Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Burke." Peter barked into the phone. He and Elizabeth were halfway through the storage building. Spring cleaning and all that. But of course, his work phone was close by at all times. Unfortunately, crime took no holidays. He waited, but no one spoke.

But the call hadn't dropped-he could hear ambient noise coming across the airwaves. "Hello?"

Elizabeth glanced at him, a box of plastic pots in her arms, her dark hair swept back in a jaunty ponytail. He gave a shrug. Maybe there was a bad connection. But after the space of several moments, the silence broke.

"Is this...Peter?"

The voice was low and hesitant, but its familiarity rang through him, making his breath catch and his heart speed up. Was his imagination running away with him? He wanted it to be Neal, but he'd come to accept he'd never hear that voice again. Five months and nothing. No sightings. No tips that panned out in the least. No unsigned postcard from some foreign port.

Five long, discouraging and depressing months.

The initial search in the waters off the coast of Manhattan Beach had been cut short due to darkness and an incoming storm. Posing as a fence, Neal had been on a yacht brokering a deal to move stolen bonds, but somehow, his cover had been blown. In the chaos that followed that revelation, Neal had abandoned ship to avoid reprisal. They had received audio a few brief seconds after he hit the water. There had been shouts, gunfire, and then nothing. Whether the bullets had found their mark or not was unknown. The situation dire, Peter had called in reinforcements. With no time to coordinate a full search before the storm reached the danger level, the Coast Guard had utilized the resources on hand to search both from the water and the air for as long as possible. Peter had gone with the initial vessel to Neal's last known location, but there had been no sign of either him or the yacht. A mere two hours after the altercation had left Neal in the water, the search had been abandoned. A full search would ensue once the storm passed, but Peter knew from the Captain's grim face that Neal's chances of surviving the hours until then were very slim.

He'd reported to Hughes, who had, in turn, notified the Marshal Service. He'd gotten their call as he was leaving Sheepheads. It had been a very short exchange. He understood they had a job to do as well as their skepticism, but after the last two hours, he didn't have the patience to deal with them. He told them the search was to resume at dawn, he'd keep them informed and hung up.

The whole afternoon kept running through his head all the drive home. Neal should never have been aboard the yacht in the first place. The meeting was supposed to have occurred on dry land at the Marina, but Peter had understood why Neal had gone along when it had moved down the dock to Miggin's Yacht. Neal rarely passed judgment on the White Collar criminals they pursued unless they were violent, and Oliver Miggins was that. Neal had been determined to complete the task of brokering the deal for the stolen bonds and exposing Miggens for the murderer he was. Moving the meeting from the marina to the yacht wasn't ideal, but it was manageable. They still had audio and, with some adjustments, could offer Neal some coverage. That is, until the yacht had weighed anchor and sailed from the slip. To his credit, Neal had protested, but Miggins had insisted if he wanted the business, he had to stay aboard. And Neal would do anything to close a deal. Anything.

Peter had arrived home just before ten, exhausted but wound tight and unable to sleep. The storm raged outside and the thought of Neal, possibly injured, alone in the cold, stormy waters of the bay was worse than any nightmare. He'd waited, paced, flipped mindlessly through TV channels, hoping his phone would ring with news, good news. Neal had evaded the bullets fired into the water and made it to shore. He was an agile swimmer, and they hadn't been that far offshore. He could have done it. And oh, how he'd embellish his tale of survival at the water cooler when he returned to the office. Or he'd been plucked from the water by a passing boat bound for Sheephead Bay to weather the storm. Any minor injury could be easily treated, although Neal would likely milk it for all it was worth. That was okay. Any of those outcomes would be welcome. Any outcome other than the one that left a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.

There was hope, Elizabeth had insisted through her own tears, there was always hope. This was Neal, after all. He was young, healthy, and beyond resourceful. He'd find a way to survive. Peter tried to hold that thought, but as the hours passed and no call came, it became more and more difficult.

Just six hours after leaving, he was back, jacket whipping against the ever-present coastal breeze, watching the dawn break over the water as the search began again. This time, the NYPD Scuba team, police Harbor, Coast Guard, and FDNY were all involved. The search was on the water, in the water, on land, and in the air, but despite the massive effort and manpower involved, it proved as futile as the one the night before. Peter knew it was a recovery operation at this point, not a rescue. The Divers were called back in at noon, but the FDNY kept crews combing miles of shoreline, and rescue boats continued patrolling. Peter, feeling there was nothing for him to do, returned to the office. Walking past Neal's desk, he'd paused and rested his hand there a moment. The entire office had gone silent at his arrival, and he felt their eyes on him as he stood there, trying to keep his composure. Taking a deep breath, he walked with purpose down the aisle. Diana stood up, her eyes meeting his in question. A quick glance at Clinton showed the same expression.

"No news," he bit out, then continued past and mounted the stairs to his office. He'd still been there when he gotten the call that the search had been officially suspended. If there were any changes or discoveries, he'd be notified. There was a chance the body might wash up along the shore at some point, but there was no guarantee. No guarantee of closure. Sadly, the caller had said, that was often the case of those lost at sea.

The Marshals kept the case open and the search ongoing, pointing out that if Neal had indeed escaped custody, he'd be counting on people believing he'd drowned in the bay, his body unrecovered. Peter hoped they were right, that Neal was alive and well somewhere. Anything was better than Neal being dead. A broad, multi-agency net had been cast to catch Neal Caffrey domestically and abroad, but nothing had turned up from those efforts, either. Not one tip had panned out. There had been no confirmed sightings. All Neal's possessions were accounted for, and according to Mozzie, even Neal's Rainy Day fund was still safely tucked away, along with the clean identity he'd had ready since the beginning of his work with White Collar. Neal had been a pro at dissembling but Mozzie, not so much. He'd been genuinely worried, but as the days and weeks had passed with no word from his friend, his worry had changed to grief. After months passed with no breaks or leads, even the Marshals had begun to consider that Neal hadn't survived his last White Collar assignment.

And no matter what people tried to tell him, Peter knew it was his fault. Except for Mozzie, of course. He'd not held back in his anger. It fully blamed the Suit. It was the Suit who'd sent him to meet with Miggins, the Suit who'd put Neal in danger, the Suit who failed to protect him. Neal would have been better left in prison, Mozzie had shouted, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, at least he'd be alive. Peter hadn't needed Mozzie to tell him all that; he knew it already, and the guilt weighed heavily on him. Nothing was the same. White Collar wasn't the same. He wasn't the same. He and the team kept working, but he felt as if he was going through the motions. He'd even considered leaving the Bureau. Was still considering it. He hadn't just lost an FBI asset, a CI, that night. He'd lost a good man, a friend, even. But Neal hadn't known he saw him that way; he'd never told him. And that was one of his greatest regrets.

But the voice on the other end of the phone sounded like Neal. His heart wanted it so badly, maybe his ears were just going along with it.

"Who is this?" he asked, lowering the phone to see if a number was displayed. There was, and the origin was Jonesport, Maine. Curious, Elizabeth stepped closer.

Again, there was silence for the space of several seconds before the caller responded.

"That's the problem," he said. "I don't know." The achingly familiar voice broke. "Is this Peter?"

Peter's heart sped up. It was Neal. He was certain now. Or as certain as he could be without putting eyes on him. Had Neal changed his mind? Did he want to come home? Was this a ruse to explain his disappearance? To escape the consequences of his actions? He didn't care as long as it was Neal.

"Yeah," he assured. Sensing his growing tension, Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm. "this is Peter." He met his wife's questioning gaze. He had to know. "Neal, is that you?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened, her breath caught, and her grip on his arm tightened.

"Oh my God," she breathed, "is it-" He halted her with a raised hand.

"Neal?" He repeated.

"Neal." The name echoed as if the speaker was trying it on for size. "Neal." He said it again. "Is that my name?"

"I believe so," Peter replied, wondering if something was indeed wrong. The voice was Neal's, but not the uncertainty it held. "You sound like Neal." Again there was a pause. "Where have you been?" he pressed. "What the hell happened?"

Elizabeth pulled the phone down, hitting the speaker icon, challenge in her eyes. She wanted to hear, needed to hear him herself.

"I don't know what happened." The uncertainty quickly changed into desperation. "I don't know anything." Hearing for herself, Elizabeth's expression told him it wasn't wishful thinking; the man on the other end of the line was, in fact, Neal Caffrey. "I've been here nearly five months and nothing," the frustration was palpable. "Nothing has come back. They didn't tell me anything," Peter wondered who hadn't told him anything, "just that they'd found me in the water down the coast. I don't know if they were lying to me or not. They seemed relieved I didn't have a clue as to who I am or where I came from. But you do, don't you?" he queried, a hint of desperation slipping in. "Are you...are you my..." Peter heard him swallow. "my brother?" The emotional weight of it hit Peter square in the chest; the slight intake of breath beside him said it had a similar effect on his wife. In no circumstance could he see Neal being this vulnerable. At least not willingly. Maybe it wasn't a ruse at all. Maybe Neal didn't know who he was. "Is that why I remembered your name and this number?" Neal continued anguish in his voice. "Why I feel like I can..."

Again, his voice caught, and when he didn't finish, Peter pressed him. "Can what?"

"Trust you," he stated. "I feel like I can trust you. And I need someone, Peter," the desperation leaked through again. "someone I can trust."

"You can trust me," Peter assured him, meaning it completely. He only wanted Neal to be alive and safe. And, well, back in Federal Custody where he belonged. "Tell me where you are, Neal. I'll come get you. We can figure it all out from there."

"I don't know," Neal replied doubtfully, "I...I just have this...bad feeling. All the time. I don't want trouble." Peter winced; there would be no avoiding that. "I just want answers."

"If you tell me where you are," Peter urged again. "I'll come there and give them to you."

He held his breath, wondering if Neal would demand answers now instead of later. If he did, he wasn't sure what he should say. The truth, in this case, would not set him free.

"In a town called Jonesport, Maine. Ever heard of it?" Peter admitted he hadn't. "You can find me on the Beale Street wharf."

"Is that where you work?"

"Work and live," Neal answered. "I'm out on the boat four or five days a week, but other than that, you'll find me here."

"Boat?" Peter repeated, trying to picture Neal in the life he'd been living for the past five months. "What kind of boat?"

"A fishing boat, Peter. It's Maine." Peter smiled; this sounded like Neal. "When do you think you can come?"

In his capacity as an agent, he should immediately report this call to the Marshals. They'd move in within the hour, take Neal into custody, and that would be that. His mental state would be evaluated but by a prison psychologist. He met Elizabeth's eyes and saw the plea there. A plea his own heart echoed.

"I can be there by Tuesday afternoon," he lied. He'd be there by morning. "Where will you be?"

"The Mariner should dock around 7:30," Neal answered. "I can meet you at the Fish House at, say 8?" He asked. "You'll want me to shower first, trust me."

Peter would be glad to see Neal anytime, anywhere, and he didn't care how he smelled.

"So Tuesday, 8 o'clock at," he hesitated. "The Fish House?"

"It's the restaurant on the Wharf," Neal said. "I rent a room above it."

"Okay," Peter said, trying to wrap his mind around Neal on a fishing vessel and living above a Fish House. "Tuesday at eight at the Fish House."

"You're sure you know me?" The question held both doubt and desperation. "You're sure I'm Neal?"

"Yeah," Peter answered. "I'm sure."

There was a pause. "But you're not my family, are you?" He sounded disappointed.

"Not technically, no," Peter answered, again meeting Elizabeth's eyes. "But I am your friend," he insisted. "A good friend. You did the right thing calling me, Neal."

"I hope so." There was weariness in his voice. "I'll see you Tuesday, Peter."

Chapter Text

After slipping into his standard sleeping gear-sweats, a long sleeves shirt, and a pair of thick socks-John stretched out on the narrow bed. The room was cool, but that was because he kept the shuttered window open half a foot so the white noise of the waves pounding against the wooden piles of the dock would, in time, lull him to sleep. Sleep still didn't come easy, but it came easier than it had in the beginning.

He'd been afraid when he'd woke up in the cramped cabin of the Wynn brother's boat, but it had morphed into terror when he'd been unable to remember his name. They told him they'd found him in the water with two gunshot wounds. One bullet had passed through his shoulder, doing mostly muscle damage; the other had glanced off his scull and had done much worse. His arm had healed but not his mind; he still had no memory of anything before that day. All that remained from his previous life was the suit and watch he'd been wearing, neither of which were salvageable. The suit label read Pure S150's Wool by Thomas, Italy. The Wynns called him John, and when he'd needed a last name to go with it, he'd picked Thomas.

The Wynns were closed-mouthed and bordered on paranoid, and he realized whatever they did on the high seas was likely outside the law. He didn't feel he had any right to judge that; his own past was questionable, considering the state he'd been found in. He was just grateful they had seen fit to fish him out of the ocean. Just short of a week later, still weak as a kitten from blood loss, he'd been deposited in a fishing village in Maine with their Aunt Tilly. They clearly thought the world of their Aunt Tilly; when speaking about her, he'd even seen smiles break the stoic plains of faces. She and her second husband, Captain Aaron Devaine, ran a fishing business, and though she didn't approve of their choices, she loved them. If they asked her to care for him, she would, no questions asked, and would feel no need to report the issue to the local sheriff.

Captain Devaine operated the Lonely Mariner and did the fishing; Matilda Devaine ran The Fish House Market and Restaurant, where the catch could be turned into cash. It was in the room above The Fish House he'd found himself convalescing. But even with the pain medicine and comforting words his caretaker had given him, he'd been unable to rest. Anxiety and fear kept him awake, and then, when he did finally sleep, nightmares plagued him. He'd wake heart-pounding, sweat-drenched, and panicked but unable to remember or recall what the dream had been about. Nights had been miserable, and the days little better. When his fever would spike, she'd stay with him, applying cold compresses to his head and offering soothing words. One such night, after she'd awakened him from one of his night terrors, he'd confessed he had no idea who he was or where he'd come from. The understanding and sympathy she had shown him had been sorely needed, and he had felt an enormous weight lift from his soul.

As soon as his fever had abated and his strength began to return, he ventured down to help out in the restaurant. He needed something to do other than stare at the walls wondering who the hell he was, where he'd come from, and who wanted him dead. Mrs. Devaine agreed that being busy would be good for him. She believed the more he worried about his loss of memory, the less likely it was to return to him. She suggested the trauma of being shot might be more to blame than the physical injury, though the lump on his head had been sizable. If that was the case, she'd said, he needed to take each day as it came and appreciate the simple things. the sunrise over the water, the sound of seagulls, and the waves breaking against the wooden piles of the dock, good food, and good company. When the nightmares came, she suggested he write them out and let them go; He needed to focus on the things he had, not the things he had lost. When his mind was calm and his spirit easy, maybe his memory would start to return. But if it didn't, he would still have a life and home in Jonesport, Maine. He tried to take her advice and release the ever-present tension, the heavy weight of dread, but it was futile. No matter how many sunrises he watched, there was no way to curb the panic he felt when he stared into the mirror at the face of a stranger.

His arm was still tender when a short-handed Captain Devaine asked him if he'd come out with him for the next days' haul, but he'd gladly accepted. His knot-tying skills and knowledge of navigational gear impressed the Captain more than his card tricks and artistic talents. Probably because he could see some practical use for them, much as he had his surprising fluency in French. After that first outing, John had been moved from the kitchen under Mrs. Devaine's watch to serve aboard the Mariner under her husband's.

The work was hard and the hours long, but he felt he was now really earning his keep. An added benefit was the more physically exhausted he was, the more able he was to sleep. Over time, he'd become accustomed to the work and grueling routine, and the fear and panic became less of a burden. He wasn't sure if they had actually lessened or if he was just getting better at bearing them. Either way, the nights had become easier. He still had to work until he was bone tired, but the nightmares came less often.

But three weeks ago, there had been a change. After one of his nightmares, he'd woke himself calling out the name Peter. There wasn't a memory attached to the name, but there was a feeling. Actually, several, but the overwhelming one was of, well, safety.

