly, holding Neal's eyes and forcing him to acknowledge the sincerity in them.

Neal's anger did exactly what he had been hoping it wouldn't, cracking and falling away, and he was left with only the crater of devastation he thought he had left behind when he realized Peter was alive.

"I didn't," he whispered, feeling like he was standing on a ledge over a canyon of his remembered pain and the ground was cracking dangerously under his feet.

He took a deep, measured breath, trying to rein his emotions back in. Peter was fine, his handler was fine, sitting right in front of him with too-understanding eyes, but Neal's heart rate picked up as the tsunami of everything he hadn't felt in his apathetic grief threatened to crash over him.

His handler was here now, but Peter had been gone, and Neal had never gotten past the depression stage, let alone to the acceptance, before he'd set out on his mission to find Peter, and Neal abruptly realized his emotions hadn't vanished or dissipated like he'd thought, they'd merely been waiting until he had dealt with the more immediate crisis of finding and taking care of Peter.

Peter watched Neal with a heartbroken expression, and Neal knew his handler was following along with his internal realizations, which only pushed Neal closer to the emotions he was trying to avoid.

Peter's eyes softened even further, and he opened his arms, keeping them low enough not to strain his shoulders, but open and inviting just the same.

"I do," he repeated quietly.

Neal held himself frozen for a long moment, trying to shove his feelings back into the box they had all come bursting out of, but a second later he gave up the fight, surging forward to bury his face in Peter's chest as he curled around his handler as close as he could possibly get and sobbed with an intensity that shocked him.

He shouldn't have been surprised. He should have known that the feelings he'd held off truly feeling with first a fog of grief and then the determination of a mission would demand to be felt sooner or later, but he hadn't and he wasn't at all prepared for when the damn broke.

Neal was blindsided by the devastated sobs he was heaving into Peter's chest, but Peter didn't seem to be, hugging Neal tighter and running one hand down his back while the other carded through his hair, repeating reassurances in a warm, protective voice.

"I'm sorry," Neal sobbed, trying to stop crying, which only made him sob harder.

Peter gently shushed him, burying his hand deeper in Neal's hair.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Neal gasped through his tears, clutching the back of Peter's hospital gown and squeezing as tightly as he dared with Peter's ribs.

"There is nothing wrong with you, Neal," Peter said firmly, pulling him in tighter. "Your grief was real, even if my death wasn't, and grief always demands to be felt sooner or later."

"You were gone," Neal sobbed, heartbroken, into Peter's chest.

"I was," Peter acknowledged seriously, laying his head on Neal's. "But now I'm not."

Whereas before his grief had felt like a never ending hurricane, albeit one he was vaguely disconnected from, but one that didn't diminish at all as it broke over him, just continued with more and more until he drowned in it, this time he could feel it draining slowly but surely away, defeated by the feeling of his handler, warm and safe and with Neal.

Neal cried, long and hard, but eventually he ran out of tears, finally feeling the weight on his shoulders he hadn't even realized he was carrying disappear.

He stayed curled up against Peter, sniffing quietly, but made absolutely no move to pull away and Peter thankfully didn't make him, allowing his CI to stay huddled into him as Neal tiredly tried to recover from the storm of emotions.

"I'm helping Mozzie microchip you," Neal said quietly several minutes later, his voice rough from his tears, and Peter laughed, bright and happy, ruffling Neal's hair.

"You are not micro chipping me," he insisted, fond this time instead of indignant.

Neal pushed his face further into Peter's shoulder.

"Am too," he muttered, smiling when he felt Peter ruffle his hair again.

"Are not," Peter argued, his hand returning to card gently through Neal's loose curls.

Neal blinked slowly, having trouble pulling his eyes back open as his tiredness caught up to him, not helped by Peter's hug, which sent a warm feeling of safety coursing through him. If he wasn't careful, he'd fall asleep and Peter's ribs -,

Neal tried to sit up before he let himself get any more tired, but Peter squeezed him tighter, keeping him where he was.

"Your ribs," Neal protested.

"My ribs are fine," Peter said warmly, coaxing Neal into relaxing back into his previous position.

"Your ribs will be -," Neal refuted in a sleepy slur, struggling to stay awake long enough to finish the argument.

"My ribs will be fine," Peter said firmly, pulling the blanket up to cover Neal as well. "I will be fine, and my CI will be fine."

Neal burrowed a little further into Peter's warm shoulder at the statement, relaxing as he finally felt himself accept the fact that his handler was back with him and going to be ok.

Neal's last thought before he fell asleep was that Peter was right, as usual.

With his handler alive, Neal knew he really was going to be just fine after all.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth slipped quietly back in to the room, studying the adorable picture her husband and his consultant made. Peter hadn’t noticed her yet, doing something on his phone, and she took an extra moment to soak in the sight.

On his right side, Neal had once again decided to claim some of the space of Peter’s bed, this time facing Peter’s chest and sprawling across almost all of it. Neal’s head rested just over Peter’s heart, and he was fast asleep, snoring softly into his handler’s collarbone, his face burrowed in to Peter’s shoulder.

Neal’s arms snaked around Peter’s back, loosely circling as they had relaxed in sleep and his legs were pulled onto the bed, wrapping around Peter’s hip so Neal’s folded knees were tucked just out of sight behind Peter.

Elizabeth couldn’t help the silent ‘aww’ she mouthed. She had always found the relationship between her husband and his consultant cute, but the current scene pushed it into adorable, even more so than the last time Neal slept tucked beside Peter. This time he was less ‘tucked beside’ and more ‘wrapped around’, giving the average octopus a run for its money.

Neal had always openly sought Peter’s approval, and Peter had always proudly offered Neal praise and affection, but the last few days had escalated their relationship drastically, both of them noticeably more comfortable when they were in the same room, usually almost literally attached at the hip.

She stepped a little further inside, finally catching her husband’s attention as she approached the bed, frowning when she caught sight of Neal’s face. His cheeks were red, and slightly blotchy, and there were unmistakable tear tracks down them only just starting to dry.

She cast her husband a worried look, but he shook his head with a sad smile.

“Everything just caught up to him,” he explained softly, and Elizabeth felt her eyes soften in understanding.

She nodded, taking her chair next to him, smiling when he reached out to hold her hand.

She sat quietly, taking the opportunity to go through her email inbox that she hadn’t been able to muster the energy to even open in the previous two weeks.

She had an absurd number of emails to sift through, and as she finished the third day of messages she looked up, smiling softly when she found her husband asleep, head resting on Neal’s with a contended smile on his face.

She soaked in the quiet calm of the room, holding her husband’s hand and working her way through her inbox, happier than she had been in weeks.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

A few hours later, the door opened again, Jones’ head peering around as he glanced inside the room.

He smiled widely, seeing Peter and Neal asleep, and quietly moved inside, making room for Diana to slip in as well and silently shut the door behind them.

“Awww,” Jones cooed teasingly, smiling widely at the picture the two presented.

He stepped around the bed further, intending to snag the chair that had been pushed around the corner, and froze.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice jarringly serious after the teasing of before, and Diana cast him a sharp look, scanning for what caused the change.

She stepped around the bed, freezing as well when she saw the dried tear tracks on Neal’s face that was tucked into Peter’s shoulder.

“Peter said everything caught up to him,” Elizabeth shrugged uncertainly.

