A/N: A deviation from my normal style. Contains general spoilers for everything up until the season two finale. Special thanks to Anonamus-A for being super awesome and beta reading! =) Enjoy!
Neal sat looking out the window of the silver coach car. The lush fields of corn and bright blue sky were calling for him to jump ship, to abort his mission, and to just start a new life in the Mid-West. After all, that was the last place Peter would be looking for him. But if he did that, Saunders and his men would go after Jones again. Or Diana. Or June. Or Elle. Or Peter. He couldn't bear that thought, and so he just looked away, down at his feet, trying to suppress the vivid memories of the terrible weeks that had past and trying not to think too much about the consequences of his decision to meet with Saunders.
It had started as a normal case: prized art piece turns out to be a forgery, find the forger. It was all so simple. So clean cut. They solved it and moved on. Until another similar case emerged, leading them to a different forger. And a week later, another. In the course of one month, Neal and Peter had effectively caught over six well esteemed art forgers in the city, many of which Neal had been friends with in his former life. And then, when all seemed to have returned to normal, they took her. Neal and Peter were in the living room, and she was in the basement looking for a photo album to show Neal, and they took her. Neal didn't even hear her scream.
Three agonizing days, and finally, she came home again, unable to remember a thing about what had happened. Neal stayed with her when Peter couldn't. It was late one night when he came home to a distraught wrinkled pug and a note on the door indicating June had been taken too. Remorse started to set in. It was a subsequent week of leads to dead ends, until as abruptly as she had left, June returned, without a memory of the past week.
Fearing another kidnapping, Neal and Peter visited each one of the convicted art forgers. After grueling hours of questioning and interrogation, the final felon gave a name. It sent chills down Neal's spine because he knew the man. Saunders. But he didn't say a word. And two days after they got the name, Diana disappeared. And then Jones. Fearing for Peter, Neal didn't sleep. He stayed awake at the Burke's for three straight nights, fingers clasped so tightly in Satchmo's fur that he always walked away the next morning with golden hair gracing each of his slender fingers. All the while, he felt torn and deeply guilt-ridden that he couldn't bi-locate to protect June as well. Diana returned. Jones returned. And they could not remember.
It was another week before they found a lead, and a day before they had tracked it to an art dealer in one of the worst parts of the city. They sat in the van. Watching. Waiting.
Neal knew how dangerous Saunders was. The scar on his right shoulder was proof of how dangerous Saunders was. The nights spent awake and the days spent in paranoia before Peter rescued him, unaware, and threw him into jail, were proof. But he didn't say a word; he was too scared. He had tried for so long to filter this part of Neal Caffrey from his memory that he couldn't admit he had once been a part of this. And when Saunders appeared, and Peter and Diana and Jones busted out of the van, guns drawn, he didn't move. Even when he heard the gunshots, he struggled to lift his feet. In slow motion he ran to Peter, who had fallen to the cold pavement. For an eternity Peter gasped on the ground, and Neal couldn't process what was happening. He couldn't help. Finally, Peter calmed, and Neal briefly slipped into despair, until he noticed no blood. He lifted Peter's jacket to find a bulletproof vest, and he never appreciated the federal agents' stronghold on policies and dress code more than he did in that moment. But when Saunders' deathly black eyes met Neal's crystal ones, the recognition and memories were painted clear on the young man's face. You knew him, Peter had whispered, still hoarse from the adrenaline, but the betrayal was evident in his eyes. And Neal couldn't deny it.
Neal now knew what was happening. Saunders hired men who were forgers to get caught and bring him to Neal. He must have known someone on the inside who could get them out. But the whole thing was a trap he had set for Neal, and by toying with the first people Neal had dared to call friends, even family, he had reached Neal's last straw. Neal hoped it was over when the next few days brought no excitement, but was disheartened when Peter began receiving cryptic text messages indicating he wouldn't live past the weekend. And Neal knew Saunders didn't lie.
So the conman cut a deal with Saunders. Meet me in Chicago, Neal had offered, and Saunders accepted. He picked Chicago for no special reason other than it was as far away from Peter as a one day trip on Amtrak could take him. He bought his ticket. The morning of his departure, Neal broke into the Burke's house while they were sleeping and stole his anklet key. While he hated to be so dishonest, he couldn't afford to wear it because Peter would track him, and if he cut it, his partner would be notified immediately. He still would have had time to catch up and change Neal's mind. Peter was always so good at that.
And so Satchmo was the only one who received a goodbye, and as Neal pulled the Burke's door shut behind him, he could have sworn he could read the pleas in the dog's eyes for him to stay. Once home, Neal unlocked the anklet and attached it to the pug, and left everyone's lives as quickly as he had come. He boarded the train in the dark, and the morning stars were still weeping tears of dew on the grass. His seat was dull black leather, appropriately dressed for the solemn occasion. The train set out for Chicago, and Neal watched the city skyline fade away along the infinite horizon, wondering if he too would soon become just a tiny speck in the vast expanse of his friends' lives. He drifted to sleep uneasily, woken by every jolt and rock of the train.