Over the next weeks, the nightmares were sporadic, and there was never clarity about what danger stalked him. But the mysterious Peter remained his anchor, the safe harbor in his storms. Then, one morning, when the Captain sent him to phone a late crew member, a number popped into his mind, and he knew it was Peter's.

It had taken him some time to gather the nerve to dial it. But this afternoon, he had and had, in fact, reached the faceless man of his dreams. A man who knew him. Knew who he was, or at least, who he had been.

Neal. He whispered the name aloud for the umpteenth time. Peter seemed sure that was who he was, but the name sounded foreign to his lips.

Neal who? And how did Peter know him?

He should have asked more questions, but the truth was, he'd been so shocked he'd not been able to think clearly. Peter was a real person, not just a figment of his jumbled and confused mind. But as he thought back, Peter hadn't seemed all that keen to share over the telephone, either. When asked if he was his brother, the mysterious Peter didn't answer, which told John the answer was no.

But who was Peter that he could drop everything and come to Maine? Who was he to him that would motivate him to do so? What past did they share?

Peter had sounded genuinely happy to hear from him. Relieved. That had to be a good thing, right? Surely, if Peter had wanted him dead, he would have picked up on that. But maybe not. Someone had gotten close enough to shoot him. Was it someone he'd trusted? When his mind wandered down that road, fear began to seep in.

He pushed it aside and studied the ceiling beams above his head. He didn't hate his life here, but it just didn't seem to fit. He needed to know who he was and where he'd come from. Living like this, with his past a blank, was unbearable. What was a person without a past? Without a family, or memories or stories to tell? He was nothing, an empty canvas.

But someone would start creating a scene on that canvas in two days. Would he be happy with the image or wish he'd never made the call?

Like everything else, he had no idea and no way to answer the question. Letting out a sigh, he left the bed.

Maybe he could paint.

Chapter Text

Chapter One point Five

"He's alive, Peter." Elizabeth's voice was choked with relief as she followed him across the patio. Relief he shared, but now that he knew, the situation demanded swift action. "I can't even imagine what he's been through all this time," she continued, "not knowing who he is. He sounded so lost. He needs us, and we need to go now, not next week."

"I am going now, El," he assured her, making a beeline to his laptop. He'd heard both the us and we in her plea, but he chose to ignore it. The right thing was to call the Marshals, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. If Neal's claim was true, if the desolation and desperation in his voice were genuine, his emotional state was precarious at best. The way the Marshal Service would reacquire him would be brutal and traumatizing; he'd seen it before, and he wouldn't put an emotionally compromised Neal through that again. But he had to be sure, and the only way he'd know was to see Neal for himself, preferably unobserved.

"Then why did you tell him Tuesday?" Elizabeth asked as she watched him flip open his laptop. Her voice sharpened in alarm. "What are you doing?"

"Seeing how long it will take me to get to Jonesport," he responded, accessing Maps and typing in his destination. "I need to check things out before I meet with him," he explained. "To make sure I know what's really going on." A little over eight hours, and it was just mid-afternoon. "I can be there tonight; have eyes on him by morning."

"What do you mean you will be there tonight?" She demanded. "We will be there, Peter Burke." There was a stubborn set to her jaw, but her eyes and her voice betrayed the emotion behind her words. "I need to see him, Peter."

He understood, he really did. He wanted to see Neal too. Sure, part of it was because he needed to verify his story. But a larger part was that he just needed to see him alive. It had been five months, and every time he'd thought about Neal, it had been of him in the water, struggling and hurt, unable to keep himself afloat.

"Listen, El," he said. "I understand how you feel, but this is going to get..." He hesitated, the magnitude of what he was doing settling heavily upon his chest. "Complicated." Understatement. It could be his job. His career. Everything he'd worked for. "I need to get up there and see if what he's saying adds up before I decide how to proceed. If this...amnesia thing is real, then-"

"You don't believe him?" Her tone was incredulous. "You heard him, Peter. That wasn't Neal playacting or running a con; that was Neal reaching out for help."

He agreed; that was why he was choosing this course of action. But just as he'd wanted to believe Neal was alive, he wanted to believe Neal was being truthful about this. He wanted to believe Neal would have never willingly put them through the hell of thinking him dead the last five months. But Neal was a con man, the best he'd ever seen. He couldn't simply discount that without pause. The Bureau and the US Marshals certainly would not.

"You know my motto where Neal is concerned," he told her, quickly composing an email to Hughes and the team about a sudden family emergency. "Trust but verify." He flipped the computer closed. "Well, I'm trusting enough not to send the Marshals after him, but I need to verify, El. There's a lot at stake here. Not just for him but for me too. If he really is suffering from memory loss then I'll bring him home and do everything I can to help him. But I have to know for sure."

"You're doing the right thing, Peter," she encouraged, placing a hand on his arm. "Not sending anyone after him. He doesn't remember anything about his life and that would traumatize him so much. Well," she added with a thoughtful look. "Except your name and number and that that he can trust you." She gave his arm a squeeze. "And I know what you are willing to risk by honoring that trust. Let me help."

He let out a sigh. Whatever help she would offer, no doubt, would I require her to accompany him to Maine. "How?"

"Let me call my dad." That he hadn't expected. "You said you need to be sure," she reminded him. "My dad is a licensed psychologist; he can help with that." She wasn't wrong. If Neal really had amnesia not only would it have to be verified by a professional, but he'd need help. "He can give us some guidance, you know? Tell us what to look for, how to determine if what Neal is telling us is true."

Us.

"I'd like some professional guidance," Peter began, "But I don't think-"

"And you might as well add Elizabeth and I to that email. Do you really think I'd stay here if there were a family emergency?" She snorted. "They'd see right through that." She gave his shoulder another squeeze. "I can help, Peter. Let me."

He sighed, moving his cursor and making the change.

"Give your dad a call," he conceded. "I'll call the kennel. If you are coming, I'll book a flight."

Chapter Text

The Harbor View Hotel looked out over a small marina and judging from the well-lit dock, there wasn't a fishing boat among the various vessels moored there. The Beale Street Wharf, where even now Neal purportedly resided, was a mile down the coast. He and Elizabeth had checked in at just past nine, the decision to fly instead of drive not only saving some time but exhaustion. Plus, truth be told, the chaos of trying to get a flight, get boarded, and secure a room and a rental car had kept Peter from hours of worry and doubt. He still could scarcely believe the turn of events over the past hours. Neal was alive. And part of him couldn't believe he'd come here, with Elizabeth, instead of following protocol and alerting the US Marshalls.

Elizabeth's conversation with her father had provided some assistance, but only in a general way. Post Traumatic Amnesia, which was likely what Neal was suffering, was a very complicated condition, and without actually evaluating him, general guidance was all he could offer. The severity and persistence of his memory loss would normally indicate deeper issues, but since Neal had been removed from all familiar surroundings, it was possible seeing familiar faces would trigger rapid improvement. Even if it did, he had warned Neal might behave in a way that seemed bizarre and out of character. He might be confused and emotional, paranoid, or even aggressive. There was no way of knowing how he'd respond to seeing them. And, he'd warned again, it was possible he wouldn't remember them at all. If that was the case, there was probably deep trauma or brain injury involved, and he would need extensive treatment. No matter how it played out, they needed to take things slow, judge how he was responding, and deal with him in as calm, supportive, and patient a way as possible. In the end, he told her to be careful and to call him if she needed him.

But her assistance hadn't stopped there. On the ride from the airport to Jonesport, she'd proposed an undercover operation any field agent would be proud of.

"I can get the lay of the land," she'd insisted. "See what I can get out of Mrs. Devaine about Neal while he is out on the boat. She will be thrilled to have been chosen as a part of my series. I can even record everything," she grinned, "You know, to make it easier when I start writing. I'll tell her I want some photographs of the Fish House and also some of the Lonely Mariner when it docks."

They decide that while Elizabeth kept the proprietor busy, he'd try to gain access to the apartment above. And when the Lonely Mariner returned from the days fishing, Elizabeth would greet the crew and he'd be nearby, watching the exchange and Neal's reactions. It was a solid plan, accomplishing what he'd come early to do. Investigate. Gather intel. And then, he'd decide what to do.

They'd turned by midnight, but Peter had lain awake long after.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It was a dreary morning, the sheets of driving rain spoiling what otherwise would have been a great view of the Jonesport Harbor. Peter could see the Marina below through the large windows of the dining room. It was amazing how steady the vessels appeared to be, even while waves and ripples were visible on the water's surface. No one was venturing out; everyone was keeping to the safety of the harbor. When Peter had asked if fishing boats took a similar tact when faced with such weather, he'd been assured rain was no obstacle to Maine fishermen.

"If they let rain stop them from going out," the girl had said as she poured their coffee. "They'd starve, and so would we."

Something about Neal being out in the weather, on the ocean in the wind and the rain, caused his heart to ache. How could he bear it after what had happened off the coast of New York? But he didn't remember that, did he? At least, that was what he was claiming.

That line of work seemed so unlike something Neal would do. Would ever choose to do. He could see him earning his keep as a pool shark or dealing cards at an off-the-grid gambling hall. Lord knows he had the skills. He could have found something more to his liking, surely. But physical labor in a dirty, smelly job in harsh conditions? It seemed unfathomable that he would have chosen this path. But no one would ever look for Neal Caffrey here, doing this kind of work. Perhaps that had been the point.

He gave his head a small shake. No, he didn't believe that. Neal was the most brilliant man he'd ever known. He had contacts and probably stashes of cash and stolen goods tucked away he could have used to disappear. Nothing about his fit. Neal was an impeccably dressed city boy who could make more in a game of poker in Atlantic City than he would a month on a fishing boat.

"What?" Elizabeth asked.

He pulled his eyes from the dark, turbulent clouds over the water to meet her intent gaze.

"Just thinking about Neal out in this weather," he remarked, eyes flitting back out the rain-streaked window. "Working on a fishing boat, for God's sake, in some sleepy little village," he shook his head. "I just can't see him here. It's so..." he struggled with his thoughts. "unlike him."

"Maybe it's more like him than we know," she offered. "Dad said that when people have no past experiences to draw upon, they revert to who they are at their core. He warned that could be good or bad and that we should be prepared for either, but," her brow puckered. "With Neal, I know it will be good."

Peter studied her. Deep in his soul, he agreed, but the agent in him told him to wait, to reserve judgment until he gathered more information. As unlikely as it was, this could still be some elaborate ruse. "Neal has been playing parts all his life, El, or at least as much of it as I've uncovered. He's had so many aliases..." he shook his head. "I doubt Neal is even his name."

She didn't disagree. "But he has a kind heart, Peter," she said instead. "You know that. We've both seen it. Neal plays parts, true, but with you..." She let it trail off. They had discussed the strange, underlying dynamics of their relationship. "There has always been something more. Something real. Something that has peeked through in his memory when nothing else has."

Him. His phone number.

I feel like I can trust you.

Those words had struck at his heart, much as had a similar statement from a drugged Neal at the Howser Clinic.

You are the only person in my life I trust.

Neal, stripped of all artifice and pretense, had been raw and vulnerable; his confession heartbreakingly truthful. He'd bent the rules for Neal that day, and here he was, doing it again.

"Who knows who he is," Elizabeth was saying, "without his past mistakes and the expectations of others weighing him down."

My expectations, Peter thought, and the two-pound monitor around his anklet. Who, indeed, would he be without those?

"A fisherman, apparently."

Chapter Text

The rain continued to come, sometimes light, sometimes heavy. When they parked along the side of Beale Street and made their way down to the wharf, the umbrella did little to keep them dry as the coastal winds, never ceasing, drove the rain in at them at all angles.

There was little traffic on the street and less at the Wharf itself. The few automobiles in the dirt lot off to the left near the rocky shore were likely those of the fishermen who had departed earlier. Perhaps one was that of Mrs. Devaine or even a cook or two. They'd know soon enough.

A wooden sign with Lobsters, Clams, Scallops, and Fish in crude white letters greeted them, the wide board wooden sign high on the narrow end of the long, two-story building that sat just at the wharf's entrance. There was a single green door to the side of the sign, accessed by a worn metal staircase. Peter wondered if this was the rooms Neal occupied.

Another sign, much smaller in size, with the same white letters spelling out The Fish House hung over the wooden walkway along the long side of the building. The entrance to the restaurant no doubt. There were several tables, presumably for outdoor dining on better days. In the steady rain, it was hard to see beyond to the business end of the wharf. Peter could make out the shape of a wooden crane, several piles with ropes, and boxes of different sizes. This was where the Lonely Mariner would later dock.

"You sure about this?" He asked Elizabeth as they came under the protection of the building's awning.

She shook off the umbrella and closed it. "Of course, I'm sure. Neal needs us."

He handed her the oversized bag. "Record everything and be careful."

She gave him a quick kiss. "Take your own advice. I'm doing an interview, not breaking and entering."

"True enough," he replied. "Meet you back at the car."

A moment later, Elizabeth stepped inside The Fish House. It was a rustic venue, to be sure. Heavy rough wooden tables were scattered about, the only real light coming from the back of the restaurant. The sounds told her work for lunch was already underway.

As she made her way in that direction, she was stopped in her tracks by a floor to ceiling mural. A mural she knew without doubt Neal had painted. She didn't know how she knew, but she did. It was of a fishing trawler, its blue hulk tossed on white cresting waves and beneath dark clouds. White letters against the blue hull indicated the vessels name: The Lonely Mariner.

"Can I help ya?" A voice sounded from behind her. Elizabeth, having turned to admire the painting, whipped around and settled her eyes on a large, matronly woman.

"I was just admiring the artwork," she said truthfully. "It's really very well done."

The woman's eyes softened as she wiped her hands on her apron. "Yes, our John has quite a talent." Our John? Perhaps she'd been wrong. The woman nodded across the room, and Elizabeth followed her gaze to where another mural was underway. "He's working on that one now. Must have painted half of last night 'cause he's added quite a bit since supper." Her weathered face creased in a slight frown as she studied the calmer depiction of the Mariner. "Poor boy sometimes has trouble sleeping," she confided. "And painting seems to bring him some peace."

"If he your son?" Elizabeth asked, now convinced the artist was none other than Neal Caffrey. "Because he certainly is skilled."

She shook her head. "No, but I wish he was. That boy needs a family; he's as of lost a man as I've ever seen." Lost. Elizabeth's mind echoed the word. It was what she'd heard in Neal's voice when he had called Peter. "But he's the finest kind, even if he is from away."

Finest, she agreed even though Peter might balk. "From away?"

The woman gave a tight smile. "Sorry. I mean, he's not from Maine. How can I help you, young lady?"

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Peter made quick work of the door. No special equipment was needed: his American Express did the trick. An indication that the man living inside did not have Neal's secretive and suspicious nature. Clicking the door shut behind him, he took in the room before him. Immediately, his eyes fell on the easel at the far end of the long, narrow room. It was placed near a row of windows that looked out over the water. A stool was there, and a low table holding supplies was beside it. A white sheet covered whatever piece Neal was currently working on. Along the floor beneath the windows, several completed pieces were leaned. A storm-tossed ship, a seascape, and a pier with a building that greatly resembled the one he was standing in caught his eye. Neal might have forgotten his name, but he'd not forgotten how to paint.

He pulled his eyes from the paintings and checked the open door to his immediate right. A bathroom. He stepped inside the tiny space. It held just a toilet, a roll of toilet paper gracing its top, a sink, and a shower. A single towel hung on the wall. There was no cabinet above the sink. No shelves. A bottle of something, perhaps shampoo, with a cloth over the top, sat on the shower floor. A trash can nestled in between the toilet and sink. There was a small brown basket on the sink. It held a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a bottle of pain reliever. A cup and a small black comb lay on the edge of the sink. He opened the small cabinet beneath the sink to find extra toilet paper and some cleaning supplies. He grinned at the can of Odor Block shoe spray. Who knew? The great Neal Caffrey had stinky feet. He closed the cabinet, glancing around one last time. The room held only the most basic of necessities. No cologne or aftershave. He frowned, glancing around once more. No shaving creme or razors, either. Another difference between Neal Caffrey and the man who resided here.