“Oh,” Jones accepted with a heavy sigh.

“It was going to sooner or later,” Diana noted sadly, moving back around the bed to take a seat. “He never really dealt with everything. I guess I should have expected it to hit him eventually.”

“Yeah,” Jones agreed, quiet and somber, watching the pair. “He definitely never got to the acceptance stage, I should have guessed it this was coming. At least it looks like Peter was able to help and volunteer to be a human teddy bear.”

Elizabeth and Diana snorted.

“We should have just had them sleep like that last night,” Elizabeth noted, fondly bemused. “Peter’s been asleep for over three hours, and he hasn’t had a single nightmare.”

Diana huffed a laugh, shaking her head in amusement.

“Yeah, we should have,” she agreed. “Peter’s -at least temporarily- nightmare free, and Neal looks like there is nowhere in the world he’d rather be. We should have known this was the answer.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, Neal,” Diana said the next morning when she and Jones visited Peter and Neal before going in to the office for the day. “Breaking out of Supermax. How’d you do it?”

“You want me to just tell you?” Neal asked teasingly.

Jones and Diana exchanged a glance, then turned back to Neal.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“And you people call yourselves detectives,” Neal said, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You want the answer just handed to you? No investigative work at all? I guess you’ve already accepted you wouldn’t be able to figure it out.”

The other three smirked at him. As he expected, he had awoken the competitive edge they all had.

“Alright,” Diana said, “how about this. We’ll bring copies of the case file after work today, and we’ll solve the case with boss.”

“Sure,” Neal said innocently, purposefully egging them on, “if you really think you can solve it.”

“Oh we can figure it out,” Jones assured him confidently. “We’ll have Peter helping us. On your end though, if we guess, you have to honestly tell us if we’re right or wrong since we won’t be using Bureau resources to investigate hunches.”

“Deal,” Neal grinned.

Peter chuckled at their antics.

“Looks like we’ve got our evening planned,” he noted wryly. “Will you print me a copy of the file so we don’t have to pass it back and forth?”

“Will do, Boss,” Diana said, gathering her stuff as she stood. “We’ve got to get in to the office, but we’ll be back to show Caffrey how it’s done right after work.”

Jones stood, nodding as well, and offered them a wave.

“Alright,” Peter grinned, “see you then.”

“See ya tonight!” Neal called as they rounded the corner out of sight.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“Hey, Boss,” Diana greeted. “Hey, Caffrey.”

“Have you two prepared yourselves to admit defeat?” Neal goaded.

“Never,” Jones told him, pulling one of the chairs closer to Peter’s other side and sitting in it, grabbing a folder out of his bag for Peter, and another two for himself and Diana, waiting until she pulled her chair next to his to hand it to her.
 
“Ok, first off, did you bribe a guard?” Diana asked.

Neal shook his head with a wide grin.

“I did not bribe any guards.”

“Steal the keys?” Jones guessed.

Neal shook his head again, his pride in his escape growing the longer they talked about it.

At the time, he had only been able to see his goal of saving Peter, and escaping was just a means to that end, but in retrospect, now that Peter was safe, he was realizing he was quite proud of himself for breaking out in less than twelve hours.

“Did you use anything you got from outside the prison?” Peter asked, squinting at him as he pushed his foggy brain into action.

Neal smiled fondly at his handler.

“Nope!” he chirped.

“Had you already been planning it before you talked to us?” Diana asked.

“Nope!” Neal said proudly, enjoying the reluctantly impressed looks on the agents’ faces.

Peter looked down at the folder on his lap, flipping through a few of the pages for several minutes.

“These power blips,” he said, gesturing to a few sentences on the page, “you caused these.”

Peter had stated it more as a fact than a question, but Neal nodded his head and Peter pursed his lips consideringly.

“Did you get to a fuse box?” Diana asked, glancing through her own copy of the report.

“Nope,” Neal chuckled, enjoying the determined looks on the trio’s faces.

“You...” Jones said, studying the pictures in his copy of the papers, “you didn’t mess with the cameras directly, did you...”

“No, I did not,” Neal confirmed brightly.

There was a several minute silence as the agents paged through the files, and Neal watched them smugly.

Peter huffed a breath, and Neal looked over, recognizing the noise as the sound Peter always unconsciously made when he caught a scent.

Peter’s smile was growing as he compared two pages, then flipped to the back of the file to look at the hallway’s pictures.

He pulled one out and brought it closer to his face, laughing triumphantly and flipping to another sheet in the large file of papers.

He pulled out the paper, this one covered in text, and Neal recognized it as the generator replacement request form.

“Got it,” Peter announced, not that he needed to, he had already captured the attention of everyone else in the room without noticing.

“You caused three power blips. The first to test your theory, the second to test response time, and the third to pull your move.”

He paused, waiting for confirmation, and Neal nodded with a chuckle, once again amazed at Peter’s ability to figure him out.

Peter’s grin grew wider, and Diana and Jones leaned closer, eagerly awaiting the rest.

“You shorted the electrical grid system it was on,” Peter said, sounding more sure by the second. “You walked the blind spots,” he tapped two of the pictures, indicating the obvious section of missing hallway in each of them, “and found the nearest outlet.”

Peter pulled one of the pictures out of the stack, the picture of the second outlet Neal had shorted, and passed it to Diana and Jones to look at.

“Look at the outlet, see how it’s a little burned?” He turned his attention to Neal. “You shorted it with something, but I think -, I hope,” he corrected himself, “you’re not stupid enough to stick a fork in the socket, and besides, nothing was visible on the outlets, which were in the camera shot.”

Neal’s smile widened. He had always enjoyed watching Peter work, and he was honestly impressed at how quickly the man had figured it out, even dosed up on pain meds.

“The only thing you could throw from out of shot to short them that you could get in prison would be water, but.... but there isn’t anything obvious in these stills...”

He trailed off, staring at the still shot of the last frame the security camera had captured before dying.

“Did you... did you pour it on the wall somehow? The ceiling isn’t in the shot, did you pour it down from there somehow?”

Neal shook his head. “I used a straw and a water bottle, made the water follow the grout in the bricks so it would fall on the outlet on the other side where the brick ended.”

Peter huffed a laugh and nodded his understanding. Jones and Diana stared in shock.

“So you shorted the outlet,” Peter continued, “and either didn’t think about the backup generator or you knew about this generator’s problem of not being able to start if it sits around unused for months.

You never would have forgotten about the backup generator, so you either knew or guessed, didn’t you?”

“That generator is pretty standard issue,” Neal offered with shrug and a guileless smile.

Peter sent him a knowing look that promised they would be talking about that later, but dropped his gaze back to the files rather than call him on it immediately.

“So...” Peter said thoughtfully, “you did this one,” he tapped the prison map at the location of the first short circuit, “then this one,” he tapped another, “then this one,” he pointed at the final.”

Neal nodded, grinning.

Diana and Jones pulled the prison maps out of their own folders to study.

“Oh,” Diana said after a long minute. “That’s why you were in the yard all afternoon, you could see the camera from this window,” she tapped the schematic, “and you wanted to see if they’d send a guard to check on the outage.”

“That’s right,” Neal confirmed brightly.

“And then,” Jones noted, “you joined the poker game so it was obvious you were outside so no one would think it was weird you weren’t in your cell and go looking for you.”

