Then – Neal

Adrenaline hummed through Neal's veins, making his palms sweat as he pressed them and his back firmly against the wall.

"Alex," he hissed.

He held still and strained to hear a response. Nothing. The panic in his gut rose a few notches. At least when he was working with the FBI, there was always back up around the corner. But at the moment he was off the clock.

"Alex," he said again, louder this time.

He started to duck around the corner, but froze when he heard footsteps. Not light, careful Alex-sized footsteps. Heavy, threatening footsteps of someone who didn't seem to care that Neal knew he was coming.

Neal froze in place. Barely breathed. Prayed for Alex to make her reappearance so they could get the hell out of there.

The owner of the footsteps appeared. A masked man with a large crowbar. He saw Neal a split second after Neal saw him. It was long enough for Neal's fight or flight to kick in, and he choose flight.

His last thought as the man tackled him to the ground and raised the crowbar over his head was that if this guy didn't kill him, Peter certainly would.

Now – Peter

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to look over the evidence again. The answer to the check fraud case is right in front of his face. It has to be. But he can't see it.

Neal would see it. Neal would have put the entire puzzle together while Peter was still trying to figure out which piece was an edge and which was a corner.

But Neal isn't here.

That's a big part of the problem. The longer Peter stares at the evidence reports, the more he wonders how things are going at home. Shoving the paperwork aside, he picks up the phone to call El. He has already dialed the first six digits and his finger is hovering over the seventh when he sighs and hangs up. They're trying to define a new normal. Peter calling multiple times a day when he's supposed to be working can't be normal.

The phone rings as soon as the handset is back on its base, making Peter jump. In the second before the caller ID registers, he hopes it's his wife, responding to some sixth sense that he needs to hear from her. But the number is unfamiliar.

"This is Peter Burke."

"Peter, this is Carlos Rodriguez with the U.S. Marshals."

Peter frowns at the phone. "How can I help you, Deputy Rodriguez?"

"My team and I would like to set up a meeting with you sometime this week."

His stomach clenches. "Regarding…?"

"Regarding Neal Caffrey."

Damn. "What about Neal?"

"I'd prefer we wait to discuss this in person."

"And I'd prefer you tell me what I'm walking into. Or I can ask your supervisor, if you prefer that."

Rodriguez sighs. "We need to discuss the changes to Caffrey's arrangement."

Peter's pulse picks up its pace. "What changes?"

"The agreement was that he'd be released from prison as long as he was working for the FBI, correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"And Mr. Caffrey is not currently working for the FBI and won't be for the foreseeable future?"

"Well, no, but—"

"We need to discuss that discrepancy."

"He's not working because he's injured! I have his medical records, doctors' notes, and—"

"Please bring all of that to the meeting. We'll also need to discuss the mysterious circumstances surrounding Mr. Caffrey's injury."

Damn. Peter has nothing on Neal's attack. Nothing other than a panicked phone call from someone he's pretty sure was Alex and the address of a warehouse that had been long abandoned by the time the FBI and paramedics showed up.

He's known all along that questions would be asked.

But that doesn't mean he has answers.

"Fine," he says. "When and where?"

"How's Wednesday at nine? We can come to your office."

Peter checks his calendar, but finds it disappointingly empty. "Wednesday at nine it is."

Two days.

Not long enough.

A/N: Thank you for reading! More soon.