He left the bathroom and opened the door opposite to reveal a closet. A hook inside the door held an empty canvas bag. Less than a dozen items hung on the rod, all dark and heavy. Work clothes. There were no fancy suits, no ties or hats. He examined each article of utilitarian clothing, checking the pockets of the three pairs of denim jeans and the woven shirts. He glanced down. On the floor were a pair of sneakers and worn boots. Behind them, at the back of the closet, was a closed cardboard box. Peter bent down, moved the shoes, and pulled out the box. He raised the flaps to see the contents.

His breath caught at the sight of a watch, its hands frozen at 7:10. It was the one Neal had worn that day. The one that had a microphone and GPS tracker. The one that had ceased functioning when Neal had gone into the water. He picked it up and laid it aside to explore the box's other contents. He grasped the fabric the watch had rested on and pulled it from the box. Holding it up, he realized it was a dark blue jacket; the one Neal had worn the last time he'd seen him. His blood went cold at the sight of the small, bullet-sized hole piercing the top of the left lapel. Hesitantly, he flipped it to see a matching hole, albeit larger, on the back. Neal had been shot that day, and the bullet had gone straight through him. Inches lower, and it would have hit his heart or, at the very least, punctured his lung.

Peter had heard shots ring out and had prayed Neal had avoided them. But when Neal hadn't been found, he'd feared the worst- that the bullets had struck home and taken Neal's life. His CI. His responsibility. His friend. He sat there, frozen, holding the garment in shaking hands. Neal had been shot that day, but it hadn't killed him. He had gone into the water but hadn't drowned alone in a cold ocean. He was alive, working on a fishing boat on the coast of Maine. It still seemed unbelievable. Neal alive. Here. And he'd see him this afternoon. He took a breath and shook himself from his thoughts. He had to get busy. He needed to be quick.

The rest of the box was empty. He checked the pockets of the jacket and, finding nothing, carefully replaced the items, closed the box, and put it back where he'd found it.

After closing the closet door, he moved into the larger living chamber. To the right was a small kitchenette with a table and two chairs. The counters were clear, the table unadorned. A quick exploration left Peter certain Neal hadn't remembered he could cook. A hall tree of rough wood and design was in the small space on the other side. He checked the pockets of the items hung there. A receipt from the previous week for $29 in art supplies from a place called The Painters' Palette was all he found.

He glanced around the larger room. Like the bathroom, it was utilitarian. Spartan. Very unlike the apartment Neal kept at June's. The only thing Neal-like was the painter's perch at the end of the room. There was a bed with a bench at the foot, a chest of drawers, a large overstuffed chair with a small table beside it, and a writing desk. Seeing where his time would be best spent, he crossed the room to the desk. A spiral notebook and pen lay on the desktop. He opened it and immediately recognized the small, neat print he'd seen so many times before.

Tilly says writing might help. I don't see how, but I'm willing to try anything. They brought me in from the sea, but even after five weeks, I am still adrift.

It was dated November 22. Just over a month after he'd been lost off the coast of Manhattan Beach.

He flipped through page after page of writing. At times, the print was less concise and controlled. Like the entry dated December 12.

I dreamed I was locked in a box. It was so dark I couldn't see anything. I could hardly move and felt like I couldn't breathe. I wanted to try to get out, but I knew something bad was out there, so I had to stay put and not make any noise. The sound of the ocean helps, and so does the cold sea air, but I know I won't be able to sleep. I think I'll go paint.

The last entry was from the night before. The print was neat.

Peter is a real person, and he knows who I am. He called me Neal. That doesn't sound right, but he was sure that was my name. I don't think he's my brother. I don't know who he is to me, and he didn't say. I should have asked him more questions, but I was afraid to. He's coming Tuesday. I've wanted answers for so long, but now I feel like running away. But where would I go? Is knowing worse than not knowing? Not even going to try to sleep yet. I'll go paint.

Peter took a shakey breath. Neal had kept a journal.

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Good grief, Peter," Elizabeth said as he approached. The rain had slacked, and she was standing against the rental, folded umbrella in hand. "I was worried!"

"I'm fine, El," he assured her. "Let's get back to the room and talk."

And read. He'd snapped photos on his phone for ten straight minutes. He hoped to God they were in focus.

Elizabeth handed him the keys with a frown. "What is it, Peter? What's wrong?"

So much was wrong, but more was right. Neal was alive.

"It's just...a lot to process."

She nodded, then circled to the passenger door. "He goes by John here. And he still paints."

"I know."

"He's done these amazing murals in the restaurant," she said as she closed the car door. "According to Mrs. Devaine, he paints when he can't sleep."

Peter thought of the journal. How many entries had ended with the words I think I'll go paint.

He started the engine. "I know that, too."

Chapter Text

The visit to the rooms above The Fish House had alerted Peter that this version of his missing CI would be different from what he was used to. There would be no sharp suits, skinny ties or pristinely groomed visages. John was a fisherman, not a smooth-talking conman, and his clothes were rugged and functional. The absence of a razor indicated this man would not be clean-shaven, and having worked on the water since December, his skin would likely be tanned and weather-worn. His hands, no doubt, would not be soft; they would be calloused from hard work. The changes the room indicated paled in comparison to the changes they'd perceived after spending hours reading through the journal entries. Or most of them.

His hand had evidently not always been steady.

At first, the entries seemed to just record nightmares, nightmares of which he'd remembered little upon waking. But reluctantly, apparently at the urging of Mrs. Devaine, he had written down the feelings they'd invoked. The journal also began to function as a place to record things of interest, and items of self discovery. His first day cleaning fish, for instance, and his certainty he'd never done such a thing before had caused a chuckle or two. He'd also written about the day he learned he could speak fluent French. He'd stumbled upon the discovery, but upon investigation had uncovered several other languages he spoke. Some of the listed languages surprised even Peter. And as the narration on the pages pondered the wheres and whys of such an education, Peter did likewise.

John Thomas, as he now called himself, was different from the Neal Caffrey he knew, but he still made lists. Just like when he was trying to puzzle out a case, he made lists as he tried to puzzle out his past. But other than that, there was little evidence of the cocksure Neal Caffrey. Instead, worry, fear, and self-doubts covered page after page. John Thomas was afraid he was a bad person. Maybe a smuggler or even a killer who had deserved the bullets he'd taken. A criminal who deserved to have been left to die in the cold Atlantic. Midway through the journal, images from the persistent nightmares lingered long enough to be carefully recorded. Unsurprisingly, most had elements of running or hiding from unknown enemies and unseen dangers, reinforcing the fears of the unknown past. But something else began to take shape in the dreams; some help, some haven. Some unseen and undescribed person who represented safety. And then one night, Neal had awakened calling out for someone named Peter. Reading how Neal desperately wanted to remember who he was was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. There was no face Neal could put to the name, no memory he could capture. Just a feeling that this man could help if he could find him. There was also a fear that there was no Peter; that it was just his mind trying to give him a reason to hope. But then he'd remembered a phone number. He and Elizabeth read as Neal debated with himself over several days about the wisdom of reaching out. Then, last night, his feelings about finally making the call were a mix of anticipation and apprehension, mostly apprehension.

Is knowing worse than not knowing?

It was the same thing Peter had wondered the night before, lying next to Elizabeth into the wee hours of the morning. If Neal had lost his memory and had no recollection of his past, how would he react to learning about it? How would he feel to know he was a convicted felon? That he serving his time on a work release agreement with the FBI? That Peter was not only not his brother, but his handler? The truth would mean Neal would have to trade the open sea in for a tracking device and a two-mile radius.

But as he read through the entries, Peter realized Neal did not feel free at all. He was trapped by fear of who he was, what he'd done, and what dastardly deeds had resulted in his being shot and dumped into the Atlantic. The things he'd imagined as his past were all much worse than the truth. He had been a criminal, true, but not when he'd been left to die. At that time, he'd been making up for his misspent youth, working on the side of justice. And even at his worst, Neal Caffrey had never been the man he feared he had been. Peter had worried the truth of his past would devastate Neal, but maybe it wouldn't. Maybe knowing the truth would be a relief.

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With no good place to observe, with the building blocking a view of the docking area and the weather prohibiting outside seating, Peter sat inside the Fish House and watched through the window as Elizabeth, with her coat and matching hat pulled down against the still buffeting wind, snapped photos as the crew made to disembark. Peter counted six men moving about, all bearded and grubby and mostly dressed in workwear like he'd seen in Neal's closet. No one stood out to him, which surprised him. Somehow, even knowing Neal had changed, he felt he'd know him immediately. But that wasn't the case. It took several minutes of watching as the crew secured the boat and began to unload the day's catch, that one man caught his eye. He was the most slightly built of the group, and something about how he moved reminded him of Neal.

Elizabeth spoke to the man Peter assumed was Captain Devaine, who then nodded and waved towards the working men. Permission granted, Elizabeth, closer to the crew than he was, immediately approached the man he felt sure was Neal. They spoke for a moment or two, but then, almost abruptly, the man hurried away, leaving his fellow crew members to complete the work. He passed the window where Peter sat with his head down, and so quickly, Peter could not determine his expression. Elizabeth, intent on playing her part, lingered several moments more, speaking to a more locratious fisherman before joining Peter inside.

"What happened?" Peter asked as she sat down and pulled the hat from her head. "Did he recognize you?"

"I don't know," she answers, placing the hat on the bench beside her. "I don't think so. He wasn't feeling well." A concerned frown creased her forehead. "He was pale and unsteady; said the rough water had made him queasy. He was polite and answered a couple of questions. Then he apologised, excused himself and rushed off." She glanced around. "Did he come in here?"

Peter shook his head. "No. He went by the window without even looking up." That told Peter he hadn't recognized Elizabeth, at least not consciously. If he had, he would have known Peter would be close by and would have been scanning for him. There had been none of that. "What did you ask him?"

"His name and how long he'd worked on the Mariner," she replied. "He said John Thomas and a little over four months. He looks different," she continued. "His hair is longer and curlier than I thought it would be. Of course, he has a beard, but his face has a...a hollow look about it. And not just that he was feeling sick. It was more than that. Deeper."

Any real doubts Peter had harbored about Neal's claim of amnesia had been mostly wiped out when he and Elizabeth finished the journal, but having observed this interaction and heard Elizabeth's rendition of the meeting, he knew the truth. This wasn't a ruse, some brilliant scheme Neal had devised to avoid the consequences of his actions. Neal was in trouble, real trouble, and it was not of his own making.

His eyes again rested upon the painting of the Marianer, tossed about on a rough sea.

"He's as lost as a man can be," Peter said softly, recalling Mrs. Devaine's words to Elizabeth that morning.

Elizabeth nodded solemnly. "Yes, he is, Peter."

"Then I think it is time he was found, don't you?"

Chapter Text

John's first days aboard the boat had nearly killed him. He didn't know who he'd been before or what he'd done with his prior life, but he was sure it hadn't been hard labor. And fishing was hard labor, even with the more modern gears that sent out and then brought in the nets. He'd been tasked with sorting and gutting the catch, keeping the equipment cleaned and the boat and nets in order. He also had to help the crew unload the catch once they reached the dock. He was smaller than any of the others and didn't have their strength; He knew they thought him more trouble than he was worth. He knew nothing about fishing or boats, but he soon learned he knew a lot about knot tying. He'd accidentally discovered it when a crew member showed him how to repair the nets. Impressed despite himself, the man had told the others and, later, as they sailed towards home, John found himself with a length of rope, his hands and fingers working on their own accord, tying dozens of knots. Some the men recognized, others they had never seen before. That was the first odd thing he'd discovered about himself and it had made the men look at him a bit differently. They were curious, he could tell, but no one pressed him about where he'd learned it. He wondered, had the Captain had warned them not to? He and Tilly knew how he'd come to their village, and Tilly knew about his memory loss. He guessed the Captain did too, but it had never been mentioned.

He worked hard five and six days a week and never complained, even when his blisters had blisters, determined to earn his keep. It took a few months, but the crew finally warmed up to him. He'd never be one of them, lifelong fishermen raised on the Maine shoreline, but they thought well of him. Considered him a hard-working, honest man. He was hard-working; now. And honest, now. He hadn't even made up a past history. But who knows what he'd been before? And what would these honest, hardworking men think of him if they learned the truth? What would Tilly and the Captain think? Well, they have their nephews, so perhaps their judgment wouldn't be so harsh. But what would he think of himself when he found out the truth?

Sleep never came easy, but he combated it by working himself into a state of exhaustion. But yesterday, being the day of rest and all, and after making the call, sleep had eluded him. The anxiety had returned, causing his breath to quicken and his heart to pound. It was panic he felt, just as strong as it had been in the beginning, when, no matter how hard he stared into the mirror, the face he saw was that of a stranger. Running helped, and so did painting, but he'd only discovered that recently. He was pretty good at it, too. At least he'd impressed Tilly and the Fish House customers. He'd added a rendition of the Mariner on one of the interior walls and had been working on a seascape on the adjacent one. And that's where he'd gone when he'd felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin: downstairs to the Fish House. So he'd been at the Fish House, losing himself in his painting until nearly three. Only when he felt satisfied he'd captured the crest of the waves in the morning sun did he return to his room. Barely three hours later, he'd been back, eating breakfast with the Captain before beginning the day's work. Tilly's look of concern told him the restless night shown on his face. At her glance, the Captain gave his head a slight shake, halting whatever she'd been about to say.

"Gonna be a tough day, today," the Captain commented, stuffing a bite of waffles into his mouth. His next works were spoken around said bite. "Rain and wind and nastiness."

He hadn't been wrong. Working the fishing boat was hard and required concentration even on the best of days. Today the harsh conditions had demanded his attention, and kept his thoughts at bay for the most part. But now the day was behind him, and he lay on his bed, his eyes on the dark, wide wooden beams of the ceiling, trying to relax the tight muscles of his body as his mind continued to spin. He ached from head to foot, as he always did after thirteen hours onboard the Mariner, but there was tension in him that had nothing to do with fighting wind, rain, and nets all day.

It had been months, and he still knew nothing about who he was or where he'd come from. And what he had discovered about himself-his skills, knowledge of things no honest man should know, that someone had tried to kill him-was less than encouraging. And tomorrow evening, he'd meet Peter. The man who knew him. The man who called him Neal. The man with answers. He couldn't decide how he felt about the upcoming confrontation. Part of him was excited, imagining a life full of people, a home, a career maybe. A place he belonged and was wanted. But part of him was terrified it would not be so. He'd much rather remember everything on his own. Here, tucked away in his room or even out on the water. Remember and deal with what that meant. Decide what he would do with the knowledge once he had it. Decide if he even wanted the life he'd had before. If no one knew of it but him, it was only up to him to decide. But when someone else knew, it might not be that easy. Was he ready to know who he'd been when he'd been shot and left to die? What would Peter be like? What would sitting down with him be like?

The lady writer on the pier this afternoon had been nice enough. Still, when he'd stepped off the Mariner and saw her snapping photos, a wave of panic had hit him with an intensity he hadn't experienced in months. Then, the questions. Simple ones. Ones he could actually answer. But he'd felt as if he was being physically assaulted. As if he was in imminent danger from a slight, dark-haired woman with kind eyes and a sweet smile. His heart had pounded; he'd struggled to breathe. She'd frowned in concern and asked if he was well. He'd commented about the rough water and an even rougher stomach and rushed off, leaving her standing there. He'd given a similar story to Tilly, crying off of dinner. He had left her, too, with a frown of concern.

Is that how tomorrow's meeting with Peter would be? Terrifying? Debilitating? Would he flee in panic? And if he did, where would he go?