“Exactly,” Neal nodded. “It had the added bonus of turning into such a big game you couldn’t see the people who were actually playing, so as long as I was subtle when I left, the guards would think I was in there all afternoon.”

The agents shook their head fondly, but there was a distinct note of reluctant admiration in their expressions.

“So then the door,” Peter notes, looking back at his papers. “You didn’t steal keys...”

“Was there anything wrong with the door before you did something to it?” Jones asked, glancing up at Neal, who shook his head.

They lapsed into silence for almost half an hour as the agents compared various file reports and peered at every picture in the folder.

Peter let out a sigh of disbelieving understanding, shaking his head as an incredulous smile spread across his face.

“Neal,” he said reprovingly, his tone overly controlled, and Neal knew he was trying to push the laughter out of his voice, “what did they give you in the welcome pack?”

Neal’s smile turned blinding as he realized Peter had figured it out.

“A toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, soap bar, jumpsuit, socks, shoes, pillow, sheets, and a blanket.”

Peter laughed and brought a hand to his face, shaking his head in fond despair.

“Neal?” he asked, his amusement growing by the second, “did you take the hinges off the door using your comb?”

“I am amazed you figured it out that quickly,” he told Peter gleefully, nodding in confirmation as he enjoyed the appalled looks on Jones and Diana’s faces.

Peter laughed harder, face still in his hand, shaking his head at his consultant.

“Neal, that thinking’s so impressively out of the box, I can’t even be mad. How did you come up with that?”

Neal preened a little at the praise, shrugging one shoulder.

“I didn’t have anything I could pick a lock with, and besides, the prison locks are sophisticated, but doors take two things to be able to open, and no one ever protects the hinges.”

“Are you serious?” Diana demanded.

“You just took the hinges off the door?” Jones asked in disbelief. “With a comb?”

Neal nodded, laughing.

“And then,” Peter grinned, picking up the tale,” you used the give of the door to slip out, and thankfully took the time to replace the hinges.”

Neal nodded.

“It seemed like a bad idea to let some of those guys back out onto the streets,” he offered in explanation.

“Agreed,” Peter said firmly. “From there you nicked a janitor’s uniform from the laundry room and waited until the janitor opened the closet door. You stole his badge, phone, and keys, and locked him in.

You don’t look anything like this man,” Peter gestured at the picture of the janitor, “so you had to come up with a reason for the guard not to look too close, as well as a reason you were leaving in the middle of shift.

No one looks too close at sick people, and it would give you an excuse to hide your face while you were showing the guard your badge.

The guard waved you out, and you went for the maintenance vehicles both because the workers don’t usually lock them and they normally leave their keys in the visor, and because you would feel at least a little bad stealing a car from someone who can’t afford to replace it.

Once in the van, you found the keys, drove a few miles away where you could pull off onto some kind of maintenance road or trucker path, and you disconnected the tracker. When that was off, you used the tape to secure the trip lines and got back in the van, getting off at the rest stop a few miles down and dropping the tracker in the truck bed, then you were home free, off to whatever safe house you disappeared to after you dumped the maintenance van somewhere.”

“Sometimes I forget how ridiculously good you are at knowing what I’ll do,” Neal said, vaguely awed, “and then you pull moves like this and I’m abruptly reminded.”

“Sometimes I forget how creatively genius you are, and then you pull moves like this and I remember,” Peter returned with a chuckle, shaking his head as he stared down at the picture of the barred door to the cell block.

“Sometimes I forget how incredibly annoying you are, and then you pull moves like this and I remember,” Diana grumbled, Jones nodding along in pretend annoyance. “How were we supposed to keep up with that, huh? Are you serious? Taking hinges off with a comb? Have some decency, Neal. We were tired and you pulled this nonsense on us? Really?”

Neal laughed, not at all repentant, and Diana scowled at him in pseudo-aggravation for his impertinence.

“You’re lucky you were breaking out for a good cause or I would have been very annoyed,” she informed him.

“You were very annoyed,” Jones reminded her, much to Neal and Peter’s amusement.

“No," she refuted with a shake of her head, "that was my vague annoyance. My very annoyed would have been much worse.”

Jones looked at Neal, his eyes wide with mock terror.

“Caffrey, you are only allowed to break out of places for good reason," he insisted, "the thought of her very annoyed is terrifying, and I was the poor sucker you left to handle the fallout!”

Neal and Peter laughed harder, and even Diana quirked a grin at his teasing.

"I'm pretty sure the guard that had to tell her you were gone wet his pants," Jones went on theatrically. "I don't know what he did to his co-workers to earn that punishment, but he's probably going to require extensive therapy to move past the experience."

"Probably," Diana shrugged lightly, unashamed, and nodded her confirmation.

Peter laughed harder and gasped, clutching his ribs as his laughter had pushed them to the point of causing flares of discomfort even with the pain meds.

"Alright," Diana said more seriously, "enough of that. No more fun allowed until boss can breathe without wincing."

"I'm fine," Peter tried to wave off, but all three of them noticed that he left one arm wrapped around his middle to brace his ribs and sent him disapproving looks that had him rolling his eyes.

"Diana's right, Peter,” Neal said, a distinct note of scolding in his voice. “You can't be laughing like that yet. I'm sure her vague annoyance will still be present enough to regale us with tales of her nightmare-inducing frustration in a few weeks."

"It will," she confirmed definitively.

"Psst, Neal," Jones leaned over and pretended to whisper, "you could have just left it at 'Diana's right' and been done, you don't have to specify when she's right about everything."

Diana fist bumped Jones with a grin and Peter barked out another laugh, wincing as his ribs protested.

"No being funny!" Neal scolded. "No one's allowed to be funny for another six weeks."

"The only funny thing was that you didn't know that," Jones muttered petulantly, but there was an impish gleam in his eyes that gave away his amusement as he pretended to pout.

"Well, yeah, of course I know that," Neal informed him judgmentally, "but I can't tell her that, she'd be impossible!"

His response sent the agents into a harder round of laughter than he'd anticipated, and he cocked a questioning eyebrow at the trio.

"Just something we said when you were asleep the other day," Jones explained, waving away Neal's unspoken question.

Neal sent them a suspicious look, but let it pass without comment.

"Ok, but the prison will need their van back," Peter brought them back to the previous topic, "so where'd you leave it?"

Neal smiled at him, a slight, but unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

"Where do you think I left it?" he asked with just enough of a baiting tone that Peter smirked, sitting up straighter and pulling the folder back to his lap.

Peter pulled out the sheet of tracking data the jail had provided as well as the tri-folded map that had the tracker's route drawn on it and laid them both on his lap to study.

He ran his eyes over the timed print outs in the list and tapped a section of numbers, transferring his gaze to the map spread from one edge of the bed to the other until he found the coordinates he was looking for.

"Right here," he said, tapping the map, "this is where you took the tracker off."

Neal nodded, his smile growing.

"You drove to this exit," he tapped another section of the map, "and ended up here, which I'm guessing is either a rest stop or a gas station."

"Gas station," Neal confirmed.

Peter nodded.

"This is where you found the pickup, walked past it, slipped the tracker in the back."

"Yep," Neal agreed.

"You'd be able to see the highway entrance ramps from there, so you waited there until you saw which way the truck went, and then you went the opposite way."

