I'm sorry Peter.

Try as he might, Peter Burke could not get Neal's last words out of his head. He knew it would happen sooner or later. After all, Neal Caffery did not like being caged. And as hard as it was for him to admit it, the FBI was a cage. Hell, for Neal the entire damn world was a cage.

Peter kept playing the moment over and over again in his head. What choices had he made wrong? What could he have done to keep Neal here and safe?

He knew the answers. His every move was by the book, and Caffery would have left anyway. Without the promise of finding Kate again, there was nothing keeping him here. There was nothing stopping him from packing up and doing what Neal did best: getting what he wanted.

I'm sorry Peter.

Caffery's words did nothing to ease Peter's fears. He knew Neal that there was every chance Neal would be caught again. And if that happened. . . Peter didn't even want to think about it. Neal would not survive in prison again. He would kill himself, or worse, he would escape.

There had to be something he could do. Anything.

But the only thing Peter could think of, well, he knew it wasn't a good idea. But there wasn't another choice. He had two options: left Neal go, or call Michael. No good would come of either.

He had to try, though. Sighing, Peter pulled his phone out and punched in a number he hadn't called in years.

Sam Axe loved to drink. Really, he had made an art out of it. Drinking without getting drunk took talent. It was a talent Sam prided himself on.

But the thing with drinking with Mike was that good old Mikey didn't care whether or not Sam was drunk. He cared whether or not Sam could get the job done. So, all of this talent went to waste.

Until a job was over. Then it was time for celebration, and Michael Westen could drink with the best of 'em.

Both Sam and Mike had already drank enough to be sufficently tipsy. Tipsy enough to swap storied, something they usually avoided doing, due to the secretive nature of their pasts. But today was an exception.

"This guy, he's amazing, Mikey. I mean even Fiona would be proud." Sam said, leaning in toward Mike as if sharing a secret. Michael, even slightly drunk looked picture perfect. There wasn't a spot on his tan Armani suit. Sam, on the other hand, was wearing a well worn in Hawiian-style shirt.

"What did you say his name was?" Mike asked. His voice had taken on that quality it got when he was gathering information. Sam got the feeling that Mike knew more than he was letting on, and that he wasn't nearly as drunk as he seemed.

Sam covered his eyes and growned.

"You haven't had anything to drink all night, have you?" He demanded, finally catching on to what Mike was doing.

"Why am I being interigated? Why is Neal Caffery so important to you?" Sam continued, his anger sobering him.

"Let's just say he owes me a favor." A smooth voice interjected, as said man walked up to the table. Sam looked up at the thin man with boyish black hair.

"You're really him, aren't you?" He asked of the man.

"If you mean to ask if I am in fact Neal Caffery, then the answer is yes." Neal answered.

"I don't owe you a favor Neal." Michael said, before Neal could say something smart-ass.

"Did you really so all those things they said you did?" Sam asked, unfazed by Mike's interuption.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Axe." Caffery answered, spinning a black hat before placing it on his head.

"Yeah Neal. I'm sure you don't. Now why don't you tell me why Peter sent you to me?" Michael demanded, his voice even yet threatening.

"Is Sam drunk?" He asked instead of sitting down on the chair Mike offered.

"He could shoot out a lighbulp from three hundred yards with the ammount he drank." Came the answer. That seemed to satisfy Neal. He sat down and began telling the men his story.