Chapter 1

It was 7:15 when Neal strode into the white collar division of the FBI. His hat was placed at an angle on his head and his eyes sparkled as he grinned at the people he knew. In his hands were two coffees from the expensive cafe down the street. He had grabbed a black coffee for Peter in hopes that it would cut off the rant he was sure to receive about being late for work. Hopefully, the overwhelming amount of caffeine in the drink would settle him enough for Neal to make his excuses. It wasn't as if he was that late anyway, only fifteen minutes. He had lost track of time while trying to decide which suit best worked for a Monday morning. Besides, what type of office, even the FBI, started the working day at seven? It meant that he had to wake up at six and had no time to sleep in, not that he had ever taken much pleasure from lying in bed all morning. Neal was the type of person that could never sit still for more than five seconds, that was, of course, unless he was painting or drawing in which cases he could work for hours not noticing the time pass.

His heart sank a little when he saw Peter give him the infamous two-fingered point summoning him up to the conference room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he wondered what he had done the warrant such a serious look this time. He hadn't stolen anything recently and his paintings - the ones he was sure Peter would consider forgeries if he caught sight of them - were never went farther than his storeroom. It couldn't be anything too bad then, nothing that would make Peter send him back to prison as he always threatened to. Neal hated those threats. The casual and often joking mention of nearly four horrible years of bars and cages that kept him from the freedom he needed to live. Neal hadn't told him, but he thought that Peter understood that he didn't think life was worth living without freedom - if Neal wasn't in control of his life, it wasn't his life. He had spent too many days, weeks, and years longing to be able to do and say what he wanted and he had eventually gotten that for a little while before it was again ripped from his grasp. He knew the exact number of days he had been free to go where he wanted. One thousand four hundred and sixty days without people watching his every move. Ironically, Peter had caught him four years to-the-day after he had run away from his father. The only difference was that when he had escaped his father's house, it had been 12:35 in the morning while Peter captured in at 12:02 in the afternoon. Eighty-six thousand four hundred and eleven hours and 45 minutes between the minute he stepped out of his father's house and when Peter locked the cold metal handcuffs around his wrists.

When Neal stepped into the conference room, he was surprised to see Jones and Diana had joined Peter around the table. They were all looking at something on the glass table in the middle of the room. It looked like it was a painting, but from where Neal was standing, he couldn't see what was on the canvas. Neal casually tossed his hat onto the table and took a seat, swinging his feet up to rest next to that expensive hat. All three of the FBI agents turned to look at him and none of them looked in the least bit amused or happy to see his usually infectious grin.

Peter had a stern expression on his face. "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" Neal asked, the smile on his face fading a bit but still radiating innocence, "Y'know, Peter, you can't really just blame everything that displeases you on me. I'll have you know that I am the reason that you have such a high success rate so…"

Neal's tirade about his usefulness and how much his help benefitted the agency was cut short when Peter slammed his hand down on the table, demanding his attention and alerting him to the seriousness of the situation. Peter looked down at the frameless painting that lay in front of him and slid it over to Neal.

"Did you do this, Neal? Did you paint this - make this forgery?"

Neal looked down at the canvas and saw a very familiar painting and he flinched back, his face losing all its color. Of course, it would be familiar - it was familiar to nearly everyone in the world, it was so famous. Before him lay what, at first glance, appeared to be Vincent van Gogh's painting The Starry Night. He knew the painting, everyone knew the painting, but it wasn't just the scene that he was familiar with. He knew every single brush stroke on that painting, he knew every color that swept across the canvas, the speed and feeling that was put into each and every detail was ingrained in his brain and why shouldn't it be? His hand had carefully layered those detailed, colorful strokes across the canvas. He was the one who had signed the painting, first with van Gogh's signature, then his own, hidden imperfectly in a blue swirl in the sky. Neal reached out and touched the painting, running his fingers over the camouflaged NC. He noticed that his hands were shaking over the painting and he pulled them back to his side.

"Peter, I promise, I can explain. This isn't what it looks like," Neal pushed back his chair and took a few hesitant steps away from the table, toward the door, "I just have to… I have to get out of here. I can't stay. I can't…"

The agents' furious expressions had faded away and were replaced with confusion and a little concern. This wasn't the reaction they were expecting. They thought that Neal would deny his involvement, try to con his way out of the trouble he had landed himself in, but they had never thought that he would look so… look so scared. Not even Peter had seen him like this, his face pale, running his shaking hands through his hair in agitation. It did pass through Peter's mind that this very act was the con, but Neal's cons never left him looking vulnerable. He always wanted to at least look in control. He didn't ever show pain or fear or weakness if he had a choice. This couldn't just be an act because Neal would never put on this act.

They weren't just about to let him walk out on them, though. They had just found a painting with his initials on it in the place of a very famous, very expensive, painting. There was no way that Neal wasn't involved. Peter moved to stand in front of the door, blocking Neal's exit.

"Look, Neal, we all know you painted this. Hell, you were stupid enough to sign it. I'm not about to let you walk out of here like nothing happened and with no explanation," Peter pushed Neal toward the seat he had occupied before, "Sit down and tell me everything. Don't dare leave even one thing out because we are in enough trouble already - the conman I took on as a CI just got caught committing another crime! On my watch! You're lucky I haven't already sent you back to prison."

Neal sat in the chair and pushed the painting away from him as if he couldn't bare to see it. Peter took it from him and inspected it, trying to see what had caused his friend so much distress. He didn't see anything that he hadn't before - the nearly perfect painting that was given away as a forgery only by Neal's signature. It didn't seem like Neal to be so careless and sign the painting in such an obvious place. He knew that Neal did like to sign his works of art, but he usually did so in a way that made it next to impossible to find. He never was this reckless with a signature. Peter was drawn out of his ponderings when Neal cleared his throat and looked up from his lap.

"I'll tell you what's happening, but first you have to tell me where you found that painting."

"It was leaned against the wall beneath the real Starry Night. The real painting hadn't been tampered with and it looks like they hadn't even tried to take it, just left this," Peter waved a hand at the offending painting, "and left. Nothing stolen, nothing broken. They broke into a heavily guarded museum that contains some of the most expensive pieces of art to leave this painting with your signature on it behind. Care to explain why?"

Neal ran a hand through his hair and hesitantly started talking. "It's… It's a threat, Peter. He's saying he knows where I am and that he can find me wherever I run. Not that I can run anymore with this thing," he glanced down at his ankle where the tracker fit snugly against his skin, "He'll do anything to get to me, Peter, I have to warn Mozzie - tell him to go underground. Elizabeth too. He's going to go after anyone he thinks I have the slightest connections to. He might even go after Satchmo, I can't really put anything past him…"

"Neal!" Peter cut into his rambling, "calm down. Is Elizabeth in danger?"

"I don't know, Peter. As I said, he'll go after everybody close to me."

"Why?"

"Because he thinks I stole from him."