A/N: Previously posted on Ao3 and Collarkink. One-shot. Not my show. Spoilers for Countdown. Future Fic.

Beta'd by the talented Mam711. All mistakes are mine.

For the Best

Neal took a steadying breath. He needed to do this.

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten through the last twenty-four hours; he'd wanted to flee the moment the anklet was cut for the final time, but he knew he couldn't. Not straight away. People would ask questions and the ones who didn't would be hurt.

Oh, they'd accept it silently, just assume they never meant much, but even though Neal couldn't admit the whole truth, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving behind the wrong impression. So he'd stayed for a bit to cement the friendships before departing. He'd accepted their well-wishes and had joked along with the best of them. It had been agony. He didn't want to go. These people meant a lot to him. A lot. Unfortunately one meant more to him than she should have.

And that's why Neal had to go. It was for the best. The sooner he left, the further space he put between them, the better. He could move on, get back to the rush of a carefree life and then the feelings.…

Neal sharply braked his thoughts.

He started again.

Then the silly, whimsical, meaningless delusions would fade away until he was his usual, pre-prison self. The one that gave no thought as to where he'd go next or why, the one where he just went where the wind blew, because who else would he be? He no longer had any obligations, any reason … anybody tying him down. He'd finished his term with the FBI and everyone involved was better off with him moving on.

Not that they hadn't wanted him there: they'd had fun with him, been amicable about his presence, taken on board all he could offer and just generally had seen the good in having him around, but Neal was under no misguided impression that that meant his place amongst them hadn't expired.

He would miss them; he knew that. And they might miss him. But life went on. They'd continue doing the things they'd chosen to do and now it was Neal's turn to go where he was happiest, find his little piece of turf, and figure out what he wanted.

And maybe, hopefully, he'd meet someone else. Because then his thoughts wouldn't be overwhelmed by the beautiful brunette-haired and blue-eyed goddess. And he wasn't referring to Kate.

Damn it. Neal shook his head free of the thoughts that had snuck in past his resolutely stubborn defenses. He looked up at the flight times again even though he knew them all. He'd had the flight details memorized for days.

He was hours early, but Neal figured he could start going through customs and then settle down with some coffee and people-watch for a while. He turned in the direction of the escalators and stopped short in shock at the sight of the FBI agent who had been standing just behind him for who knew how long.

"Peter?" Neal stammered, trying to understand why Peter was here. And how had he tracked him here? Neal self-consciously rubbed his bare ankle—which felt odd being free of a band he'd been forced to wear for four years. Neal swallowed. Of course Peter had tracked him down; the man had innate bat sonar or something. He went back to his first question. Why was Peter here?

Peter cocked his head, his arms crossed, and scrutinized Neal, taking note of Neal's carry-on luggage.

"You going somewhere?" Peter at least asked softly, mindful that it really wasn't his business anymore that Neal was going, much less what his destination was.

Neal shrugged, going for a casual look of nonchalance. "Sure, thought I'd see the world."

But Peter had never been easily fooled. Even now, Neal struggled to remember the last time he'd been able to successfully con Peter. Oh, right, that time he'd stolen the painting out of the apartment at the top of the building by manipulating Peter into locking him into a solitary security holding room. That had been over a year ago. Not that he had taken up lying to Peter. He could never lie to Peter and he wasn't now. He really would see the world.

Peter knew there was more, but he couldn't quite get into words his suspi—his concerns. He finally managed a question that he'd hoped sounded casual but really conveyed his unease at the thought of Neal's departure.

"But why…? You—you could get settled first, find an apartment, a job … then travel."

Neal didn't answer. He seemed to be considering Peter's words, but Peter thought he saw a flicker of longing.

"I mean ..." Peter forged ahead. "... you can travel anytime. Is there, maybe, something else? You're not leaving to … I don't know, to prove a point?"

Neal frowned. He shook his head. "No, Peter. I just, I just want to leave the two-mile radius, you know. See some museums, admire the coastlines around the world, and meet people."

Peter took in a breath; he was pushing it here. Neal had a right to go wherever he wanted now.

"Neal," Peter started, hoping he didn't sound annoying. "There are coastlines in New York, museums … plenty of people. What's this really about?"

Neal scoffed. "Don't worry, Peter. Nothing criminal, I promise. I'm just hopping on a plane, because I can."

"No," Peter said so softly that Neal almost missed it. "You're not being—Neal, why are you leaving?"

Neal felt a flash of frustration now. He'd offered Peter some perfectly satisfactory answers. Where did Peter get off demanding some rational reason that explained his choices? It wasn't his business anymore.

"Peter," he said pointedly. "I'm traveling. I have to go." He considered telling Peter his plane would be late, but another aspect of lying, Neal felt, was that lying was an easy way out. Plus he still didn't like lying to Peter. Did that seem more important than ever? Neal shook his head and instead told a truth.

"Customs takes a while to get through these days," Neal offered, letting Peter close the gaps and assume that Neal would be late for the plane if delayed any further, as opposed to sitting twiddling his thumbs, hours early.

"So long, Peter; I might visit someday." Neal smiled, and gave a nod as he gave Peter a wide berth and started off towards the escalators. He mentally sighed when he heard Peter talk right behind him, apparently determined to dog his footsteps until he could go no further. Neal couldn't wait to get to the customs checkpoint.

"I don't believe you," Peter stated simply. "There's something you're not telling me."

Neal rolled his eyes as he joined the queue riding the escalator. He heard as Peter moved on behind him.

