Conflicted

Conflicted. Here he was, with access to the greatest treasure pretty much anyone had ever seen, and he couldn't enjoy it for an instant. His life had become a nightmare (well, except for Sara) ever since he'd found that key and that note ... no, even before then, when Peter had accused him.

He'd been royally pissed at Peter when he'd accused him: he hadn't done anything—nearly gotten himself killed, even, in refusing Adler's offer. Peter, who always demanded proof, had accused him without a shred of evidence.

Except that there had been evidence. It must have felt like such a betrayal, seeing that scrap of his painting when he'd just saved Neal's life, just killed a human being—from the back, with no warning—for Neal's sake.

Neal's own sense of betrayal had been real at the time, of course. He hadn't known anything; he hadn't done anything wrong. Shockingly, perhaps, he hadn't even thought about doing anything.

But Moz had. Without breathing a word to Neal, he'd found and moved the treasure, taken all of Neal's paintings (and some of them he'd been quite fond of, dammit), rigged the explosives, made sure there'd be witnesses but no casualties when the explosives went off; Neal had to admire the planning and coordination it had taken to pull the whole thing off.

But he hadn't told Neal. Hadn't asked for his help. Hadn't given him a choice.

He'd had no choice. Moz had chosen for him. And though it had taken a long time to admit it to himself, Neal's sense of betrayal at this was worse than what he'd felt when he'd thought that Peter had betrayed him.

Neal didn't want to run. He'd told Peter this back when ... after Kate. He hadn't lied; he didn't lie to Peter, not directly. Neal's life now (well, before) was relatively stress-free, compared to his life as a wanted criminal, and especially compared to his life in prison. He enjoyed solving cases, catching "bad guys". Peter treated him better than he'd ever dared hope when he'd proposed this arrangement—he'd expected Agent Rice-like treatment, had been prepared to submit to it (OK, put up with it), but instead he now had a partnership and a friendship.

So, yes, he liked his life, despite the anklet and the radius. And because he was forever on the FBI's radar, the only way to keep his life was to stay on the (mostly) straight and (nearly) narrow. Peter allowed him minor transgressions, enough to satisfy his Mozziesque need to defy The Man— but he knew that any further major transgressions, Fowler-level stuff, would no longer be tolerated, with Adler dead and Kate no longer a mitigating factor.

Neal was beginning to play with the idea that after the four years and the anklet, he'd be able to get a permanent consulting arrangement with Peter, with a real salary, and benefits, and perks, and all the stuff Moz disdained. Because Neal couldn't risk going back to prison. And because Neal didn't think he'd be able to keep himself out of prison without Peter as a constant influence in his life.

Moz knew that Neal craved some stability in his life. They'd talked about the house, and the picket fence, and children, and all the things he couldn't have if he were on the run. And Moz had been convinced that Neal could never achieve any of these things, that Neal was enough like Moz to make it impossible.

But Moz must have seen some change in Neal that Neal himself wasn't even aware of. Maybe it was that Neal hadn't even thought about stealing the treasure; the old Neal pretty much thought about how to steal everything.

"Plausible deniability." That's how Moz had justified not telling Neal. And it had gotten Neal past Peter's initial reactions. A lie detector test! For five hours! And Neal hadn't needed to tell a single lie, or even misdirect or deflect. He didn't know what he would have done if Peter had asked him the right question, because Neal had never told a direct lie to Peter, and he didn't want to start.

But Peter hadn't asked the question, not in the whole five hours. And that was interesting in itself: it had been Sara's third question, so it wasn't like it wasn't an obvious followup. So why hadn't Peter asked it? Peter was a brilliant man, so he'd had to have thought of it. So there must have been some reason for Peter not to ask it, to not want to know the answer. Or maybe he was sure he already knew the answer, and didn't want to force Neal to lie to him; maybe if Neal had actively participated in stealing the loot, it would have been a Fowler-level transgression, but Peter could deal with him finding out about it after the fact. He'd have to think about this some more. Maybe telling Peter would be an option.

Moz must have been sure that Neal wouldn't really want an option like that. That once presented with the fait accompli of the treasure, that Neal would want to give up this life, living in The Suit's pocket; that they could go back to some semblance of their life together before Peter entered the picture. Except that Peter had been in Neal's life almost precisely the same amount of time that Moz had been; not in the same, day-to-day way, of course—Peter had started out as Ahab to Neal's Moby Dick (if Moby Dick had been smaller than Ahab and almost as smart, and a lot less dangerous; OK, the metaphor needed a lot of work).

But Ahab had landed his Moby Dick, and was now in the process of taming him, apparently (The Little Prince suddenly came to mind, but that would make make Neal the rose instead of the fox, and he'd always seen himself as the fox). But now Peter had become Neal's day-to-day companion, and Moz had become the source of all the stress in his life.

Neal hated playing the cat-and-mouse games with Peter. No, Neal loved playing cat-and-mouse games with Peter; he just hated being forced into these particular high-stakes cat-and-mouse games.

So now he was playing cat-and-mouse games with Moz. Of course he could have found a way to save Jones without compromising their escape, if he wanted to; he'd instantly come up with three fool-proof ways as soon as Jones had been taken. Of course he could come up with a new name, if he wanted to. Of course he could have Wally'd both Diana and Christie, if he wanted to.

If he wanted to. But he didn't. So now he was the mouse being batted back and forth between two cats. And it was unlikely to end well for the mouse. Unfortunately, he couldn't find any flaws in this metaphor.

Author's Note: Many thanks to AliWC for beta reading.