A sudden thought sent his heart pounding again: Had the lady taken any photos of him? What if someone saw them and recognized him? What if whoever thought him dead found out otherwise? Would they come after him? Would he know them if he saw them? Would it all come back to him then? He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was being paranoid. She'd said she wrote some kind of column for event venues. The likelihood of someone like the Wynns or whoever he'd crossed being avid readers of such a column was minuscule. He'd see Peter tomorrow. Maybe the sight of him would bring everything back.

But did he want it to? As bad as not knowing was, what if knowing was worse? Feeling the anxiety rising like the tide outside, he left the bed, paused to scribble a few lines in the notebook he kept on the desk beside his bed, and headed downstairs.

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"Can't sleep?" Even though the volume had been on mute, the television's flashing blue light had roused his wife.

"Sorry," Peter said, hitting the power button on the remote and sending the room into darkness.

"Don't apologize." Even though he couldn't see her, she had turned in the bed, and he knew that even in the dark, she was studying him. "Are you worried about what happens when you see him or what you're supposed to do afterwards?"

Leave it to her to cut right to the heart of the matter. "Both, I guess," he admitted.

He'd decided to come and scope out the situation easily enough. He had to make sure it was Neal, after all, and if it was, to determine if his claim of amnesia was credible. He could sell that reasoning to his superiors, especially if it led to the recapture of Neal Caffrey. But that hadn't been the real reason he'd come the way he had. He'd come because if Neal really had lost his memory, he needed help. Help from someone who knew him and cared about him and that is not what he'd get if Peter had alerted the authorities. And after everything he'd seen and read he believed Neal was telling the truth. He didn't remember being Neal Caffrey, his crimes, or his agreement with the FBI. Neal didn't remember him. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

"I'm so glad it's him, El," he felt his chest clutch. "That he's alive. I"ve felt such...guilt that I let him down, that he died working for me." Hadn't he consoled himself when the judge handed down such a harsh sentence for a first-time offender that it was best? That getting Neal off his chosen path would keep him from a violent end? Only to meet one while working for the FBI. For him. "But I need him to remember, to go back to being Neal."

"He's still Neal," she reminded him. "Whether he remembers or not, it's him at his core. He's smart and creative, generous and loyal. You've seen all that in him before."

"I know," Peter replied. "But I need him to remember his life. Who he is, who I am."

Elizabeth shifted closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. "That's what I want, too," she said gently. "I wanted him to know me on that dock." He heard her voice catch. "I wanted for everything to come back to him, for him to smile that smile of his, grab me, and hug me." She paused. "But didn't happen. And it might not happen when he sees you, either, Peter. It might..." he hesitated. "Take some time."

"Or it might not happen at all." He knew it was a possibility, but he wasn't prepared to face it. "I don't know what to do if he doesn't remember tomorrow, much less at all," he admitted. "I don't know what to say to him, how to handle him." He winced at how that sounded even to him. "I don't mean it like that," he muttered. "It's just that I know Neal; know how to manage-" he stopped again. That was no better. He let out a breath of defeat. "I just don't know what I'm going to do when I see him, El," he said. "I don't know how even to greet him." Or what, or how much, to tell him. Their relationship was complicated, even knowing their history. How could he ever explain it with no shared memory? "I don't know this man."

"Yes, you do," she assured him. "Probably better than anyone else." He lay there, silently contemplating that. At one time, he'd agree. But right now, he wasn't sure. "You're just seeing something he works hard to keep hidden: his vulnerability. You've seen that before, too."

Again, she'd hit it on the head. This Neal, that Neal, any Neal stripped of artifice, put him off his game. Made him second guess himself. Made him doubt his course.

"I don't know what to do, El," Peter repeated.

"Just trust your instincts," she advised as she snuggled closer. "And try to get some sleep. You'll know what to do when the time comes."

Chapter Text

"Feeling better this morning, John?" Tilly asked, filling his cup as he took his place across from the Captain on the long wooden table. It was a rough table tucked back in an alcove adjoining the big kitchen. The Captain took his meals back here even when the restaurant was open. Which at 5:30 am, it presently wasn't. It would open at 11 a.m. with the Catch of the Day Special technically being the catch of yesterday. Tilly refreshed the Captain's cup before sitting the pot down on the quilted trivet.

"Yes, much," he lied, trying to put on an expression as calm as the early morning bay. "Sorry, I missed dinner," he said as she returned to the kitchen to plate up their breakfast. "The water was rough yesterday, and it took me a while to recover."

"You didn't say anything about it," the Captain remarked as Tilly placed plates loaded with pancakes smothered with butter and syrup and several thick-cut slices of ham before them. "But you did work like a man possessed." The Captain prepared to dig in. "I thought you got all that out of your system the first two weeks on the water."

"Guess not," John replied, following suit as Tilly sat down to join them. Full mouths were good conversation stoppers, and the questions and comments of his breakfast companions made him uneasy. He took a bite of his pancakes; the maple syrup was especially thick in his mouth. He took a gulp of coffee. "Looks like today will be a better day, though," he ventured, eager to steer the conversation in another direction. But Tilly said nothing and unfortunately, not even the Captain felt compelled to offer a single weather prognostication.

It didn't bode well.

"I knew back then you were a runnin' from somethin'," the Captain said. "Somethin' in here," he tapped the side of his head, "as much as anything out there. But I thought you'd made some peace with it." He bit off a chunk of ham and chewed thoughtfully before again pinning John with his gaze. "What's changed, John?" he asked. "Have you remembered what got you into the water that night?"

John's breath caught, and he heard Tilly's quiet reprimand at the directness of the question. He glanced between them; were they worried that a returned memory might implicate their nephews somehow? But he saw no wariness in their eyes, no suspicion. Just concern. For him. He felt his throat tighten. He owed these people everything; they had given him safe harbor when he had nowhere else on earth to go. Tilly had nursed him back to health and given him a home; the Captain had given him a job and a purpose. He didn't care what their nephews had done, did or didn't do-it would never take away from what they'd done for him or diminish his appreciation for them. He owed them everything, including the truth.

"No, I haven't remembered what happened, but I have remembered something. A name. Of someone from...before."

"But not yours?" The Captain asked. John knew it was strange he'd remember the name of someone from his past while his own name remained a blank. He could tell him his name was Neal, but it seemed...premature. Plus, he hadn't remembered it. He'd been told. So he just shook his head.

"No matter," Tilly said, shooting her husband a look. You've remembered something," she encouraged. "That means the rest will come along in time. So what about this name? Is it a he or a she?"

"He." He could tell she'd hoped it would be otherwise.

"Family?" Her tone was hopeful.

"I don't think so," John replied. "But friend, maybe." That seemed to appease her a bit.

"Do you have any idea how to find him?" The Captain inquired. "Where to look?"

"I remembered his phone number," he confessed, "and I called him; he's coming here." The two stared at him in disbelief. "I'm having dinner with him tonight."

After a shocked silence, Tilly managed a response. "That's wonderful, John," she said with a matter-of-fact nod. I told you it would come back. It looks like you are on the verge of finding what you've lost."

Yes, and the thought of it brought the usual mix of conflicting emotions.

"No wonder you've been out of sorts," the Captain muttered, returning to his breakfast. "I was worried your past might've caught up with you, but here you are, a callin' it up to have dinner with you."

John couldn't help but laugh but quickly sobered. "I go back and forth about wanting to know and being afraid to find out," he confessed, his eyes dropping to his plate. He picked at his food with his fork. "Once I know, I can't unknow, you know? It keeps me up at night."

"As I can see," Tilly said, motioning with her fork towards the mural he'd worked on until past two. "You've just about finished. No matter what you find out now, John, you can't leave us before it's done, you know."

He smiled at her, but the thought of leaving her and the Captain caused a pain in his heart. This was the only life he knew, the only home he knew. The only family he knew.

"I promise I'll finish it, Tilly, no matter what happens," he promised. "So, how do you like how it's turning out?"

"I like this one better than the first," she said. The first is extraordinary; I can almost feel the deck shifting under my feet when I look at it. But this one," her brow furrowed a bit. "I feel peace, see the promise of a new day. It reminds me of the verse from the good book that promises new mercies each morning. It's...hopeful."

His eyes flew back to the mural. It certainly hadn't started out that way. The first mural he'd done he'd named Tossed About because it summed up how he felt about everything: himself, his life, and his past. When he'd begun the second, he'd thought to paint the solitary vessel setting out to face unknown dangers beyond the harbor. He'd wanted to use color and stroke to subtly illustrate the foreboding loneliness of facing the unknown, day in and day out. But as he'd worked on it over the last few weeks, it had taken on a different mood. The pink harbingers of rough waters had softened into pale peach and the lightest of yellows. Why, he wondered? What caused the change? But as soon as he wondered, he knew.

Peter. He'd put a name to the face, and then he'd called him. Because, in his dreams, Peter represented help. Safety. Hope.

He tore his eyes away from the mural to find Tilly looking at him, her eyes as tender as they'd been when she'd comforted him after his terrible confession.

"Hope is the best of things, John," she said gently. "Don't be so afraid of it."

Hope. The word slammed into him a second time. She was right; just the thought that he had a good life out there, people out there who were good, who missed him, who loved him...

He felt his eyes sting and his chest tighten. When the time came, he was sure the truth of the matter would crush him.

Chapter Text

John unwrapped a few squares of toilet paper, wiped up the hairs littering his sink, tossed it in the wastebasket, and let the water wash the rest out of sight. He looked up at the mirror to inspect his appearance. It had been a while since he'd trimmed his beard, and tonight seemed like the right time to do so. He'd almost run out and bought a razor, remembering he'd been a clean-shaven man when he'd been plucked from the ocean. It was the clean-shaven man Peter had called Neal, the man Peter expected to meet over dinner. The man Peter expected him to be. But he didn't know that man and remembered staring in the mirror at a stranger's face. The face he saw now was the face he had grown accustomed to. It was the face of John Thomas, a crew member of the Lonely Mariner who preferred wine to beer, chicken to lobster, and loved to paint.

"Maybe you have a wife, kids, a home to return to," Captain Devaine had said as they approached the dock. "There's as good a chance you're going to like what you find out as there is that you won't."

"You know where I was found," John replied, eyeing the approaching dock with wariness. "And what shape I was in. I don't think my odds are as good as that." He paused. "And surely, if I had a wife, I'd have remembered her name and not this Peter fellow's."

The Captain let out a bark of laughter and clapped him on the back. "Depends on the wife, I reckon," he said. "Some men might be glad for a bit of memory loss, if you know what I mean."

John knew the man's mirth was an effort to cut his tension, and he appreciated it. "But not you, sir," he chuckled. "You'd be lost without Tilly, and she'd be lost without you."

"True enough," the Captain admitted. "Just remember what she told you this mornin', John. Hope is a good thing. And no matter how things go, you know you have a place here as long as you want it."

"Thanks, Captain," he'd managed past the tightness in his chest. "It makes it easier, knowing that."

It did in some ways, but a part of John knew that he was like a tightrope walker: once he looked down, he'd never be the same. He'd know. No matter what, he was sure this was his last day as John Thomas, coming to port after a long day fishing. Tomorrow, whether he wanted to or not, he'd be someone else.

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Peter and Elizabeth sat at the same table Peter had used the afternoon before. Again, the room wasn't empty, nor was it packed. The customers, again, were mostly locals, which Mrs. Devaine and the serving girls addressed by name. She'd also greeted Elizabeth, and him by default, with familiarity which caused the patrons' expressions to shift from curious suspicion to marginally accepting. The Mariner had already docked by the time he and Elizabeth arrived and now they waited with a plate of Crab cakes between them, both too anxious to sample the fare.

"He didn't sleep much last night," Elizabeth noted, nodding at the mural of the Mariner at sunrise. "He's added a good bit to that since we saw it yesterday."

Peter studied the mural. At least Neal had had an outlet; he'd just be stuck flipping channels with the sound on mute. "Neither did we."

In the next few minutes, he would come face-to-face with Neal. He still didn't know what to say to him. How to be. It would be so much easier if Neal's memory came back-Elizabeth's father had said it could happen. But what would it be like for Neal to have the truth of things suddenly revealed? How would he feel to realize the person he'd thought would help him was going to haul him back into Federal Custody and strap a tracking device on his ankle? He'd been looking for a brother when he'd called, and instead, he was getting a jailer.

Neal didn't know who he was and Peter felt equally unsettled about who he was to him. Sure, he was Neal Caffrey's handler, but all those months when he'd thought Neal was dead, he hadn't mourned the loss of an asset. He'd mourned a man who tested his patience but brightened his days. He'd mourned a friend. It wasn't a simple relationship, and Peter was at sixes and sevens about how to present it in terms Neal, in his amnesic state, could understand. Hell, even he didn't understand it most days.

Wisdom told him to start as he meant to go on. To keep to the basic facts and leave the complications for another day. Maybe, once Neal was back in New York, his memory would return and fill in all the awkward stuff. Elizabeth's dad had said familiar faces and surroundings could well prompt a return if there had been no physical damage to the brain. Had there been? Had he bashed his head as he went overboard? Had he been hit by a passing boat? There was no way of knowing until they spoke, until they drug him back to New York and had him examined.

And what if he didn't want to go back to New York? What if he rejected the story altogether? What if he wanted to stay where he was, working on a fishing boat, living above the Fish House? That caused a wave of panic. What would he do if Neal refused? Drag him out? Call the Marshal's? He had to take him back-he had no choice. Or did he?

Elizabeth's sharp intake of breath pulled him from his thoughts. He followed her gaze to the door. Neal had arrived. After a brief exchange with Mrs. Devaine and a burly gentleman standing at the counter, he began to scan the room.

When Neal's gaze slipped past but rapidly returned to meet his, Peter felt a jolt travel throughout his entire body. Even though he'd seen Neal pass this very window yesterday, somehow, when their eyes met and held, it all became real. It meant something to Neal, too. What exactly did Peter not know. He abruptly stopped and stood there, stock still as the activity of the restaurant moved around him. Peter tried to read his expression, to see if there was a spark of recognition in his blue eyes, but with the beard, it was harder than it used to be. At least, that was what he told himself. It was strange to feel like this man, the man he'd researched and studied for years, was somehow now a stranger. Remembering the journal entry from Sunday night and fearful Neal might turn and run, Peter started to rise when a hand on his arm stilled him.

"Be patient, Peter," Elizabeth said quietly, tearing her eyes from their frozen friend across the room. "Let him come to us."

That advice went against everything he was, but Peter recognized the wisdom of it and relaxed into his seat. Her movement had caught Neal's attention and Peter saw his eyes shift to her, his brow furrowing, no doubt remembering his contact with her the afternoon before. When he again met Peter's eyes, there was no missing the expression this time. Doubt.

Damn, Peter thought to himself. Trickery and subterfuge were not the way to put this version of Neal Caffrey at ease, but in his defense, he hadn't known that at the time.

It seemed like hours instead of seconds that Neal stood there in indecision before he took a visible breath and started across the room.

When he was close, both Peter and Elizabeth rose to greet him. Neal had never been easy to read, but over time, Peter had gotten better at seeing the small signs that signaled his unease, stress, and even fear. But as he stood before him now, there was no artifice. His emotions were on full display in his blue eyes.

"Peter." Neal's voice was hoarse and unsteady. He was nervous. Agitated. Afraid. And when he ran a hand through his hair, Peter's heart melted at the familiar gesture. "So what now?"

It happened before Peter could consider it. One minute, he was standing in front of Neal; the next minute, he had the man in his arms, holding the stiff frame tightly as tears stung his eyes. Every concern, every thought, left his mind. What Neal remembered or what he didn't. If he remembered or if he didn't. How he'd explain things. What to tell him, what not to tell him.

Their relationship. Their work release agreement. The Bureau. The Marshals Service. If he wanted to come home or if he wanted to stay in Jonesport.

Neal was alive. He was safe, And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

My God, was the man crying? John hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly hadn't been this.