Peter didn't bother looking up from scanning the map to see Neal's nod, knowing he was right.

"Problem was, that puts you back in route to the prison, which you really don't want to drive by in their stolen van. You'd already been on the road, you knew there was a highway intersection, so you took this turn off," he pointed to the intersecting highway, “going this way because it took you further from Supermax.

This highway just makes a loop around the area, though, you'd need another turn off, so now the question is north or south from here."

Peter's finger traced over the exit Neal had taken, all three of the room's other occupants watching him in wonder, not that he seemed to notice as he concentrated on the options.

"You couldn't hide the van in New York City, one, it's memorable to see a van that big in the city, even if you don't know it's a prison vehicle.

Two, there isn't a street in the city that doesn't have some kind of traffic within a week, and it hasn't turned up yet, so it's not in the big apple.

You need somewhere more rural," he muttered, thinking out loud as he forgot about his audience and worked through the possibilities. "You'd need somewhere with a snow route or a maintenance road, or something like that. Something no one has gone on in a week..."

Peter pulled the map closer to his face, tracing the route south, then the route north.

"You went north," he said definitively, setting the map back on his lap and pointing to the north-bound highway. "If you had gone south, there's no way to get to a more rural area without either passing the prison again, going through a toll, or going through New York City.

You turned north, where the state moves to rural without making you pass through any toll booths or in front of any prisons and drove for at least an hour before you started looking for a town that was big enough to have a trans-city transportation service."

Neal nodded, his smile slightly venerating, while Diana and Jones looked between the pair, but Peter was squinting at the map again.

"Could have been an airport," Peter mused, "but that would require documents you didn't have, it's not like they allow you a driver’s license in prison. You could steal one, of course, everyone here knows that, but the chances of stealing one of someone who looks enough like you to pass any actual scrutiny is low, and you didn't have time to have a fake made.

You could have taken a taxi somewhere," Peter considered, but shook his head almost immediately, "but you would have had to pick a lot of pockets to pay that fare, or used a credit card, which you don't tend to do when you're legitimately going to ground, and the long distance fare would have been easy to trace."

Neal chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief as Peter inched closer to the correct answer, his agents hanging onto his every word.

"That leaves us with hitchhike, bus, or train. No guarantee you'll get wherever it is you wanted to go with hitch-hiking, although it's you, so my money would be on yes, but you didn't because you had a specific place you were going, you weren't just going away from the search net, so train or bus."

He traced his eyes along the highway north considering.

"No easy ways to get to the other highways without backtracking or tolls and no train stations along this highway until you get up into Maine, and it crosses the Canadian border, meaning security in general is tighter, so my money is on bus station.

If you were still in the wind, I would call, this town," he pointed at a town along the route, "this town," he pointed at the town Neal had stashed the van in, "and this town," he pointed to another town further north, "and ask the local sheriffs to check all the maintenance and detour roads and see if they could find it."

He looked up, meeting Neal's eyes with a cocked eyebrow.

"Would they find it?" he asked.

Neal shrugged with a laugh. "Depends if they look in the bushes off the path, it's in this one," he leaned forward to point to the second dot Peter had pointed out.
 
Peter huffed a triumphant chuckle as he looked back at the town the van was stashed in.
 
"Peter," Neal said, reclaiming Peter’s attention and sitting back with a look of unmistakable awe, "you're terrifying. You're still on pain meds. You’re literally in a hospital bed. You've looked at this for less than two hours, how in the world?

You are a terror and a menace and the nightmare of the criminal world.”

Far from being insulted, Peter reveled in victory, finally noticing the hero-worship on Jones and Diana's faces as well, which Neal was amused to see made him blush.

"Maybe you're just getting predictable," Peter offered as a teasing counterpoint.

Neal pouted, but Jones cut in before he could deliver his scathing response.

"There is not a planet in the galaxy where breaking out of Supermax with a comb is predictable, Peter," Jones refuted sardonically, making Peter laugh again and subtly rub his ribs.

"No - being - funny!" Neal demanded, jabbing his finger at Jones, who looked slightly sheepish.

"Sorry," he apologized, "I'm naturally hilarious, it's hard to tone down."

"Well, work on it," Neal demanded, unmoved, ignoring the snorts from Peter and Diana.

"I'll try," Jones assured him with a grin, his wry delivery making both Peter and Diana laugh.

Neal crossed his arms and fixed him with an unimpressed look.

"You're failing," he informed him bluntly, jerking his head at the two laughing agents. "Try harder or we'll have to kick you out."

Instead of taking his threat seriously or continuing the banter, Jones shook his head in amusement, grinning at his friend.

“I’m glad you’re back, man, we missed you.”

Neal’s stern glare softened into a smile as well.

“I missed you guys, too,” he said sincerely. “I am serious about kicking you out if I must, though. Don’t think you can beg out of it.”

Jones chuckled, sinking back in his seat.

“Don’t worry, Neal. Considering you broke out of Supermax for the sole purpose of protecting your handler, no one doubts that in the slightest.”

Peter’s amused smile turned fond, and Diana stopped laughing as she nodded in agreement.

“Good,” Neal said firmly, not embarrassed in the slightest. “It’s about time people figured that out.”

Chapter Text

"Hey, hon," Peter greeted with a warm smile and sleepy eyes, Neal offering a bright "Hey, Elizabeth," from the chair beside him.

"Hi, hon," she said, walking around the bed to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Neal."

She pulled the chair on the opposite side of the bed as Neal closer, then dropped into it, somehow tired after a long day even though it had only been three hours of meetings.

"Did that meeting go well?" Peter asked, sitting up a little straighter and visibly trying to shake off his tiredness.

"Well... not exactly," she admitted, and they both gave her their undivided attention.

"It didn't?" Neal asked. "What happened?"

"Well," she started, looking between them both before her eyes landed back on Neal, "that's actually something I wanted to talk to you about."

Neal cocked his head curiously, but let her go on without interrupting.

"Do you remember how I told you this couple was really into art, and they had contracted an artist to do paintings to hang around the reception hall?" she asked.

They both nodded.

"Well, the artist they hired broke his hand last week, there's no way he'll even be out of the cast by the wedding, let alone have finished the work. It's supposed to be in four weeks, so -, Neal, I was wondering, do you have any paintings I could borrow for their reception? I'd give them back, I promise."

Neal looked vaguely awed by the question.

"You want to hang my work up?" he asked excitedly, and she relaxed slightly at the enthusiastic answer.

"Please," she said earnestly. "It would be a real life saver if I could."

"Of course you can, Elizabeth," he agreed immediately. "Anything for you, of course you can. I have a storage unit, actually. I paint so often, it clutters up June's house, but I am physically incapable of burning or throwing away art, so I just shove it in a storage unit down on Seventh Street until I figure out what to do with it. I can take you through it, if you want. I think I have a few Monet replicas from that case a few months ago."

"Thank you, Neal," she smiled gratefully. "I appreciate this, I really do. Can I look through your other pieces, though? This couple really has a thing about original artwork. I was sitting in the meeting today, listening to them stress and worry about what they should do, and I told them I had a friend that made the most incredible artwork I'd ever seen, and they were over the moon. Do you care if I use your original pieces instead?"

Neal swallowed hard, sharing a quick glance with Peter before he turned back to beam at her.