It wasn't until Indianapolis that fear set in. Realizing he was almost there, he began to wonder if he had made his decision too quickly. Meeting Saunders anywhere was equivalent to a blackjack game for your life, and meeting Saunders when you have a past like Neal's was a veritable death march. Neal could have stolen Peter's gun, but why bother? It shows no class to kill, and Neal wanted to go out respectably if he was going out at all. He started trembling and sweating. A hostess asked if he needed an aspirin, which he refused. His heart threatened to leave through his mouth, and more than once he was glad he hadn't eaten anything that day. He thought back on his time in the great city. He remembered earning his first dollars in a city street game, and the surprised look on Mozzie's face, framed by a tuft of hair too sunny to be his natural color. He remembered the hues of ocean and sky that blended together in Kate's eyes as she teased the sheets from him the morning after she chose him over her boyfriend. He remembered the nights with Alex, and the guilt he felt for letting her down time and time again. He remembered a green sucker, an orange jumpsuit, and felt the rub of the anklet as he saw sky for the first time in a long time. He remembered looking up and seeing Peter. Peter. He remembered Peter. He remembered Peter when he was mad, for dumb things like Neal's upgraded apartment, and for logical things, like Fowler tapping his house. He remembered Peter's jabs about prison, and he tasted the bitter sting of the cheap wine the night Peter laid his badge down. He saw the fear in Peter's eyes that matched the fear in Neal's heart as the clock ticked, and smelt the mold of a submarine sunk in the water too long. He relished in the acceptance of Peter's sincere dubbing of the title of partner, and laughed at Peter's corny choice in the dubbing of the title of James Bonds. And all at once he realized he was right where he needed to be, because he owed Peter his life in so many different ways. He would give Saunders what he wanted, anything to keep him from hurting the people he loved. And as the train pulled into Chicago, Neal stepped off briskly and tall, ready to face whatever it was that Saunders had to say.
His fedora threatened to depart in the wind, so with a hand on his head, Neal walked down the street. He pulled out a map and found his way to Buckingham Fountain, a strangely serene stage to set the exchange that was about to unfold. He looked up trying to find the stars he had left early that morning in New York City, but this night offered no such consolation. He sat on the ledge of the fountain, and the cool spray kissed his skin. If he could just forget it all, it would be a perfect evening. Neal laughed to himself. How many times had he wished for that in his past? If he could just forget his deal with Mozzie, he could keep his job and be with Kate. If he could just forget the chain on his ankle, he could leave and find her. If he could just forget the fire and the smoke, the smell of burning metal and the sound of his own scream, he could go back to being an efficient partner. If he could just forget Neal Caffrey, he could be Vic Moreau, or Steve Tabernacle, or Nick Halden and live a free life. But that was precisely the predicament. He was not Nick Halden. He was not Steve Tabernacle, and he was not Vic Moreau. He was Neal Caffrey, and that was why he was standing alone in the dark inside of a city park after fleeing twenty hours from the ones he loved, waiting for someone he hated. Because he was Neal Caffrey. While his aliases were untethered, Neal Caffrey was bound by something much stronger than a GPS enabled piece of plastic on his ankle.
A lone figure approached in the dark, and Neal stood up to meet him. Slowly, Saunders' jagged features came into clear view, and Neal was aware that there was no turning back now. A few words were exchanged, and Neal waited for him to make his next move. For a moment he thought he might have been the receiver of a miracle, but then Saunders raised from his pocket a gun. Except it wasn't pointed at Neal. It was pointed just off his shoulder, and even as Saunders held Neal's gaze, his eyes dared him to turn and see what was behind him. Neal lifted his hands in front of him, and with one eye not daring to leave Saunders, Neal turned slowly. His heart lodged in his throat at what he saw, and the steady confident blue glare quickly melted into a desperately terrified silent plea. Behind him stood Mozzie, trying his best to be tall and burly, and beside him solidly stood Peter Burke, the very man Neal was trying to protect. A shot rang out, and Peter's eyes followed the descent of Neal's, two blue oceans begging for forgiveness. A second shot erupted, and then Peter holstered his gun and fell forward to his friend. Mozzie rushed forward too, and as they stared into the closing eyes of the young man, both realized that reformation wasn't just an abstract hope that one used to justify bringing the world's most intelligent conman to work under the FBI. Or maybe it was, and Neal wasn't the one that needed to be reformed. Maybe in the midst of all this, Neal had it right when it mattered, and by believing he was just the world's most intelligent conman, they were actually conning themselves.