When he'd first met Peter's eyes, a bolt of electricity had shot through his entire body. Excitement? Fear? Panic? The emotion was so intense, so complex, he couldn't define it. He didn't know why or how, but he knew this man was important to him. Or at least, he had been. Then he'd seen something stern, almost threatening, in the man's demeanor. He had started to rise, but the pretty lady had stopped him. The same lady who had spoken to him yesterday, posing as a writer. A lady who knew him but had concealed that from him.

Why? Why the game? Who was she? Who were they?

He'd thought about turning and fleeing the room. But where would he go? Peter already knew where he lived. If the man pursued him, he'd be easy to find. And if he left Jonesport, where would he go? He had no home. No family. No past to return to. So, clinging desperately to the feeling that had prompted him to make the call in the first place, he'd approached the couple.

Hope. It was hope, wasn't it? Hope that it wouldn't be as bad as he feared it would be.

And now, he stood, heart pounding, clenched in a tight embrace.

He could feel the curious eyes on them as the man cleared his throat and then sniffed, yes, sniffed, near his ear. His eyes flitted to the pretty lady. Tears tracked down her cheeks, her face bright with happiness. Whoever these people were, they knew him. Knew him and seemed glad to see him.

Hope fulfilled.

But it felt strange and awkward, and he didn't know how to respond. He still didn't know them.

The lady met his eyes, and her smile dimmed. The joy in her blue eyes crept out, and he saw...sadness. She's seen his doubt, his lack of acknowledgment. He felt pain pierce through him; he'd disappointed her. These people wanted something from him, something he couldn't provide. Memories. A shared past. Who he'd been. Whatever he'd been to them. Things he didn't have access to.

She placed a hand on the man's-Peter's-shoulder.

"Sweetheart," she said gently. John felt the man stiffen at her words. "Let's sit down."

There was a grunt of accent; the arms fell away, and Peter stepped back.

"Sorry about that," he muttered without meeting his eyes. He waved a hand towards a chair, and though the couple had been sitting across from each other when he'd first seen them, they now took chairs opposite where he'd been bidden to sit. After a moment's hesitation, he complied with the request.

Peter used both hands to swipe across his face, letting out a breath that sounded a bit shaky to John's ears. The brown eyes that now settled on him were watery and a bit red-rimmed. His clean-shaven face had a slight blush, and John instinctively knew the embrace had been outside the man's comfort zone. He wasn't the emotional sort. He was a serious, no-nonsense person. He was a by-the-book rule follower.

Something John feared he hadn't been. He didn't remember it; he just knew it.

"Neal," the man breathed. "I still can't believe it's true." The emotions were still there, but there was a great effort to keep them under wraps. "That you are really here." The man swallowed. "Right in front of me. Alive."

Neal.

And everyone thought he was dead. He'd guessed as much, but this verified it. These people were glad he was alive, but someone out there was not, the person who had tried to kill him. Not remembering these people might disappoint them, but he feared worse disappointments were looming. Maybe they didn't know about the other stuff. The lock picking. The safe cracking. His skill at sleight of hand. Whatever bad choices had led to his fate. They mattered to him, what they thought of him mattered, so maybe he had kept that part of his life a secret. Maybe that was why they were so happy to see him; because they didn't know the truth about him. That thought made a cold wave of dread wash over him.

"Yes, " he nodded, trying to reel in his rampant emotions. "I'm alive." He'd told Peter he'd been found in the water. Had he said anything else? About the bullet wounds? His mind raced as he tried to remember, word for word, what he had said. He had to be smart about this. He couldn't give more information than he'd already given. He needed to know who he was. How they knew him. What they knew about him. "And well. Except for the fact that I don't know who I am." His gaze moved from face to face. "You two obviously do, so I need answers." He then directed his attention to the lady and hardened his tone. "Not games or lies." A blush crept up her neck and filled her cheeks. "You don't research event venues."

The couple exchanged a quick look of contrition before the lady responded to his charge. "Well, actually, I do," she said. "I just don't write about them. I run an Event Planning Business." Her eyes searched his almost expectantly. "Burke's Premiere Events."

His eyes returned to Peter's. "Burke," he echoed the word, the name, a memory playing in his mind. That was how Peter had answered the phone. "You are Peter Burke."

The name felt familiar as it rolled off his tongue. Just like the man and now, even the lady, did. Something about them settled him as much as it unsettled him.

"Yes." Peter was watching him, and John felt like the man could see into his soul. See his fears and his doubts; see the truth whether he wanted him to or not. "and this is my wife Elizabeth." El, John thought, looking at her again. Her name was Elizabeth, but Peter called her El. His heart began to pound again. He knew this about them. Was his memory returning? "And you," Peter continued, "are Neal Caffrey."

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"Neal Caffrey."

Peter watched as Neal repeated the name slowly as if testing it. It was all still a blank to him, Peter could tell. He'd desperately hoped the sight of him and Elizabeth would trigger Neal's memories or the mention of his name would cause it all to come flooding back. But at present, that waterway was proving dry.

"Caffrey," Neal said again as if wishing for the same. "So we aren't family," he continued, "unless...?" His eyes suddenly swung to Elizabeth. "Unless we...?"

Elizabeth's eyes softened at the hopefulness in question. Her blue eyes, and it occurred to Peter that with their coloring, Neal and Elizabeth could pass as siblings. She reached across the table, placing a hand over Neal's.

"No," she said gently. "You and I aren't related, either, but," her eyes quickly met his before continuing, "Peter and I consider you family, and we are so glad to have found you."

As much as things had changed, some things about Neal remained the same. The way he'd stiffened when he'd hugged him and how now, even though he didn't do it, Peter knew he wanted to pull back his hand, to break the contact Elizabeth had initiated as a show of comfort. Any show of concern or affection had made Neal uncomfortable, and it still appeared to be the case. Of course, from Neal's point of view, they were strangers insisting on invading his personal space in a very public setting.

Neal sat utterly still, his gaze fixed on where he and Elizabeth's hands touched, before he gently tugged his own away, placing it out of sight on his lap as he looked up.

"So, do I have a family?" He asked tightly. "Brothers, sisters? Parents, maybe?"

Peter had often wondered at how solitary Neal had always been. Even when he'd dug into everything he could find in those early years, he'd never come across a sign of a family. And he'd never learned if it was by fate or by choice that Neal was alone in the world.

"I don't know," Peter admitted, hating the desperate look in Neal's eyes. "You've never said anything about family. But you have people in your life," he assured. "Friends who will be overjoyed to find out you survived the altercation on that Yacht." Neal's eyes widened at that. "Has any of it come back to you?" He knew it hadn't but it seemed, if he hadn't already broken into Neal's rooms and read his journal, like something he'd ask.

Neal shook his head. "I just remember waking up on a boat with a..." he swallowed, "a bullet hole in my shoulder and a gash on my head. And no idea who I was. You say there was an altercation on a yacht. What happened?" His eyes narrowed. "Where you there?"

"No," Peter replied. "I was on the dock." He knew Neal was afraid he'd been shot in the commission of some crime, that he'd deserved what had occurred. It was time to put his mind at ease, on that topic at least. "But I heard everything that happened; you were wearing a wire." Neal, a shocked look on his face, said nothing. "Well, actually," Peter continued, realizing he was doing a poor job explaining things, "it was a wristwatch with a transmitter."

"I don't understand." Neal's face had paled. "Why?" His voice was just a whisper. "Why would I do that?"

He was not easing Neal's mind at all. In fact, his dinner guest was looking more and more like a potential flight risk.

"You were working undercover," he explained hurriedly, "posing as a fence brokering a deal to move stolen bonds. We were after a man named Oliver Miggins."

The man had ordered him disposed of, but Peter didn't really expect Miggins's name to stir Neal's memory. And it didn't.

"We?"

"Yes," Peter confirmed with a nod. "You, me, and the rest of the team. I am not just Peter Burke, Neal. I'm Agent Peter Burke, White Collar Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Indeed, if anything would shock Neal Caffrey back into reality, that announcement would do it. But there was no flash of fear in his eyes, no sudden panic as understanding dawned. Surprisingly enough, his frame seemed to relax ever so slightly.

He leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing. "Agent Burke." Neal said the name like he had his own, as if trying it on for size or familiarity. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth before returning to him, his expression one of incredulity. "Are you saying I work for the FBI?"

Here it was, the part Peter had been dreading, the distasteful part of what Neal would need to know and process. His criminal past. Their somewhat contentious relationship. The Work release agreement and stipulations. The tracking device and the two-mile radius he was forced to live within. The life he'd forgotten, a life he might prefer to forget. It was sad that the only way Neal could appreciate the freedom he now enjoyed was to learn that it would be taken from him.

Silence hung between them until he felt Elizabeth shift at his side.

"Yes, Neal." Her voice was firm. "That's exactly what he is saying."

Peter's eyes jerked to her, but she only gave him a quick glare before turning a much kinder expression back to Neal.

"You, Peter, Clinton, and Diana work together. They were devastated to think you'd died on that yacht." She glanced again at Peter; this time, her expression was softer. "Peter blamed himself for not protecting you." Neal's eyes locked onto his, and Peter saw tears welling in them. "And there is June," Elizabeth continued, "who loves you like a son and Mozzie, well, Mozzie has been your friend for years." They could both see that Neal's emotions were in tumult and for a second time, Elizabeth reached over to offer a touch of comfort and reassurance; this time, Neal's hand grasped hers in return. "I know you don't remember any of this," she said gently, "but you have a home in New York City, a job you excel at, and people who love you. No matter how you have felt all this time, or even how you feel right now, I promise you, you are not alone."

Chapter Text

His emotions were flooding him, causing his body to tremble and his throat to clutch.

"You, Peter, Clinton, and Diana work together," the lady said, her blue eyes tender. "They were devastated to think you'd died on that yacht." She sent a compassionate look at her husband. "Peter blamed himself for not protecting you."

Peter blamed himself. His eyes met Peter's, and he saw the truth there. Hurt, guilt, and the substance of his dreams flashed back to him. Peter was his protector. The person who rescued him. Had rescued him so many times, that memory, that security, had crept through the darkness of his mind when nothing else had. Not even his name. He'd remembered Peter when he hadn't remembered Neal.

And he had not been on nefarious business when he'd been shot; he wasn't a bad guy. He was one of the good guys if these people could be believed.

"And there is June," the lady continued earnestly, "who loves you like a son, and Mozzie, well," there was a twinkle of something in her eyes, "Mozzie has been your friend for years."

He had, if not a biological family, people who loved him like one.

It was too much. Too much...relief. He was going to break, to crumble right here in front of these people. The entire restaurant. He needed to get out, get some air. Pull himself together. But almost as if the lady, Elizabeth, could read his mind, her hand slipped across the table and grasped his. This time, instead of pulling away, he just held on. Held on because he was still afraid. Afraid all of this was too good to be true, that it might evaporate. Afraid to go and afraid to stay.

"You have a home in New York City, a job you excel at, and people who love you. No matter how you have felt all this time, or even how you feel right now, I promise you, you are not alone."

The words washed over him. Home. People who love you. You are not alone.

You are not alone.

That rang over and over in his ears, and, in horror, he heard a sob escape his lips.

In alarm, he jerked his hand away and stumbled to his feet. Peter rose almost in unison.

"We'll take a walk," he said, "El, can you order for us? We will be back in a few."

As John fought for control, he was aware of the eyes of the patrons, but he was also aware of the firm, guiding hand placed low on his back, urging him towards the door. Peter was doing what he did: rescuing him. But before they'd reached the door, the large, imposing form of Captain Davaine blocked their way.

"You alright there, John?" the man asked. Even through blurry eyes, John could see the man's challenging glare directed at Peter. Tilly was with him and now stood there, her assessing eyes taking him in. Her expression softened.

"It's alright, dear," she said, touching her husband's arm. It was a gesture John had seen between Elizabeth and Peter only minutes before. "Those are happy tears. Healing tears." Her eyes then moved to Peter. "And I'm sure," she paused, John thought to give her words weight, "This gentleman won't be trying to take John anywhere he's not ready to go."

"Of course not, ma'am," he heard Peter respond. "He just needs a...bit of air, that's all."

Tilly gave a firm nod. "Very well, then, and John, when you're ready, please invite your guests to dine in the kitchen. It's more private back there." He started to thank her, but instead of words, another watery hiccup emerged. "Off with you, now."

She and the Captain moved aside, and thankfully, a moment later, the notice of the dining room was cut off by the closing of the door.

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The minute the cold air hit them, Peter heard Neal make a choking, stifled sound. He'd been fighting tears at the table, and Peter had seen when he'd realized it was a battle he would lose. Whether John or Neal, no man wanted to break down into ugly crying in a room full of people. And so, as any man would, he'd chosen to exit as fast as possible.

At some point, he'd have to explain to John that he and Neal had many things in common, including being a magnet for protective women. He had no doubt Tilly had prompted the Captain to intervene in their departure and would direct him, and probably several of the burly men present, to beat him within an inch of his life if he proved any threat to their friend.

He'd ushered Neal towards the door, but now that they were outside, Neal chose their course. In quick strides, he moved not towards the stairs that led to his rooms but in the other direction, past the outside seating towards the business end of the pier. He continued until he reached the edge and then stood, grasping the wooden railing. After a moment he dropped his head and his shoulders slumped, succumbing to the overwhelming emotions.

Peter had followed but held back, uncertain of what Neal needed. Mrs. Devaine had thought these were happy tears, but what if she was wrong? What if they were anything but? Maybe Neal had remembered, just like he'd hoped he would, and was now wishing he hadn't.

Hadn't remembered. Hadn't remembered the name Peter. Hadn't called. The journal entries had envisioned him as a savior, a protector. A person who could make things better. John Thomas had put his faith in him, and he'd let him down in the worst possible way.

Even though the sound of Neal's distress was barely audible, each stifled sob cut like a knife through Peter's heart.

Whether it was welcome or not, the sight of Neal standing alone in distress spurred him into action. Taking the final steps to close the gap, Peter came to his side.

"Neal," he said, placing an arm around Neal's shoulders. "It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

Part of him expected that Neal might push him away and balk at comfort from a man who had dashed his hopes, but instead, Neal released his white-knuckled hold on the railing and turned into him. This time, instead of standing stiff in his embrace, Neal's arms wrapped around Peter's midriff as the young man buried his face in Peter's shoulder. Though the sounds of his tears were muffled, Peter could feel Neal trembling. His mind raced, imagining the weight of what Neal must be processing and wondering if anything could be done to ease his pain and disappointment.

Then he realized he could fix this. He could be the man Neal remembered, the man he'd called looking for help. He could save Neal from his fate; Rescue him from a life he didn't want.

"No one knows, Neal," he said to the man in his arms, hardly stumbling over the magnitude of what he was going to do. "No one knows you're alive except El and me. I didn't report it to agent Hughes or the Federal Marshalls." The job hadn't been the same since Neal left. He'd been considering resigning anyway. "I didn't tell anyone. If you don't wanna go back," Peters throat ached at the thought of it, "if you want to stay here and be John Thomas, you can." He didn't want to lose Neal, but at least when he missed him, he could picture him on the sea instead of in it. "We will go home and forget this ever happened. You can be free."

Peter's voice broke, and he realized Neal wasn't the only one crying on the pier.

Chapter Text

"I'd think maybe the Tilapia for Neal," Elizabeth said, studying the menu. "But for John?" She glanced up at Mrs. Devaine. "You'd probably know better than I."

At Mrs. Devaine's insistence, she'd been relocated to a large wooden table off the kitchen area. Having already ordered a late dinner for her and Peter, she was attempting to do the same for Neal.

"Well, according to you and your fella, they're one and the same, right?"

Her tone was a bit terse, but after their exchange moments before, Elizabeth guessed it was to be expected. Mrs. Devaine had approached her just after she and the Captain exchanged words with Neal and Peter on their way out. From Elizabeth's view, the exchange near the door had started as a bit dicey but had quickly de-escalated. When Mrs. Devaine made a beeline towards her, Elizabeth knew it was her turn to be accosted, and she hoped she'd be able to explain in a way that eased the tension as fast as Peter had. But it had not been so. Elizabeth had tried to explain the reason for her deception and, citing her father's professional advice, made a good case about how they'd handled Neal. But there wasn't a good way to justify her lies to the Fish House's proprietress. After two minutes of rambling, trying to defend her actions, the woman's only response had been, "You should have just told me."