"No, I don't mind at all, as long as you think they'll be something they like. I don't know what their art style is, but I have dozens of paintings you can look through."

"Neal," she sighed in relief, "you're a life saver. An absolute life saver."

"We could go through them whenever you want," he offered instead of acknowledging her thanks that had made him blush faintly.

"That would be perfect," she said, allowing him to move the conversation forward. "Maybe we can go tomorrow sometime?"

Neal turned to Peter.

"As long as it's ok with my handler? It will be a weekday after all."

Peter chuckled, shaking his head with a stifled yawn.

"Yeah, Neal, of course you can go. It's in your radius, right? If not I could get Diana or Jones to escort you, but I don't know how you'd get the artwork in if it weren't."

"No, it's in my radius," Neal reassured, looking more excited by the second. "Only problem I might have is getting back to the hospital. Could Diana or Jones pick me up and bring me so I'm escorted?"

"We'll figure something out," Peter smiled fondly, blinking slowly and then prying his eyes back open, his ever present exhaustion catching up to him.

"Go to sleep, hon," Elizabeth told him, running a hand through his hair that he leaned in to. "You need your rest to get better. I'll tell you all about it when you wake up. Sleep."

With her assurance, Peter finally let his eyes fall closed, asleep within a few seconds.

"Well, that didn't take long," Elizabeth chuckled softly.

"Yeah," Neal huffed a soft laugh. "I've been trying to get him to go to sleep for over an hour, now. I should have known all I needed to do was get you to tell him to."

Elizabeth smiled as she shook her head at him, running her thumb over the back of Peter's hand.

"Are you excited for getting him back home?" Neal asked her before she could respond to his previous statement.

"I can't wait," she confided, her smile growing wider as she thought about it.

"One more day," Neal noted happily. "You’re sure it's fine that I crash it out in your guest room for the next few days?"

"Neal, I will need all the help I can get trying to get him to stay on the couch and not push himself farther than his injuries can handle," El assured him. "You're not a guest, you're reinforcements, and I'm going to need your help."

Neal chuckled, amused by how emphatic her statement was. "Might also need reinforcements to help carry home all these flowers," Neal noted, glancing around Peter's room.

As the word had spread that Peter was alive and on the mend, flowers and cards had poured in, to the point that almost every available surface in Peter's room was covered with a vase or card of some kind.

"Yeah," Elizabeth agreed, surveying the thirty nine bouquets arranged around the room, and the dozens of cards propped up wherever they would fit, "we might need to call in Jones and Diana for assistance."

Neal snorted.

"We might have to call in all of White Collar for assistance," he corrected wryly.

"You know, Neal," she said, letting herself take in just how many flowers and gifts had been sent, "I think you might be right about that."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Peter!" Neal called, shaking his handler's shoulder slightly, having just re-entered the room from a restroom break to find Peter in the throes of yet another nightmare.

Peter still couldn't sleep through the night, or even a nap, without the near constant nightmares.

Between Neal and Elizabeth, they kept him from waking up the vast majority of the time, but he still woke up panting and gasping at least once a night.

Neal winced as he realized Peter was past the point of being able to avert the nightmare without waking him up, tossing his head back and forth as he panted for air, his heart rate beating faster and faster on the monitor.

"Peter," Neal squeezed his shoulder again, "Peter, wake up."

Peter's eyes shot open with a gasp, trying to jerk upright, but Neal gently held him down.

"Peter," Neal repeated, this time warm and reassuring, resting a light hand on his handler's sternum and holding one of Peter's hands to Neal's own chest, helping his handler regulate his harsh breathing. "It's ok, Peter, everything's ok."

Peter watched Neal with wide, scared eyes as he followed his lead and slowed his breathing, eventually waking up enough to realize it had been a nightmare.

"Just a nightmare," Neal confirmed, soft and comforting.

Peter reclaimed his hand, settling it back in his lap and looking more than a little embarrassed despite it being far from the first time Neal had helped him after he woke up terrified.

Neal was growing more worried about him by the day.

While Peter was awake he seemed fine, back to his old self, his fading bruises and bandages usually the only real reminder there had ever been a problem.

He sometimes flinched when surprised, and occasionally there would be a phrase or reminder that sent him into a glassy-eyed, panting trance, but for the most part he acted like nothing had changed.

When he was asleep, though, it was an entirely different story.

He had nightmares any time he slept longer than half an hour. On the occasions when they couldn't divert the nightmare before it really took hold, if Neal and Elizabeth didn't wake him, he would sit bolt upright with strangled screams and yells, panicking for several long minutes before they could bring him back to present.

Neal was worried, growing more worried by the day, but he didn't know how to bring it up.

Peter always immediately acted like nothing had happened, awkwardly avoiding all mention of the problems he was still having, and Neal didn't know how to help him. He did know he had to try, though.

“Peter -," Neal started, hesitantly bringing up the topic before Peter could rebuild his mask and brush off the situation, "Peter, I think -, I'm worried about you. With the nightmares and yesterday, with the soup -, I think that was a flashback, Peter. I -, I’ll help however I can, of course, but -, Peter, I think maybe you should talk to a psychiatrist.”

Peter let out a heavy sigh, eyes flicking to the side to study his bedside table so he didn’t have to look at Neal.

Neal cast a quick glance to the corner, glad to see Elizabeth was still fast asleep.

“Yeah,” Peter admitted softly. “I mean, the Bureau’s going to make me talk to one anyway. An agent can’t go back into the field after an injury on the job without a psych evaluation, and as it stands right now, there’s no way I’ll pass it.”

Peter sighed again, shoulders hunching as he slumped slightly into himself, eyes downcast.

“Hughes already talked to me about it,” he admitted reluctantly.

A silence fell over them as Neal waited for Peter to continue.

Peter mulled over what he wanted to say, sending Neal a quick glance before he refocused on his water cup.

“He knows as well as you do how much I hate talking about feelings,” he said, earning a soft chuckle out of Neal. “He said he knew if he left it up to me I wouldn’t make it, so he took the liberty of setting up the first appointment for me. That’s Reese, always so helpful.”

Neal snorted at the sarcasm, but shook his head with a relieved expression.

“I know you hate it, Peter," Neal said, "but I really think it will help.”

Peter pursed his lips, but sighed and finally met Neal’s earnest eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted grudgingly, “I think it will, too.”

Neal smiled at him, warm and fond, relieved by how surprisingly well the talk had gone.

“I’m not going to be happy about it, though,” Peter warned, crossing his arms with a surly scowl.

That earned a real laugh out of Neal, and he smiled brightly at his grumpy handler.

“You don’t have to be happy about it,” Neal allowed fondly, “just as long as you go. You can be as grumpy about it as you want as long as you actually go.”

Peter scowled at him for another second before he relented.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Then I guess it’s a deal.”

“Yeah," Neal agreed, relieved, "it’s a deal.”

Chapter Text

It took Peter and Neal almost forty minutes to wade through the well-wishers in the lobby who stopped to tell the duo how glad they were the pair was back.

Grinning widely, they finally made their way up the elevator and into the office, receiving a fresh wave of excited greetings when they walked in the door.

Each of the White Collar agents had seen them both numerous times since the last time they had been in the office, and soon enough Neal was making his way to his desk, stopping as he caught sight of the new office decoration hanging on the wall.