"Neal, come on," Peter spoke impatiently. "Tell me. Tell me why you're leaving."

Neal reached the top and moved to the edge of the surging crowd, not bothering to try and lose Peter in it. He knew it wouldn't work. He spoke to Peter behind him. "Peter, unless you intend to stalk me on my travels, you should go—people are probably wondering where you are."

"Neal, damn it," Peter muttered. "Just tell me. Why are you leaving?"

Neal lost his patience for Peter now. The agent was demanding answers, like he still had the damn tracker on his ankle, with 'property of the FBI (made in China)' imprinted on the inner side of the band.

"Peter," Neal demanded right back,"Go home. Leave me alone. It's none of your business."

"So there is something," Peter noted. "You need to tell me."

"I don't need to tell you anything," Neal replied, gritting his teeth, desperate for Peter to let up. He veered down a quieter part of the airport, heading for the lounge. He needed something to drink.

"Neal, it's simple," Peter stubbornly answered as he kept pace with Neal's increasing speed. "Tell me why you're leaving!"

"Because I'm in love with your wife!" Neal finally snapped over his shoulder.

Peter stopped in place, shocked. Neal faltered in his steps, his need to storm away stymied for the moment. He exhaled, suddenly weakened by his outburst. No, he pleaded silently. He shook his head vainly, wishing he could take the words back. He turned and looked at Peter, anguished.

"I'm … I'm sorry, Peter," Neal murmured, moving a step back towards the white-faced agent. "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to say…."

Peter looked at him, looking lost, unable to answer. He mouthed a few monosyllables without any real idea of what to do.

Neal swallowed. "You see why I have to …? I have to go, Peter. I have to leave." Neal tried to be strong in his words, but he could feel himself starting to choke up. "Peter, I'm sorry. You—you're not going to—you won't tell her, will you? You're not going to say anything, are you? Peter?"

Peter, still at a loss for words, frowned, trying to gather his wits.

Neal sensed his cue to go. There was nothing more he could say and now, obviously, Peter wouldn't stop him. Quite the contrary, Peter was now more likely to pull strings to make sure he could never return to the country. He turned, with a final muttered apology.

Then a hand stopped him.

Neal flinched, the hand feeling like a scorching touch. The hand quickly withdrew but then came back and squeezed gently.

Neal turned his head, looking at Peter cautiously.

Peter licked his lips. "Neal."

Neal felt a chill snake its way down his spine. He was completely out of his element, with no defenses, nothing to hide behind, completely bare and open to attacks. He lowered his chin; the only defense available to him.

"Neal," Peter said again—softly, Neal noticed. Neal turned around and looked up, preparing to cringe in the face of Peter's anger, ready for a forceful warning to stay away.

Peter shook his head as if reading his thoughts. "Neal, you're my friend. More than that; you're family."

Neal cocked his head, confused, trying to understand what Peter was saying. "Peter?"

Peter straightened and looked back at Neal intently. "Stay. Please, Neal. Don't run. You always run. Don't run, not this time."

"But I.…" Neal muttered, trying to grasp why Peter was not tearing him to shreds or giving him an express kick through the door. "Peter, I just told you I liked Elizabeth."

"Actually ..." Peter correctly gently. "... you said you loved her."

Neal looked away.

Peter breathed in. "Neal, I meant... Look, I know it's not easy, but I guess what I'm trying to say is … I understand. It's not hard to love Elizabeth. But, Neal, I know you. I trust you. And I know it's hard. But don't go. Don't go. I trust you."

Neal shook his head. "You won't. Meeting her, joining you guys for lunch … you say you'll be fine with it, but it'll eat away at you. You'll always be wondering and eventually you'll snap. You'll realize you can't handle the doubt."

Peter stared at Neal carefully. "You've been in my position." It was not a question.

Neal huffed softly, annoyed at the hole he'd opened in his armor. Not that his armor wasn't in shreds already.

"Not exactly," he answered. "Being in prison, Peter, it makes you wonder. I used to wonder if Kate had met someone … or if she was hitting it off with Mozzie or if that guy Kate used to be with had come back. It's the wondering that gets to you. It doesn't matter how much you try to trust someone's integrity. It eats away at you."

Peter did listen and he understood what Neal was saying. He squeezed Neal's elbow again and geared up, prepared to be firm. He frowned slightly. "Neal, I don't care. Yes, I'll fight you for Elizabeth, but until that day comes, I don't want you to go. Please don't. You're family. You mean a lot to us. And I know by now how to recognize the signs of you running away, not dealing with something."

Neal stubbornly averted his eyes.

Peter pulled his elbow in warning. "Neal, if you want to go, fine. But don't do it because you can't handle something here. Do it because it would make you happy, not because it would make you miserable."

"But, Peter," Neal defended desperately. "It's not about me. You have to understand. It was to protect you and Elizabeth, to keep—"

"Oh, I understand," Peter cut across him. "And I appreciate it, Neal. I do. But I won't have you playing the martyr."

"What…?" Neal sought around for something to clutch, to use against Peter's reasoning. But the agent was right. He was running away, sacrificing his happiness. But it was for a good reason. Neal looked back at Peter, prepared to pull away, to tell him that it just wouldn't work. That his leaving was for the best. But at Peter's glaring look which refuted everything Neal was preparing to say even before he could say it, the words died in his throat. He hung his head and looked back up. "What would you have me do, Peter?"

"Come home," Peter said simply.