Well, it was hard to argue that. Now.

Then, she'd been directed to the alcove behind the kitchen that served as a private dining area. She and Peter's drinks and the plate of untouched crab cakes were also relocated. And mere moments after leaving her there, Mrs. Devaine returned, efficient if not exactly friendly, with pad in hand to take their dinner order. Elizabeth had ordered for herself and Peter without hesitation, but for Neal, she'd considered the menu thoughtfully. Hoping to ease the tension between them, to build a bridge of sorts, she had tried to elicit input from Mrs. Devaine.

But the lady was still miffed at her and her reply indicated as much.

"Yes," Elizabeth sighed, wishing the discord between them would dissipate before the men returned. "Your John is our Neal, but he doesn't remember being Neal." That was still hard to swallow, and she knew it was harder on Peter than it was on her. She looked up. "We thought he was dead," she explained for the second time, tears stinging her eyes, "and when he called...it was like a miracle. We were so focused on seeing him and figuring out how to help him we didn't think about anything else." Elizabeth met her eyes. "Or anyone else. I'm sorry I lied to you. I truly am."

Elizabeth waited as the woman seemed to consider her words. After a moment, Mrs. Devaine gave a nod of what Elizabeth hoped was acceptance and began writing on the pad.

"John orders Tilapia frequently," she said. "So your instinct was spot on. I'm not sure he's all that fond of seafood, but, well," she looked up, waving her hand in a sweeping motion of their surroundings, "What was he to do?" Her expression had softened. "Not one to disdain our living, that's for certain." She took a few steps into the kitchen, tore the page from the pad, and handed it off to one of the kitchen staff. She returned, slipped the pad into a wide pocket, and sat across from her.

Elizabeth braced herself; it wasn't over.

"I knew right off he wasn't a Mainer," Mrs. Devaine volunteered conversationally. "He doesn't like bugs at all." Elizabeth tried to keep her expression clear, although the statement had been unexpected. "Lobsters," Mrs. Devaine explained, her eyes twinkling. "That is what we locals call Lobsters. Judging from his lily-white hands and fancy clothes, I knew he was no laborer, either. So," her eyes narrowed. Tell me about your Neal."

Elizabeth hesitated, wondering how much, if anything, she should reveal about Neal's past. Seeing and, moreover, understanding her delay, Mrs. Devaine sighed. "I guess you and I have the same problem," she said. "We both want to protect the man we know."

"I'm just not sure it's my story to tell," Elizabeth said honestly. "Especially if he...he doesn't remember it himself. The important thing for you to know, and for him to know, is that Peter and I care about him and so do a lot of other people. He has a home, friends...a whole life back in New York City."

Mrs. Devaine seemed to ponder that. "I am very happy to hear that," she said. "He's just been so..." She halted what she'd been about the say. "Can you tell me one thing?" she didn't wait for an answer. "How did you come to lose him? You said you thought he was dead. What happened?"

It was Elizabeth's turn to understand. Mrs. Devaine had patched up bullet wounds without notifying the authorities. She didn't want to say anything that would get her or Neal into trouble. She was right; they were both trying to protect the man they knew.

"I know about the gunshot wounds if that's what you are worried about," she replied. "And if you're the one who cared for him, we owe you a debt of gratitude." The woman seemed to relax, but Elizabeth worried about how the rest of it would go over. "He was working undercover on a yacht off the coast of New York when he was shot. He went overboard and was never found. That was five months ago."

If the revelation shocked her, she didn't let on. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully.

"My nephews found him in the water," she explained. "They didn't know his circumstances and he couldn't enlighten them, so they brought him to me. I looked after him, and when he'd regained some strength, he insisted on helping out. He started down here," Again, she indicated the restaurant around them. "but when his shoulder was healed, he joined the crew of the Mariner."

"We owe your nephews our thanks, too," Elizabeth told her. "For bringing him somewhere safe. He had to have been so...well, lost, waking up with those injuries and no idea of who he was or how he'd gotten them."

"It's weighed heavily on his mind," the woman confirmed with a slow nod of her head. "I had hoped things would come back to him once the knot on his head had gone down." She frowned. "But they didn't." She looked at Elizabeth thoughtfully. "Well, except for a name and a phone number."

Elizabeth smiled. "Yeah, Peter's. I still can't believe any of this is real—that it's really him and that he is alive and working on a fishing boat." She shook her head. "It's just hard to picture our Neal doing that. You know," she laughed, she lifted her hands, "with those lily-white hands and fancy clothes."

"Yet, here he is. I think John, Neal," she corrected, "would be good at anything he put his mind to. And here, well, a fisherman was what presented itself." A frown deepened the creases of her forehead. "Undercover you said. Does he work with your husband?"

"Yes," she answered. "They've worked together for over two years but are more than just co-workers. They are more like brothers." She glanced across the space towards the restaurant, wondering how the boys were doing. "I'm afraid we overwhelmed him," she confessed. "We are so overjoyed to see him, and he, well, doesn't really remember us."

"He's worried so much about who he was and how he ended up in the water. Learning the truth of it has surely lifted a huge burden on his soul. I'm sure he is overwhelmed, but not in a bad way; I think he is overwhelmed with relief."

Elizabeth thought back to the things Neal had written in his notebook and then to the brief conversation at the table, as one-sided as it had been. He had thought the worst, expected the worst, and they had somewhat alleviated those fears. But there was so much more about his life he didn't know; things that might overwhelm him in quite a different way.

"I hope you are right."

"Oh," she grinned. I am always right, especially in matters of the heart."

WCWCWC

It was the oddest thing. And John knew he was regaining control of himself because he was just now becoming aware of it.

The emotions that had overcome him had been intense. Relief, mostly. But also happiness. Contentment. The amazing feeling of a devastating storm avoided; the pink harbingers of doom giving way to bright, clear skies. He'd kept them mostly stuffed until he'd gotten free of the Fish House but once outside, they'd had to come out.

He still hoped he'd be able to keep some dignity, but then Peter was beside him, offering comfort, and that was it. The next moment, Peter's arms were around him, and he was sobbing like a two-year-old into the man's chest. Months and months of doubts and fears, of feeling adrift and alone, were suddenly released. And the safety he'd longed for and had sensed in his dreams had manifested into the man who now repeated words of comfort.

Peter. Peter Burke. Agent Peter Burke.

Who again, seemed to be crying. John had only been partly listening to what Peter was saying, more appreciating the calm, soothing sound of his voice.

But now he did listen. He wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then it became clear.

"if you want to stay here and be John Thomas, you can."

Why would he want that? He would be eternally grateful for Jonesport and the Devaines, but he wanted to go home—even if, right now, he didn't remember it. It was where he was supposed to be; where he belonged.

"We will go home and forget this ever happened. You can be free."

Peter thought he didn't want to go back to New York. That he didn't want to go back to being part of his team. And he was upset.

"Peter." John's voice was hoarse from the crying. "Peter," he said again, gently disengaging himself and pulling back.

Again, John found himself looking into red-rimmed eyes. "I'm sorry, Neal," Peter's voice was still choked with emotion, "It's just been a lot since you called. I don't want to lose you again, but you mean too much to me to make you go back if you don't want to. I respect your decision."

"What are you talking about?" John asked him. "My decision is to go home. To New York,' he added for clarification. "I'll need a few days to settle things- I have to finish Tilly's mural, but I want to go back with you. I've been so..." he felt his throat tighten. He swallowed. "lost. I want to go back to where I belong. Maybe, once I get there, things will come back to me."

Peter's eyes widened. "Are you serious?" he asked. "You want to come back?"

"Of course I do," John assured him. "According to you and Elizabeth, I have a life there. As Neal...?" he hesitated, the last name escaping his mind.

"Caffrey," Peter supplied.

"Caffrey," he repeated, wishing his name would ring some distant bell. Maybe it would once he was home. "I've got to remember that."

Chapter Text

Peter could hardly believe his ears.

Neal wanted to go back. But then his euphoria faded a bit; he wanted to go back because he still didn't remember.

Not even his name.

"You will," Peter assured him, hoping against hope he was speaking the truth. "In time. Once you are home, we'll have a doctor check you out and get you in to see Elizabeth's dad." At Neal's frown, he explained. "He's a psychiatrist or psychologist-I don't remember which - and she talked to him before we came."

"About me?" The slight alarm in his voice was vintage Neal.

"We weren't sure how to handle things, Neal." He explained. "We didn't want to do anything to make things worse for you, but we had to come to see you. He said it was possible seeing us would trigger your memories."

"But it didn't." The frown remained. Neal, no doubt, had his own misgivings about the return of his memory.

"No, it didn't, but once we get you home, in your own place, surrounded by your own things, wearing your own clothes-"

"These are my clothes. I bought them myself." Was that a bit of the Caffrey pride peeking through?

"You know what I mean," Peter said gently, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Your normal clothes, Neal Caffrey's clothes." Peter thought about the anklet, about how terrible it would be to put that on him. He'd have to explain things way before that, or Neal would have to remember. Either one would not be pleasant. "Once you are back in your normal environment, things are more likely to start coming back to you."

Neal nodded, and though the frown lessened, it hadn't disappeared completely. "I'm like a word out of context here," he said. "Maybe when' I'm put in where I belong, everything will fall into place."

"Exactly," Peter said. "Now, if you are ready, let's get back inside before we worry, Elizabeth."

"El," Neal said as they started along the wooden dock. "You call her El, don't you?"

Peter grinned at him. "Yes, I do. Remembered that, did you?"

"I don't know that I remembered; I just...well, I know it. It's kind of like lock-picking and knot-tying. I know lots of things. I just don't know who I am."

"It's a start, Neal," Peter replied. "We will take things slow. I know it's gonna be late, but you are welcome to come back to the hotel with us. We can talk all night if you want."

"I have to work tomorrow," Neal said as they reached the door. "But if you can stick around another day, I'll meet you after I get back in."

"I'll stick around as long as it takes, Neal."

WCWCWC

When he and Peter returned to the restaurant and realized Elizabeth was not where they had left her, John led the way past the counter and back to the alcove where he usually took his meals. Sure enough, Elizabeth was there and was not alone: Tilly sat across from her, and the two were conversing.

"Well, the ladies seem to be getting along," Peter commented as they approached the couple.

Seeing the two in deep conversation made him uneasy. He'd like to think they were discussing anything but him but, really, he was the only thing they had in common. And he could already tell John was different from the Neal Peter and Elizabeth had told him about. Their lives could not be more opposite. He enjoyed the peace of the small fishing village and the challenge of the open sea. Neal was a city boy who wore fancy clothes and worked with the FBI. City living and fancy clothes, well, maybe he could imagine that. But working for a Federal Agency? That didn't seem to fit somehow.

Both Elizabeth and Tilly smiled broadly when they saw them, and Tilly hastily got to her feet.

"Now that you two are back, I'll have them plate up your dinner."

"Thanks, Tilly," John answered.

Her smile was tender. "Don't you mention it." She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. "I'm so happy you've found where you belong," she said. "I told you, Hope is the best of things, John."

With that, she left them, and he and Peter sat down on the side she'd vacated.

Elizabeth's gaze went between them. "You guys okay?"

Peter's face still looked splotchy and he guessed his did too.

"Yeah," he replied. "It's just...a lot to process. I can feel what you've said is true, but I can't remember it. It's like you are talking about someone else."

"He did remember something," Peter said. "That I call you El sometimes."

Elizabeth smiled. "What an odd thing for you to remember. Anything else?"

John shook his head. "Not yet. But maybe they will once I get back to New York."

Her eyes shot to Peter's before returning to him. "So you are coming back with us?"

She sounded almost surprised, and again, John wondered why they seemed to think he'd rather stay in Jonesport as a made-up person than return to where his life was.

Before he could answer, the conversation was halted by the arrival of their dinner, served by Tilly herself.

"Take all the time you need," she said, setting the rounded plates down in front of them. We'll close up the dining room at ten, but you are welcome to stay as long as you need." She smiled at him. "John has keys to the place and can lock up if you are still visiting after we finish up for the night."

"Thank you, Tilly," John said again. He might have people in New York who cared about him, but he had people here who did, too. "I don't think we will be that late. I have an early morning."

"That don't stop you from painting until all hours of the night," she pointed out, mostly beneath her breath. "Let me know if you need anything, and don't worry about the ticket: this dinner is on the house."

There was a round of thank you's and then they were left alone again.

"She's a dear lady," Elizabeth said. "She reminds me a bit of June."

John looked over his dinner but didn't feel the least bit hungry. "The lady who loves me like a son."

"Yeah," Peter replied, already starting to dig into his plate. "June Ellington. She has this massive house on Riverside Drive. It has an apartment with a ten-million-dollar view of Manhattan, and that's where you live."

Wow. A ten-million-dollar view of Manhattan? Suddenly, a scene flashed into his mind: a rooftop, a cafe table holding a tray, and a silver coffee pot.

And an irritated Peter.

"Cappuccino in the clouds," John whispered, his heart hammering.

Both Elizabeth and Peter looked at him in surprise. 'What did you say?" Peter asked.

"Cappuccino in the clouds," he repeated a bit louder. "You said that to me and were... irritated about it. What does it mean?"

Peter looked almost at a loss, but then his face broke into a grin. "It means things are coming back to you, Neal."

Elizabeth gave her husband a questioning look. "It's a long story, El," he said sheepishly. "But I did say that to him just after he moved into June's."

"I see." She then turned to him with a smile. "This is wonderful, Neal, and this is just after a few hours. Imagine how much faster your memory will return once we get you home. When do you think you'll be ready to go?"

"I'll need a few days to finish up the mural," he told her. "And to give them time to find someone to take my place on the Mariner. I don't have that much to pack up."

"So maybe by this weekend?" Elizabeth asked.

"I think so," he said, feeling something between fear and excitement.

"Then I should let my dad know." A look passed between the couple, some shared knowledge dampening the excitement they'd experienced the moment before. "He can recommend a doctor for the physical exam and work you in for an evaluation."

The psychiatrist or psychologist. That prospect made him feel decidedly uneasy. "Can't we just see-"

He'd been about to suggest they wait and see if things came back on their own, but Peter cut him off.

"I think that's a good idea," he said matter of factly. "The sooner we get a professional diagnosis, the better."

John realized there was something else going on. Something he didn't understand; something he couldn't understand because his past was, for the most part, a blank. Although he could tell they wanted it, something about his return to New York was a cause for concern. There were some complications about it they were trying to navigate. What was waiting for him in New York? They'd said he had a home, job, and people who cared about him. But there was something else there, too, something unpleasant.

Something they didn't want to tell him about. Something they thought, if he knew, would change his mind about returning.

He didn't doubt their sincerity, or that they cared about him, but whether it was to protect him or not, he didn't like feeling that he was being managed. Not at all.

He almost blurted his questions, ask what they were not telling him about his life, but perhaps now wasn't the time. If small things were starting to come back to him, who knew what he'd remember by tomorrow evening?

He had a few days before he'd said he'd return to New York. And by that time, he would have answers, or he'd stay in Jonesport until he did.

Chapter Text

"Mrs. Devaine was telling me about your murals." Thank goodness Elizabeth broke the silence. "When did you realize you could paint?"

There had been several minutes of tension since he'd made the unilateral decision about Neal's physical and mental evaluations. He'd seen Neal's body language change as he stiffened up, and Elizabeth's disapproving look made it clear that he had overstepped. He knew he'd handled it badly. He shouldn't have dictated what was to happen; telling Neal what he would do instead of discussing it with him. This was not his CI, a man who was bound by an agreement to take orders from him. This man didn't even know about that man. And the truth of the matter was that even if he did, even if he was Neal right now, he'd have still balked. In his haste to have a plan in place for the questions that would arise with the presumed dead Neal Caffrey, he had reverted to his old role of being a handler. Neal had had something to say on the topic and he'd barrelled right over him.