The agents had made a massive poster, styled like the old wild west outlaw signs, a large picture of Neal in the middle with the words 'Have you see this man? Last reported location: Antarctica,' in big, bold letters underneath.

“So, did you at least call the base?” he asked the room in eager amusement, nodding his head toward the sign.

“Neal,” Peter scoffed fondly, looking down at the clipboard of case metrics Saunders had handed him, “no one thought you were in Antarctica.”

Luckily, Neal turned an indignant expression toward his handler without looking at the other agents around him, so they had a few seconds to wipe the looks off their faces that stated very clearly that they definitely had briefly thought he was at the South Pole.

“You don’t know that,” Neal accused, and Peter shook his head as he flipped the page and scanned the second sheet.

“Neal,” Peter said in exasperation, “yes, I do. With the way you whine and complain every single day the temperature is under forty degrees, no one thinks you went to Antarctica in March to wait it out, come on.

Not to mention, how could you have gotten there in less than a day? It’s almost an entire day’s flight to the tip of Chile, and then you’d still have to take the boat, but you pinged the alarm less than a day after you left the prison.

They may have believed Cape Verde, it’s feasible you’d wait in a warm, non-extradition country while you figured everything out, but even without the timing of it, no one who’s ever had a conversation with you in the winter would ever believe you willingly went to Antarctica.”

Neal scowled petulantly at him.

“They might have,” he whined, unable to dispute Peter’s reasoning but also unable to admit defeat.

“Yeah, ok, Neal,” Peter said sarcastically, flipping the first page back down and handing the clipboard back to Saunders. “All of those look fine except cases thirty-four and ninety-two, come up to my office after lunch and we’ll straighten it out.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Saunders agreed with a nod, then turned to the still pouting consultant. “Neal, of course you weren’t in Antarctica, but we don’t actually know where you ended up, were you in New York?”

“Sorry, that one I really can’t tell you,” Neal said, looking slightly apologetic. “Mozzie would kill me if I told the Feds where his safe house was.”

The agents around him nodded their reluctant acceptance, but Peter stared at him consideringly.

Neal looked over, huffing a small laugh when he saw the serious look he was getting from his handler.

“Can I help you?” he asked Peter, bemused.

“You were in the area around Wharton State Park,” Peter decided, studying his reaction.

Neal’s mouth dropped open in shock for a split second before he snapped it shut again.

“No, I wasn’t,” he tried to insist, nowhere near convincing.

Peter’s intense look of concentration morphed into a victorious smile, and the agents around the office stared at him in near-reverence.

“Yes, you were,” Peter said, growing more confident by the second.

“Why do you think that?” Neal asked defensively, and Peter snorted.

“You knew they were combing the city for you, and you’re not stupid enough to do your regrouping and planning on the Marshals’ home turf.

No, you left the city, and Mozzie doesn’t have that many safe houses outside the area and you weren’t in Detroit because you were able to get there, figure it out, get your disguise, and then come back in a little over two days, but it would take three days to get there and back to Detroit by bus, not to mention the bus station you left from routed the Detroit bus down to NYC before going to the Motor City and you were avoiding the Big Apple.

In one of those sonnets Mozzie wrote to Gina we read through for that case, he went on for seven pages about that park, comparing it to the view of an April day, and I’ve heard him tell El that Thursday and April are the safe houses with the prettiest views. You were somewhere in the vicinity of Wharton State Park.”

Neal stared at him, wide eyed.

“You are terrifying,” he whispered in awe, and Peter smiled, tipping Neal’s hat down over his eyes.

“Magic,” Wallace nodded to Diana. “You were right. Magic.”

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“Alright,” Chang announced as most of the agents in the office grouped around the coffee machine for a brief afternoon break. “One thing we do need to address is the fact that we need to take a bad picture of Neal in case we ever have to canvas the city for him again.”

“Agreed,” Mabena said firmly, all the agents around her nodding emphatically.

As one, they all turned to glance up at Peter’s office where Neal was excitedly relating something, gesticulating enthusiastically to make his point, while Peter listened with a warm smile on his face.

“We’ll all try to get a less flattering picture of him today,” Diana decided, “and we’ll add it to the shared server, I’ll make a folder. Then we can look at the choices and pick one to save off somewhere.”

“Agreed,” Jones said, speaking for everyone, and their mission was accepted.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

“Are -, are you taking a picture of me?” Neal asked Ocampo in amused confusion.

“Yes,” Ocampo said, glaring down at the result, “and you’re stupid.”

Neal laughed, exchanging a bemused look with Peter.

“I’m ... stupid?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ocampo said firmly, angrily swiping on his phone.

Neal tried to stifle his resulting laugh with limited success.

“Um... why do you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t think, I know,” Ocampo corrected, raising his scowl to Neal for a moment before dropping it back to his phone.

“Um...” Neal laughed, not sure what to do with that response.

“No, he’s right,” Varma said, joining the conversation and shaking her phone at him as proof. “You’re stupid.”

“Agreed,” Chang grumbled, waving his phone around as well.

“So... so none of those insults actually did anything to answer my question...,” Neal pointed out, eyes bright with amusement.

“We don’t answer questions for stupid people,” Diana informed him, joining the conversation with a dark look, “and they’re right.”

“Caffrey,” Jones said, annoyed, as he moved to stand by Diana’s shoulder, “did you know it is actually impossible to take a bad picture of you?”

Neal barked a loud laugh as Peter shook his head at his agents.

“Is that why you’ve all been taking pictures of him since you had your coffee pot communal?” Peter asked in amusement, looking around the group.

“How did you even see that?” Varma demanded. “Are you actually omnipotent?”

Peter laughed loudly, and Jones gave a decisive nod.

“Yes,” Jones answered for him, making Peter laugh harder, his consultant laughing along as well, though the rest of the people in the conversation remained earnestly serious.

“Also, he’s magic,” Wallace added helpfully, and all of the agents around her nodded their acceptance of her point.

“So you guys are taking bad pictures of Neal?” Peter asked, finally controlling his laughter enough to bring them back to the point.

“Trying to,” Rodriquez scowled. “It’s not going well. It’s stupid. He is literally always photogenic, he even freakin’ sneezes like a model.”

Peter laughed again, watching his consultant preen.

“Oh, come on,” Peter argued, “if can’t be that hard.”

Neal stopped mid-preening and scowled at his handler, which didn’t dampen Peter’s amusement in the slightest.

“That’s what you’d think!” Diana told him, sounding vindicated and indignant in equal parts. “But no! We’ve taken forty eight pictures between us, and none of them are even kind of bad!”

“Well,” Peter said in pseudo-sincerity, pushing down his resurging laughter, “nothing is impossible if you keep trying.”

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Neal stood, returning a file to the shelf in the middle of the bullpen, smiling softly to himself, glad life had slotted itself back into what it should be.

He took his time returning the paperwork, enjoying the sounds of the office moving around him and glad for the excuse to step away from his desk for a moment.

He internally smirked, schooling his face into something artsy and deeply contemplative, running a light finger down the spine of the nearest folder, and then laughed out loud as Chang let out a noise of frustration, turning and stomping back to his desk after the failed attempt to catch him off guard.

Evidently, the picture had turned out well. Neal made a mental note to track down these pictures and laugh at their attempts.