So the food was not tasting that good anymore, and he was washing each bite down with a sip of tea when Elizabeth came to the rescue.

Painting. A nice, non-threatening topic and a hobby both John Thomas and Neal Caffrey shared.

At his side, he felt Neal start, almost as if startled by the question.

"When they were painting the interior walls," he replied. "They had hired a couple, and one evening, when I came for dinner, they were here. When I saw them with their brushes, mixing colors to form a layered effect mimicking the ocean at sunset, I just knew."

"So you didn't remember you could paint; you just knew."

It was the same thing Neal had said to him on the dock. He didn't remember things; he just knew them.

"Yeah," Neal answered. So my next day off, I went uptown and found an art shop. Going in there," he hesitated. "Again, I just knew what I needed. I picked up a few supplies, brought them back, and tried them out." There was a pause. "Did you know I painted?" he asked. "I mean, before now?"

Peter was glad his mouth was full. What he knew about Neal's past painting efforts was not a topic for dinner conversation.

"Yes," Elizabeth responded. "You have great lighting at your place and always have a work in progress." That was true enough, Peter mused, as he often uncovered said work to see exactly who Neal was mimicking. In fact," she smiled. "When we have you over for dinner, art is the topic of conversation you and I enjoy most. Gallery Openings, Visiting Art Exhibits, what the menu and wine selection were."

He seemed to think that over a moment.

"Burke Premiere Events," he said thoughtfully. "You cater a lot of those events, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Elizabeth answered, looking at him expectantly. Was it just deductive reasoning or was he remembering something? "And one of my most exclusive events," she continued, "I owe to you."

Neal didn't immediately respond, and Peter chanced a look at him. With his fork poised in the air, he was frowning. "Where?"

"The Channing Museum," Elizabeth answered. It seemed that a memory was indeed surfacing. She waited a moment before continuing. "I do their Annual Masters Retrospective."

The tension again grew around the table, but this time, it was in anticipation of what Neal might be remembering.

"I had a friend there," he began tentatively, lowering his still laden utensil. "Who owed me a favor."

"It must have been a big one," Elizabeth said lightly, even though the moment was anything but. "That contract was impossible to get, and yet you did it."

"I think his name was Edmund," he said, his voice almost faint. Peter did his best not to look surprised or let his very real curiosity show. He'd never considered that, as Neal began to remember his past, there might be nuggets of information previously uncovered. Nuggets that, not realizing he didn't already know, Neal might inadvertently share. "And I think..." Again, Neal hesitated. "It had something to do with an alarm system." Now, he turned a questioning look on him. "Does that sound like something we would have done?"

We, as in White Collar. At that moment, Peter realized he didn't want to know how Neal had helped Edmund with an alarm system. "We do test out security systems from time to time." But he still had to ask. "Can you remember any particulars?"

"Not really," he answered. "I just had an image of Edmund and me at a security station, explaining why the system wasn't working."

"At the Channing Museum?" Peter asked, feeling Elizabeth's warning gaze land on his face. Using Neal's condition to gather intel was underhanded, and she knew it; he knew it, too.

After a tense moment of concentration, Neal's expression suddenly cleared. "I don't know," he said, directing his attention back to his dinner. "Maybe. It was just a flash."

"That's okay," Elizabeth assured him, with another warning glance in his direction. "Bit by bit, your memories are starting to return. Just like my dad said, the more you are around familiar things, the more likely you are to recover. So," she sent Neal her brightest smile. "When you came back that day from the Art shop, what did you paint?"

"The view from the window upstairs," Neal supplied. "And I enjoyed it so much. While I was painting, I forgot I'd forgotten." A small smile touched his lips. "At least for a few hours."

Peter thought back to the notebook Neal kept by his bed and how many times he'd tried to write out his fears, worries, and doubts before giving up and choosing to paint instead. Painting was his escape, how he lifted the weight of his worries. Peter had always believed that Neal had honed his painting skills to aid his cons, but he now realized painting was much more than that. Now, the irritation Neal had always shown when he'd demanded to see whatever he was hiding beneath the sheet in his apartment made more sense. Painting was Neal's escape, what he did when he wanted to forget the things he wanted to forget. It was very private and personal, and how Neal, tethered to a 2-mile radius, found freedom.

This new understanding made Peter see Neal's passion for painting in an entirely different way. "Painting sets you free."

Neal held his eyes a moment. "Yes," he nodded solemnly. "I guess it does."

WCWCWCWC

It had been nearly ten when the Burkes had returned to their hotel, and he'd made his way up to his room just as the cleaning crew finished for the night. It was almost too much for him to process, but he still sat down at his desk and opened the spiral notebook. After so many months, habit dictated the first thing he jotted down was what he was feeling.

Relieved. Cared about. Excited.

But there had also been several moments of tension, looks exchanged, that told him the Burkes were concerned about something. He didn't feel like they were trying to deceive him; it seemed more that they didn't want to shock or scare him. They were taking things slowly, letting him remember on his own. That had been, he gathered, the advice given when they'd called the Psychologist/Psychologist before coming to see him. True to the man in his dreams, Peter was trying to protect him. As much as that comforted him, it also worried him—knowing there was something out there he didn't remember that he needed protecting from.

He had the distinct feeling there was more to his former life than the simple picture they had painted for him and his memory about the alarm system...well, something was not right there. A stripped wire had caused a short, and he and Edmund had assured the security supervisor they'd determined the problem. Mice. However, he remembered stripping that wire and sprinkling evidence from a small baggy around the site. He hadn't shared that recovered memory, but somehow, he felt like Peter wouldn't have been surprised. In fact, there had been a moment when John felt like he...well, suspected something.

That thought caused his heart to speed up and the familiar panic to start rising, but instead of slamming the notebook closed and heading downstairs, he tried to stick it out. He moved from how he was feeling to what he'd learned.

His name was Neal Caffrey. He lived in an apartment in New York City. He concentrated, replaying the conversation over in his mind. He rented from June Ellington, the woman who loved him like a son. He closed his eyes, and the vision of a well-dressed black lady with a sad look filled his mind. She was holding...men's suits?

They belonged to my late husband, Byron...A Devore...He won from Sy himself...

That scene faded, and he was suddenly standing at an easel near large open doors overlooking a balcony. He was painting a cityscape—the New York skyline. Elizabeth was right; the lighting was perfect. This was where he lived. His home.

He let out a breath and enjoyed the warm feelings these memories had elicited for a moment before opening his eyes and returning to the task at hand.

What else had he learned? He worked with the FBI. He, Peter, and two others were part of a team. White Collar Division. He frowned, chewing the tip of his pen. White Collar crimes were crimes committed for financial gain. Fraud, embezzlement, money laundering. Maybe that explained his questionable skills and more questionable memories. He'd been working undercover, posing as a fence, when he'd been shot. So perhaps he'd been working undercover when he'd framed a rodent for disabling an alarm system.

But there was something else, something about his life, that the Burkes didn't want to tell him. Did it have something to do with Peter's urgency to have him checked out by both a medical and a head doctor?

The sooner we have a professional diagnosis, the better.

Why? Better for what? He would think there would be other, more important details to deal with first. After all, everyone had thought he'd been killed. And still thought that, he realized, recalling what Peter had said to him on the dock.

No one knows you are alive. I didn't report it.

He hadn't reported it? That was an odd way to phrase it. And there had been specifics. Agent Hughes and...Federal Marshalls?

Agent Hughes? Someone at the FBI. Peter's superior, maybe. He wasn't sure what Federal Marshals did. Handle Prisoner transports? Chase escaped fugitives? Arrange for Witness protection? Maybe the person who'd shot him was serving time, and his return would create a change in his legal situation. Maybe. All he knew was just the thought of Federal Marshalls caused an uneasy feeling to creep up his spine—apprehension, even fear.

if you want to stay here and be John Thomas, you can. We will go home and forget this ever happened. You can be free.

Peter had been emotional, and his words unfiltered.

You can be free.

Did that mean that, when he was Neal Caffrey in New York City, he wasn't free?

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

You can get me out of here...I can be released into your custody.

John woke suddenly, drenched in sweat despite the chill in the room. He'd been dreaming about Peter for weeks, but this was the first time he'd taken shape as an actual person. And where those dreams had been confusing and disjointed, this one had been clear. He was sitting at a metal table, and Peter, dressed in a suit, was sitting across from him, arms crossed, looking skeptical. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and trying to convince Peter to get him out of prison.

Prison. He'd been in prison.

He was telling Peter he could serve the rest of his time working for the FBI; he'd wear a tracking device on his leg.

His heart was hammering. Peter was Agent Peter Burke, but he was not Agent Neal Caffrey. He wasn't an agent; he was a criminal.

He'd been right about himself all along. He got up from the bed, and after several moments of furious pacing, he sat down at his desk and opened his notebook. Half an hour later, he felt calm. He'd made his decision. He gathered up his supplies and headed down to the Fish House. He'd made a promise to Tilly and he intended to keep it.

Chapter Text

"Did he seem a little quiet there at the end?" Peter asked, leaning against the doorframe.

They'd been back in their room for almost an hour, and though they agreed the meeting had gone as well as could be expected, Peter still had an uneasy feeling about how they'd left things.

Elizabeth had showered and now, her hair still wrapped in a towel, was doing her nightly skin care regiment in front of the bathroom mirror.

"I think it was a lot for him to take in," she replied, dabbing at the delicate skin beneath her eyes. "It will take time for him to process everything he learned today."

"Not to mention the things he remembered," Peter remarked. "I still wonder what the deal at the Channing Museum was all about."

She turned to look at him. "You can't use what he tells you against him, Peter," she scolded. "It isn't fair. He..." she hesitated before returning her attention to her task with a frown. Peter felt a tinge of guilt at putting her to cross purposes. "Trusts you. That's why he called you in the first place."

"I know that," Peter replied. "But it's hard when he's just...well, putting it out there. What am I supposed to do? Tell him not to tell me? Mirandize him?"

"Maybe you should," she said pointedly, irritation still marring her reflection. "If you plan to start digging around to find some crime to charge him with."

He looked at her in surprise. Sure, he was curious, but he wouldn't charge Neal with a crime. Well, he thought belatedly, unless it was a big one—something he couldn't ignore.

"I wouldn't do that, El," he assured her in spite of his silent caveat. "But I know there was more to it than what he told us." He remembered the moment when Neal's confused expression had transformed into a look of almost placidity. He'd seen it happen before: a mask come down, hiding him and whatever he felt. When it happened, it meant Neal was feeling anything but undisturbed. "He remembered something else, something he didn't tell us."

Something that had scared him. Peter had seen that, too. A fleeting look of alarm in his eyes in the moment between confusion and the blankness. He might not remember much about his past, but his instinct against self-incrimination was still in force.

"So he's acting more and more like our Neal every moment," Elizabeth mused with a quirk of her lips.

"I guess he is," he agreed, thinking back over the odd exchange. "I wonder who that Edmund fellow was?"

Elizabeth let out an exasperated huff. "Peter!" she scolded again, a frown once more crinkling the space between her pretty eyes. "You can't investigate what he tells you in his current state. Do not go back and start looking into crimes at the Channing; do not try to find out who Edmund is." Well, he'd not really planned the first, but the second had entered his mind. "It's betraying his trust," she reiterated.

Peter knew she was right; taking advantage of Neal's condition would be unfair and even unethical. But still, all potential past crimes aside, there were other things he wouldn't mind knowing. Before he dropped out of the sky as Neal Caffrey at 18 years old, there was no record of him anywhere—no juvenile records, no school records, no legal documents related to custody proceedings. Peter wasn't convinced his name was Neal Caffrey, and he wasn't convinced of his age, either.

"I'm just curious, that's all," he said. "You know I've spent years trying to find out who he was before he showed up on my radar. Where he came from. Who is family is."

"If you want to learn more about him so you can be a better friend to him, that's one thing," Elizabeth replied, fixing him with, if not a glare, a stern look. "If you just want leverage on him as his handler, that is something else altogether."

Peter let out a sigh. Why did things have to be so complicated? He wanted to be Neal's friend; that was why he was currently tucked away in his room above the Fish House instead of in a jail cell. But how did he separate out his motives when it came to learning about Neal's past? Did he think that knowledge would make it easier to handle Neal on the job? Of course, he did. But only because he'd better understand him, understand why he'd make the life choices he had. Understand how he had become the man he was.

But there was something else he wanted to understand, something that had nothing to do with the job—something much more personal. Why Neal had fixated on him outside that Manhattan Bank, why he'd gone to great lengths to impress him, sending pizza to the van and postcards through the mail, and why he'd wanted, maybe even needed, to form some kind of relationship with an FBI agent determined to arrest him. Elizabeth and he had discussed it occasionally, but her theories always made him uneasy. A difficult childhood, perhaps. An absentee father. Something that made him seek out a father figure, someone he could trust to have his best interest at heart. Something, by examining all facts in evidence, he did not have. The key to discovering the truth lay in Neal's past, something he guarded ferociously but might reveal in his current state.

If he got that information, how would he use it? To be a better friend or to be a better handler?

If he'd learned anything over the past months, it was that he missed Neal, his friend, not Neal, his asset. And no matter how he would spin it to his superiors, he'd not come to Jonesport as an agent trying to reacquire an escaped felon. He'd come thrilled at the prospect of finding a lost friend.

"I told him if he wanted to stay John Thomas, I'd let him," he blurted out. Given the emotional nature of his and Neal's exchange on the dock, he'd kept the details to a bare minimum when recounting it to Elizabeth. "And I meant it. Still mean it if he changes his mind."

God forbid Neal would, but a part of him worried that, after whatever he'd remembered tonight, he might just take him up on his offer.

Elizabeth's face beamed with approval, and she rushed to him, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm so proud of you," she said. "I know that it wouldn't be easy for you to keep such a secret, but it is so sweet of you to offer." She pulled back. "I think being shot in the line of duty, living all these months with no idea of who he is and where he'd come from, has more than paid any debt he owes for his past crimes."

Peter stared at her. She was right, of course. With a doctor to document his injuries, his journal recounting the psychological and emotional trauma that resulted, and a diagnosis from Elizabeth's dad, it just might work.

Maybe Neal didn't have to remain John Thomas to be free; maybe there was another way.

wcwcwc

After having breakfast, overlooking a much nicer view of the harbor, Peter and Elizabeth spent some time exploring the small village Neal had called home for the past five months. Touristy options were limited, especially given the time of year. Ultimately, they'd taken in a local Art Exhibit at the library and enjoyed a virtual tour of the village the local historical society offered. There had been a shop whose window display had drawn Elizabeth inside to browse its clothing selection. In the men's section, prominently displayed, was a fedora exactly like the one Neal had owned. It was a tad on the expensive side, but Elizabeth insisted they purchase it all the same. The clerk had boxed it up for them just after noon and recommended a cafe just down the block for them to grab lunch. They passed on the suggestions and opted to return to the Fish House instead.

Although they both liked seafood, the food choice wasn't their primary reason for the visit. They were interested in seeing if more had been added to the mural. Neal had claimed exhaustion as they'd departed the night before, but Peter felt his reserve was due to more than being tired. He and Elizabeth knew that painting was how he dealt with unresolved emotions. If the painting remained unchanged, then perhaps he'd rested well. If not, then Peter's fears about how they'd left things were not unfounded.

The polite but not overly friendly greeting they received, coupled with what seemed to be a now completed mural, gave Peter his answer. Neal had not rested well if he'd rested at all. Mrs. Devaine had taken their drink order when she'd seated them and had now returned with two glasses of tea.

"I guess our visit last night gave Ne-John," Elizabeth corrected, considering her audience. "A lot to process." She nodded at the mural. "He must have painted half the night."

"All night." Mrs. Devaine informed her tightly, placing their drinks on the table. "He was still painting when I came in to start breakfast." She frowned. "Even as tired as he was," she continued, eyes now on the mural across the dining room, "he was agitated and unsettled. I haven't seen him like that in months." The eyes that now settled first on Elizabeth and then shifted to him were almost accusatory. "A lot to process, indeed. Are you ready to order?"

After a silent moment, Elizabeth mitigated the tension. "Yes," she stated with an enthusiasm Peter knew to be false. "We'll both have the Baked Haddock." Elizabeth took hers with grilled vegetables, and Peter did au gratin because, face it, everything was better with cheese. "We aren't here to hurt him, Mrs. Devaine, or cause him trouble," Elizabeth said as she handed over her menu. "And we aren't here to force him into anything." Here, she looked at him. "Isn't that right, Peter?"

He'd said it to Neal. He'd said it to Elizabeth. And now Elizabeth was making him say it to a third person. "That's right," he agreed, offering up the menu with the promise. "We're here to give him information. At the end of the day, it's his choice of what to do with it."

"He's already decided what he's going to do," her voice wavered. "That's why he worked all night to finish his painting. He's leaving Jonesport."

Peter wasn't sure if it was good news or bad news. Was he Leaving Jonesport to return to his life or to escape it?

The night spent painting instead of sleeping and Mrs. Devaine's comment about his agitation did not bode well for Neal's state of mind. He might have remembered more once they'd parted, things that made returning to his former life less pleasant than, perhaps, they'd led him to believe. Neal's instinct to run, just like the one against incriminating himself, was still alive and well in him despite his memory loss. There was a chance he could get Neal released from parole and free him from the agreement with the Bureau, but he couldn't guarantee it. And he couldn't exactly call in to test the waters beforehand. Still, he wanted to discuss the possibility with Neal.

"I'm sure he plans to let us know when he gets in this evening," Peter said, determined to be waiting when the fishing boat docked to insure the conversation happened.

"But he didn't go out on the Mariner today," Mrs. Devaine informed them. "He apologized to the Captain for leaving him short, but said he'd made his decision and it was important he not delay."

Important he not delay? He shared a look of alarm with his wife.

Neal hadn't gone out on the boat this morning; if he'd decided to run, he was already long gone.

Peter's heart began to pound. "Where did he go? Did he tell you?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but the desperation was palpable. He had been willing to let Neal stay in Jonesport under a different identity, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing him altogether. It had nothing to do with his job and everything to do with their friendship.

Mrs. Devaine gave him an odd look before answering. "He didn't leave," she answered. "At least not yet. I made him eat and then I sent him straight to bed."

Peter let out a sigh of relief, the tension easing out of his body, and felt Elizabeth do the same. He'd not lost Neal, not yet. And he wouldn't take the chance of him running off before they had another talk.

"Go ahead without me," he told Elizabeth, getting to his feet. "I'll be back in a minute. I want to go make sure he's okay."

Elizabeth's expression told him she understood the part he hadn't said out loud.

And that he is, in fact, where Mrs. Devaine thinks he is.

Chapter Text

A pounding noise jolted John from a deep, dreamless sleep and the sunlight streaming in the windows—such an unusual sight given his daylight to dark schedule most days—caused him a moment of confusion before the events of the night and subsequent morning came back to him.

Before he'd descended the metal stairs and painted until morning, he'd written furiously in the spiral notebook. He didn't know why he still wrote in the damn thing, just that over the past months, it had become his dumping ground, the place he expelled all the feelings he didn't know what else to do with. And after the dream he'd had, he'd had a lot of them. He had feared he wasn't a good guy, and the dream and memories had verified it. The truth about himself, who he had been, who he was, had been hard to face. He was a convicted criminal serving out a prison sentence working for the FBI. The comment Peter made about not reporting to the Federal Marshalls made much more sense now. And so did Peter's insistence that he get a professional diagnosis. Since he wasn't actually dead, he was an escaped prisoner. Had he been wearing the ankle device when the Wynn's had found him? Had they removed and disposed of it? No, he'd been undercover, and a GPS strapped to his leg wouldn't have inspired trust in his mark. The watch, maybe? Peter said he'd heard the whole thing, so he'd been wired somehow. Peter wanted him to see doctors and get a diagnosis because he wanted to protect him from any possible reprisal. Peter looked after him and kept him safe. That was what he'd felt in his dreams, why he'd believed finding Peter was his way to fix whatever was wrong.

Sometimes, his writing took on a life of its own, and he'd be surprised to see what came flowing out of him. That happened as he wrote; it began full of anger, fear, and disappointment, but his focus shifted when he thought about how Peter was trying to protect him.

The joy the Burkes had expressed at seeing him was real. The warmth in Elizabeth's eyes was heartfelt. Peter's emotional greeting was genuine, as were his words on the dock. He had been willing to set him free, to leave Neal Caffrey dead, if that was what he wanted. However, things had begun with them; whatever their arrangement had been, their relationship had grown and changed. He wasn't just a criminal serving time working for Peter Burke.

He had dinner with the Burke family. He and Elizabeth discussed art. Did FBI agents generally invite criminals over for dinner? Did they introduce them to their wives? Elizabeth knew his apartment had great lighting. She'd seen it, so theoretically, the Burkes visited him as well. Was that the usual procedure between agents and their assets? He didn't think so.

Elizabeth knew June enough to know she loved him like a son and that he had a long-time friend named Mozzie. The memory of a bespeckled bald man flashed in his mind. A chessboard and a glass of wine. Mozzie referred to Elizabeth as Mrs. Suit and Peter as Mr. Suit. The former respectfully, the latter, well not so much. A lifelong friend meant Mozzie was likely aware of his criminal activities. Not just aware, he realized, but a part. And the Burke's knew about him, too.

White Collar investigated nonviolent crimes, and the skills he had told him that were the crimes he'd been convicted of committing. Was the arrangement they'd agreed to a common practice? He doubted it since he had been the one to pitch the idea to Peter; he remembered bits of that exchange. He'd suggested he wear a tracking device. Tamperproof. Never been skipped on. And Peter had responded, "There's a first time for everything." But in the end, Peter had capitulated and made him part of his team. Aaccording to Elizabeth, a team that had been devastated at his loss.

No matter what mistakes he'd made in the past or how he'd felt since he'd woke up on the Wynn's boat, he was not alone. He had a place where he belonged and people who seemed to care about him. He knew that was special, something that had been missing in his life. Again, he didn't remember the specifics, but he knew he'd spent most of his life on his own. Alone and with no one looking after him or caring about what happened to him. So it only stood to reason, he'd learned to take care of himself by any means necessary. Unfortunately, it seemed the means he'd settled on were criminal ones.

But despite the warm feeling those realizations had caused to well up within him, there was something else that lurked about in the back of his mind and perhaps even heart. Something that caused a sense of urgency, not to see doctors but to get back to that life sooner rather than later. Many times over the past months, the days and hours leading up to the meeting with Peter, and especially when he remembered the truth about his situation in New York, he'd felt the overwhelming desire to run, to escape. He'd wanted to go even though he had nowhere to go and no one to run to. It was a desperate, instinctive urge, and he knew enough about fight, flight, or freeze to realize that was his response to stress and negative emotions.

When he felt scared, he ran. When he felt uncertain, he ran. When he felt overwhelmed, he ran.

Just like he knew he wasn't a rule follower by nature, he knew he absolutely was a runner, and that he'd been running all of his life.

But he didn't want to run anymore. He didn't want to lose something he knew he'd wanted his entire life but hadn't been able to achieve. It had taken being forced to wear a tracking device for him to stick around long enough to develop ties and relationships. With Peter. Elizabeth. June. No matter how things had started out, no matter what he'd hoped to accomplish with the arrangement he'd pitched to Peter, he knew what he'd gained:

Neal Caffrey had a home, a job he was good at, and people who cared about him. Things he wasn't willing to lose, instinct be damned.

The pounding resumed; someone was at his door.

"I swear to God, Neal Caffrey, you better be in there," It was Peter Burke, his tone irate and oddly familiar. "If you've gone and done something stupid-"

Neal jerked open the door just as Peter's fist was about to unleash another bout of banging.

"What the hell, Peter?" he asked, squinting in the bright light of day. Judging from the sun's position, it was well past midday. "Is the building on fire or something?"

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

He gently knocked on Neal's door and waited for a response. When he heard nothing, he knocked a little harder and put his ear up to the door to see if he could hear any movement. The silence made him increasingly anxious. What if he was too late? What if Neal had already left? Even if Neal had changed his mind, there was no reason for him to leave without saying goodbye. After all, he had promised Neal that he wouldn't make him go back.

But it was possible that if Neal had remembered more about his past and their relationship, he would question whether he could actually keep his promise.

The third time he banged on the door, he banged hard, desperation driving both his thoughts and his fist.

"I swear to God, Neal," he growled, "you better be in there." What would he do if he wasn't? Try to find him? "If you've gone and done something stupid-"

The door opened just as he was poised for yet another banging, halting both his words and his movement. Neal stood there, disheveled and still half asleep. Peter's relief left him almost weak in the knees; his arm dropped.

"What the hell, Peter?" The bleary-eyed Neal mumbled. "Is the building on fire or something?'

"No, nothing's wrong." Confronted with a very present Neal, Peter felt a bit like a fool. He realized patrons coming and going from downstairs probably thought he was a menace, and he was half surprised no one had accosted him about his bizarre behavior. "I just thought..." he paused, then redirected. "Mrs. Devaine said..." Again, he stopped, unsure of what to say. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

That was true enough, although the first priority had been to determine his location. Which was just as Mrs. Devaine had said: in the bed, asleep.

"You thought I was gone." Neal's voice was soft, his eyes thoughtful. "That I'd run away."

He'd tried to tip-toe around it, but Neal waded right in. Neal direct. That was different.

"Yeah," Peter admitted, willing to be direct as well. "I thought you might have changed your mind. Mrs. Devaine said you didn't go out this morning, that you said you needed to leave." He shrugged. "I was scared you'd left without saying goodbye."

Neal frowned, then stepped aside and waved him in. "I wouldn't do that," he said, shutting the door. Wouldn't do what? Peter wondered. Change his mind or leave without saying goodbye? "I would have been a liability on the water today," Neal continued as they moved through the short hall into the living quarters. "I woke about one and couldn't go back to sleep. I thought I'd paint for a while. I finished the mural at about 5. What time is it now?"

"It's almost two. What woke you up?" He thought he knew the answer and dared not let his eyes wander to the desk.

"Wow, I slept almost 8 hours," Neal replied. So much for being direct. "So you talked to Tilly?"

"Yeah, Peter said, "We came for lunch and saw you'd finished the painting. Mrs. Devaine said you did it because you planned to leave Jonesport—like fast."

"And you thought that meant I was going to skip town without telling you." It wasn't a question, and he had, in fact, just told him as much. "Is that why you were yelling at me about doing something stupid?"

"Like I said," Peter began, feeling heat creep up his neck at the reminder of his recent behavior. "I was afraid you'd changed your mind and had left."

"So, do I do stupid stuff often?"

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "Well, often enough, but generally, when you do stupid stuff, you have good intentions. So was she right?" he asked, needing to know whether Neal was coming home or disappearing again. "Have you decided to leave Jonesport?"

Neal replied but didn't answer. "We can talk about it over a late lunch," he said. "You head on down. I'll get dressed and join you in half an hour."

The doubt that still lurked must have shown on his face.

"Relax, Peter," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise I'll see you and Elizabeth downstairs."

WCWCWCWCWCWC

True to his word, he strolled through the door of the Fish House precisely half an hour later. To their great surprise, he was clean-shaven and looked very much like the Neal Caffrey they knew and loved—except for the wardrobe, of course—which the Neal Caffrey they knew wouldn't have been caught dead in. The irony of that almost made Peter laugh.

"You shaved," he observed as Neal approached them. He wondered what had motivated Neal to do so and also where he'd stashed a razor; it certainly hadn't been in his bathroom. But that was neither here nor there.

Neal looked sheepish. "Well, I figured if I was returning to my old life, I might as well look like my old self."

Returning to his old life. Peter couldn't stop the grin on his face. He'd hoped and hoped, but he still feared—and still did, truth be told. There were things he needed to discuss with Neal before he made his final decision. If he didn't return, he could still be free as John Thomas. But if he did go back and then changed his mind, well, that would be a different story.

As soon as they were seated, Neal ordered, and Elizabeth told the server that she and Peter were ready for theirs. Then Peter got right to the matter he'd dreaded since almost the beginning: telling Neal the truth about his situation in New York.

"Listen, Neal," he said, leaning forward. "There are some things you need to know. I want you to come back, but I don't want you to feel like I've tricked or betrayed you by keeping things from you." Neal's gaze was steady; he gave a nod, and Peter continued. "You and I do work together," he said, "and you are an important part of my team, but," here he hesitated. There was no way to make it easy. "It's kind of complicated."

"I wear ankle jewelry." Peter stared at the clean-shaven man across from him in disbelief. "So," Neal continued, leaning back in his seat. "How much longer do I have? On my sentence?"

Peter was speechless, but Elizabeth was not. "You remember!" she exclaimed. "Have you gotten your memory back?"

He shook his head. "No, but I'm getting bits and pieces of people and things. And last night," His blue eyes turned back to Peter. "I dreamed I was sitting across from you, trying to talk you into getting me out of prison."

But it wasn't a dream. "That happened, Neal."

"Yeah, I know," Neal replied. "I realized it wasn't just a dream—that it was more. I told you I'd serve my sentence working for you and that there was a new tracking device out there that was tamperproof; had never been skipped on." And there it was, the twinkle of mischief Peter hadn't seen in months—something he'd thought never to see again. "You remember what you said to me?"

Peter couldn't believe, one, that Neal had remembered and was still here, and two, that he seemed completely at ease with the development. His laugh was as much relief as humor. "Yeah, I said there's a first time for everything."

"But you got me out anyway, didn't you?" His eyes and tone had softened. "And now I work for you. How much longer do I have on my sentence?" he asked again.

"A little over two years," Peter told him. "But I have an idea about that."

Their plate arrived, and as they ate, Peter reviewed what Elizabeth had said and what he thought might work. He'd do everything in his power to get Neal pardoned, but he couldn't make any promises.

"I understand," Neal said. I don't need any promises. No life is perfect, but it seems like..." he hesitated. "I think I've got something there I've always wanted. You said before I never talked about my family. I think it's because...because I don't have one."

Elizabeth leaned forward, placing her hand on his arm. "You do have one, Neal. You have us, June, Mozzie..."

"I believe that," Neal whispered. That's why I want to go back, whether I have to wear a tracking device or not. If it's where I want to be, what difference does it make?"

Peter could hardly believe his ears; it seemed so unlike Neal. But then he remembered what Elizabeth's father had said about people without past experiences to draw upon, reverted to who they were at their core.

At his core, Neal wanted a family. He'd hoped to make one with Kate and had been willing to do anything to get it. And that chance had disappeared in a fiery explosion.

"Well," Elizabeth said. "I have a gift for you to honor your miraculous return from the great beyond." She reached below the table and removed a box from the shopping bags she'd stored there. She handed it to Neal.

He opened the box and took out a Fedora. He examined it closely, turning it over in his hands.

"Do I like hats?" he asked, looking at them questioningly.

Elizabeth smiled warmly and replied, "Well, try it on and see."

Neal seemed unsure at first, but then he quickly flipped it up and onto his head—a move they had seen him do many times before. His face immediately lit up with delight.

"I do like hats," he grinned but then it faded immediately. "I sure hope you guys didn't get rid of my clothes," he said. "This would look really good with my Devore."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Neal was gone; he'd lost him.

Peter startled awake. This recurring dream always left him feeling anxious and heartbroken, and it took him a second to realize where he was. Elizabeth, who was sitting next to him, was reading a magazine, and on his other side, hat pulled down over his eyes, was Neal, sound asleep. They were on their way home.

Neal was no longer lost; he had been found.