Diana had said they’d all seen it, but they hadn’t all been huddled around a phone or computer screen, so they were either emailing them or putting them in the shared server, and Neal’s bet was on the shared server since it was easier to upload to then attaching multiple failed photo attempts to an email, and had the bonus of being easier to keep all the attempts together in one place without having to comb through a hundred emails.

Neal let out a self-satisfied breath, snagging the next file he needed and strolling back to his desk to finish the mortgage fraud case he was working on.

For once, he wasn’t annoyed by working a mortgage fraud. Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t worked any official cases in almost two months, or maybe it was the fact that Peter wasn’t cleared for field duty yet and Neal had no interest in working an operation without him, but whatever the reason, the case felt like the perfect low effort-high success note to start back on.

He was mid step when Hughes’ voice cracked through the calm of the office.

“Caffrey!”

Neal’s wide eyes snapped to the ASAC, hunching his shoulders slightly as he reigned in the panic that Hughes still incited in him every single time he called his name.

It only took him a split second to register what had happened, but a split second was all Peter needed.

With a victorious laugh, Peter stood at Hughes’ shoulder and had snapped the picture as Neal had swung his panicked gaze their way.

Neal scowled, and Peter laughed and took a picture of that too.

“Got it!” he called unnecessarily to the office, the agents around him already cheering in victory.

Hughes smirked but didn’t say anything, turning and walking back into his office as Peter flipped back and forth between the pictures he had taken, laughing.

Neal glared at him, climbing the stairs and making his way to Peter, holding out a hand and demanding to see the results.

Peter handed him the phone he demanded, and Neal felt a flare of worry that Peter wasn’t as on his game as he pretended to be.

That was something to be assessed after Neal disposed of the evidence, though, and he turned his attention to the phone.

On the screen, his wide-eyed, panicked look stared back at him. Peter had zoomed it in close enough it was impossible to miss the details, and unfortunately his recently replaced phone had an excellent camera.

Neal glowered at it.

Peter had framed it around his face, but enough of his chest was visible to see he had instinctively clutched the folder to his chest defensively, his shoulders hunched and his eyes the size of saucers.

Neal cast a glare at his still laughing handler, and made a show of flipping to the next one, letting his finger brush the delete button just as the screen would have flipped the image.

In the next, Neal reluctantly admitted to himself that he looked like a pouting toddler.

His arms that had clutched the folder to his chest like a teddy bear had fallen out of the scared grasping but were still folded over his chest, his brow furrowed as he scowled up at his handler.

The angle did not help things. Being so far above him on the upper level gave the impression of an adult taking a picture of a grumpy two-year-old, and Neal did not appreciate the comparison.

He subtly deleted that picture as well, bringing the display to the third and final picture.

Neal’s arms had dropped to his sides, but he was aggravated to see that his expression was still more petulant than fearsome. That one had to go as well.

Neal made quick work of navigating to the recycling bin and deleting them from there as well before he thrust the phone back at Peter.

Peter returned the screen to the photos app, laughing harder when he saw the three pictures missing.

Neal’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t what he’d thought the reaction would be.

Maybe Peter was laughing because he now realized he shouldn’t gang up against his consultant with his agents?

“You know I already emailed them to everyone, right?” Peter laughed, brushing tears out of his eyes as Neal’s eyes widened in alarm.

Dreading what he’d see, he slowly turned to look out at the bullpen, unhappy to find every agent on the team howling with laughter as they looked at their screens.

"You look like a baby deer!" Jones called, barely able to stop laughing long enough to inform his scowling friend.

"He looks like a five year old with his hand in the cookie jar," Diana disputed, laughing harder as she looked at the picture again.

 “Go -,” Chang struggled to choke out, “go to the next one!”

Evidently they did, and they all roared with laughter as they stared at their screens gleefully.

“Is he actually two years old?” Rodriquez cackled, unbothered by the glare Neal sent her.

“I think he missed nap time!” Saunders announced, struggling to get the words past his own hilarity.

Neal had just started drafting his twenty seven point plan of how he would glare them all into submission and then get into their computers to delete the evidence when he heard a soft gasp from beside him.

Plan immediately postponed, he turned to Peter in alarm, concern rising further when his handler had an arm wrapped around his rib cage as he clenched his eyes shut.

Seeing Peter’s pained face instantly cut through all of Neal’s aggravation, and he laid a light hand on Peter’s arm to catch his attention before gently shepherding him into his office and prodding him onto the small couch in the corner.

Neal shut the door behind them, blocking out the sounds of the loud laughter in the bullpen from the agents who hadn’t noticed their boss’s absence yet, and sat beside Peter on the couch, watching him with worried eyes.

Peter took a measured breath, releasing it slowly and nodded, trying to sound reassuring when he grit out, “I’m fine, Neal, really.”

“You will be fine,” Neal said, unable to stop himself from scolding his handler worriedly, “but you’re not quite yet and you need to be more careful.”

Peter let out an amused breath, finally daring to loosen the arm wrapped around his stomach.

“Isn’t that my line?” he asked in a wry voice, but his eyes were still clenched closed as he worked on maintaining his breathing, and Neal didn’t let himself get pulled into the banter.

“Then maybe you should listen to it,” Neal told him, unable to keep the concern out of his voice, and Peter cracked an eye open to look at him.

Peter opened both eyes, smiling softly and un-hunching a bit as the pain faded.

“I will be fine,” Peter said in a warm, firm tone that calmed Neal’s nerves more than he‘d ever admit, “and I am fine, it just twinged for a second there.”

“It was your ribs telling you to be nicer to your consultant,” Neal snarked, finally letting himself fall into their usual dynamic.

“Now why would they tell me to do a ridiculous thing like that?” Peter asked with a smirk, and Neal rolled his eyes but didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Oh,” Peter said after a moment, sitting up a little straighter as he remembered something, “El wanted me to tell you thank you, again. She’ll give you the key to your storage unit back next time you’re over for dinner.

She took two helpers to your unit the day before yesterday, going through things, and took what she needed. She said she could either give you a list, or convince me to take you to the venue next weekend before the reception, and I have a feeling I know which one you’ll pick.”

Neal nodded eagerly, his smile blinding.

“Yes, will you please tell Elizabeth I request she bully you into taking me?"

"My wife doesn’t bully me," Peter corrected him, "she asks politely, which is something you could learn to do more often."

"I ask politely for things all the time you don’t do!” Neal shot back indignantly, and Peter rolled his eyes.

“Let me rephrase,” Peter said in a tone of long suffering patience, “my wife politely asks me to do reasonable requests, which you could stand to do more often.”

“My requests are reasonable,” Neal muttered petulantly, and Peter chuckled, ruffling his consultant’s hair as he shook his head.

“No, they're really not, but on the topic of art displays,” Peter said, flashing Neal a smile, “I believe I owe you a trip to a museum.”

Neal looked at him for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion, before the dots connected and he made a noise of understanding.

“Oh, Peter, that’s alright,” Neal waved off. “I forgot I had even wanted to go. I think the exhibits I wanted to see have moved on anyway, they're mostly empty as they wait to get the pieces for their big spring show.”

Peter smiled warmly and shook his head.

"Nah, let's go," he argued lightly. “I’m free tonight, we could go after work.”

Neal turned to look at him more directly in surprise, playing it up as he continued.

"Peter Burke? Wanting to go to an art museum? What is happening? Since when do you not take a rain check on taking me to a museum?"

Peter chuffed a breath. "Don't you see, it's perfect to take you when most of it's empty, there’ll be way fewer pieces I have to peer at and pretend I understand the symbolism for."

Neal barked a laugh.

"Peter," he chided playfully, amused by his handler's comeback, "believe me, no one thinks you understand the symbolism in the art you peer at.”

Peter shoved him affectionately, but didn't continue the banter.

"But no, really, we should go," Peter said, a slightly more serious note in his voice. "A promise is a promise, and it'll give me a chance to get away from a sick bed or the office, which seem to be my two most visited places lately, and it'll give you a chance to get out of your radius.

Besides,” he added, “it'll give the two of us a chance to hang out for a whole night with just us that’s not just sitting in my living room, and we haven't done that in a while. A Friday night seems like a good opportunity."

"Ok," Neal agreed, and his smile had just a hint of shyness in it as he accepted, making Peter's expression grow fonder. “Alright,” Neal’s smile grew, “let’s do that.”

"Yeah, let’s do that. After all," Peter chuckled, "a deal's a deal."

"Yeah," Neal agreed, sending him a warm smile, "and you always seem to make good ones."

Chapter Text

It was a Friday afternoon with no big cases in progress, and the office had cleared out quickly. In the resulting emptiness, Neal enacted his plan.

Through the daring combination of timing, subtly, and everyone's continued habit of leaving their computers unlocked when they left their desk despite the fact that the policy of locking a machine before leaving it unattended had been repeated no less than fifty-three times in the briefing he had been given upon receiving an FBI issued computer, he managed to obtain access to every computer in the office except his handler's as Peter diligently worked through the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

The first thing he had done as soon as all of the agents had left was go to everyone's desk and temporarily disabled the auto lock function on their computer, ensuring he had the time to search through their files and get all the copies without having to enter a password.

He meticulously combed through files, through their sent emails, and through the day's history of server connections, deleting the numerous copies and backup copies he found.

Neal smirked, taking the extra minute to change the signature on Jones' email to 'Love, CJ' and set the signature to automatically attach to all outgoing emails without displaying on the screen when the email was drafted in retaliation for Jones' continued refusal to use Neal's name, insisting on addressing him as Bambi ever since he had seen the cursed picture Peter had taken.

He finished cleaning off the last agent's computer and then made his way up to Peter's office, nudging his bemused handler to the side and dragging a chair forward to sit in as he wiped away the last of the evidence out of the world.

Peter peppered him with sarcastic comments but made no move to actually stop him, and within a few minutes Neal was satisfied the pictures were gone forever.

"Can we go now?" Peter asked dryly, and Neal cheerfully confirmed they could without acknowledging the blatant sarcasm.

Neal fell into step a half a stride behind his handler as they made their way out of the office and down the stairs, carefully watching Peter for any signs that he was in more pain than he was admitting to. Satisfied that he was ok, Neal moved to Peter's shoulder as they made their way to the doors.

"All of the copies are gone," Neal announced happily.

"Uh huh," Peter agreed sarcastically. "That's what I thought about the mustache pictures. Give up hope, Diana is unbeatable."

"No, I got them all," Neal assured him confidently, shaking his head as he reached for the door to hold open for Peter and then follow him through. "I got files on the hard drive, emails, server history, I even checked for print outs."

"Hmmm," Peter hummed, unconvinced, leading the way to the elevator. "And you checked to see if a thumb drive had been registered in any of the computer ports?"

Neal's step faltered.

No. He hadn't done that.

He made a mental note to put some thought into how he would make sure she hadn't absconded with a flash drive of evidence and then continued walking, turning his attention back to his amused handler.

"I'll work on that this weekend," Neal conceded lightly, and Peter snorted, shaking his head, but didn't argue.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

"Uh, Peter," Neal said, trying not to let his disappointment show in his voice. "I think the museum's closed. I thought it would be open later on a Friday night, I didn't even think to check the hours."

Peter shook his head, a smile growing on his face as he continued walking toward the very clearly closed museum.

"The museum is closed to the public at the moment since they haven't gotten the stolen artwork back up yet and because they're waiting for their summer show, but the curator was more than happy to leave a message with the front guard that we're allowed in tonight."

Neal looked at his handler, his excitement growing.

"We get to go in and have the whole place to ourselves?" he asked, enthusiasm growing by the second.

Peter chuckled and nodded, pulling his badge out of his pocket to hold out to the man inside the door, who nodded and opened it for them.

"Thank you," Peter said, stowing his badge back in his pocket and ushering Neal inside.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like," the guard said, nodding his acknowledgment to Peter's thanks, "but if you wouldn't mind, please knock on that door there," he turned to point at a door in the corner marked 'Employees Only', "and let us know you're heading out."

"We will," Peter promised, shepherding Neal toward one of the hallways as his consultant stared around in awe at the pieces displayed in the lobby.

"Um, Peter," Neal said, slowing to a stop as he finally paid attention to where they were going instead of staring at the art they were passing, "we're heading toward the wing that's sitting empty while it waits for the new pieces. We needed to turn left back there."

Peter shook his head, poking Neal's side until he continued walking in the direction they'd been going.

“The curator is letting us have a sneak peek at a temporary exhibit they're displaying while they wait for the summer pieces," Peter explained. "She said she was blown away and that she’ll be talking to the artist about the possibility of a bigger showing, so we’ll have to see if we’re as impressed.”

“Alright,” Neal laughed, holding the door open to the south wing for Peter to walk through and then following him in, freezing as he looked up and registered the artwork on the walls.

It was his artwork. It was his original artwork, from his storage unit he’d shown Elizabeth.

He stared in open mouthed disbelief as his paintings and sketches looked back at him from every wall, framed and professional and displayed in a museum.

He turned his wide-eyed gaze to Peter to find his handler watching his reaction with a warm smile.

Neal tried to ask a question, but words wouldn’t come as he caught sight of yet another wall of his original artwork displayed behind his handler.

Peter understood him as well as ever, though, explaining even without verbal prompting.

“The museum was grateful to us for finding all of the pieces and I told them I had this friend who had always wanted to see some of his artwork hung in a museum.

They were happy to help, this hall was just going to lay empty anyway. El grabbed what she needed for the wedding reception, and then she and Jones and Diana picked the pieces, wouldn’t let me see any of the choices, said I could look at them with you or not at all.”

He huffed an amused breath.

“They got everything up the day before yesterday,” Peter went on, “and the curator called me this morning, she said she’d been curious about my friend’s artwork so she strolled in to check it out, and she said she was blown away, Neal.

She told me she had thought she’d run through in five minutes just to glance, and she ended up canceling all of her afternoon meetings and looking at the work in here for six hours because you blew her away.”

“Really?” Neal asked in a small, disbelieving voice, and Peter nodded sincerely.

“Yes, really. She said she’d like to set up a meeting with you to discuss leaving these up until the summer show in two months and opening the hall to the public as an actual exhibit.”

Neal’s breath caught, unable to believe his deeply hidden dream might actually come true, and Peter smiled, pulling Neal into a side hug and tucking his consultant under his arm as he turned to survey the nearest painting.

“I’m assuming your answer will be yes,” Peter said fondly, glancing at Neal’s stunned face, “but you don’t have to decide right now, we’ll talk about it on the way home. For now, we have some artwork to look at.”