Independence Day

"You look dashing, Neal," June said, beaming as he descended the stairs. He was wearing the Devore, his favorite suit, and his trademark hat. It was a big day, perhaps the biggest since he'd had the anklet strapped to his leg almost four and a half years ago. Today was the day baring death or disaster it came off. For good and with the blessing of Agent Peter Burke of the FBI.

It was a momentous day, the end of one life and the beginning of another, and Neal had dressed for the occasion. Knowing the significance of the day, both June and Mozzie had elected to see him off.

"Thanks, June," he replied, reaching the bottom of the stairs and planting a light kiss on her cheek. He had June to thank for the Devore, and the hat, and a lot more than that. She had been a godsend, not only giving him clothes but a place to live. He'd never have gotten through six months of his deal with the Bureau had he been forced to live in the flea-ridden motel Peter had first stuck him in.

But along with an impeccable wardrobe and a great place to live, June had been a loyal friend. She'd never passed judgment for his past transgression, or even his current ones, and was always there to provide sound advice whether he asked for it or not. Again, without her support and words of wisdom, he'd never had survived four and a half years at White Collar.

"Whatever you choose," she said, grasping his hand as her eyes searched his almost pleadingly, "know you are always welcome here, Neal." The reproachful glance she sent to Mozzie told Neal she was fully aware of what he thought Neal should do with a fresh start. Start over. Somewhere else; somewhere fresh. "This is your home," she continued, squeezing his hand. Neal hoped the emotional wince he felt at the word home didn't translate into his face. "Tell me you know that."

"I do," he answered, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze in return. "And it's not like I'm on the next flight out of town, June, I'm just going to work. Peter will be here any minute. I'll see you this afternoon."

Reluctantly, she released his hand. There was a light tap at the window of the front door, and Neal turned to see Peter through the glass. He usually waited at the curb, but this morning he too had departed from the standard operating procedure.

"Speak of the devil," Mozzie mumbled, "and he shall appear."

Both he and June sent him looks of reproach, and June stepped over and opened the door.

"Morning, June," Peter greeted, not crossing the threshold. He looked past her to Mozzie. "Mozzie."

"Good to see you, Peter," June replied; Mozzie only nodded. Neal guessed it was too early in the morning for him to talk to a Suit but then again, according to Mozzie, there was never a good time to talk to a Suit.

He'd said more than once over the past few weeks he was looking forward to the day Neal's life was Suit-free, and therefore, his life was Suit-free as well. But Neal had mixed feelings about that. Being in New York, working with Peter and the team at White Collar had been more fun than any prison sentence had a right to be. As much as he wanted his sentence to be over, his debt to be paid and to be free of the anklet, as that day had drawn near, he'd found himself thinking more about what he was losing than what he was gaining.

Unlike Mozzie, Neal wasn't thrilled at the prospect of a Suit-free life; not if that meant a Peter free life. It was complicated and not just a little distressing. Mozzie, of course, found his ambivalence not only distressing but disturbing.

"Choose wisely," he'd counseled, "between what you want now and what you what most. Stockholm syndrome may come and go but freedom," he'd stressed, "is forever."

Mozzie wanted them to leave New York, to try their luck on the West Coast for a while. Los Angelos or maybe even San Jose. He had connections there, contacts who could help them find some action if Neal was ready to get back in the game. Neal wasn't sure what Peter wanted him to do other than to stay out of the game and out of trouble. He was getting a do-over, a new start, and he needed to make better choices this time around. That had been Peter's sage advice.

But he hadn't seemed to care whether he made better choices in New York or Timbuktu. He didn't ask him what his plans were if he was staying in the city or leaving. Neal might have resented Peter monitoring his every move, but the thought that the day was coming when Peter would no longer care where he was or what he was doing, bothered him. Peter had been the most constant, most steadfast, thing in his life. He was like an anchor; weighing him down, preventing him from doing what he wanted and keeping him on course. And, in many cases, from crashing into the rocks.

Peter was more than his handler; he'd become his friend and Neal hoped an end to one didn't mean an end of the other.

He'd even thought there was a chance Peter might want him to continue at White Collar as a consultant. Even if it were on a more limited basis, he'd still get to work with Peter, still be a part of the team. That's what he wanted, what he'd hoped for, but today was his last day and Peter hadn't asked him to stay.

Peter, it seemed, was more than content with a Neal-free life.

"Ready?" he asked.

"I've been ready," Neal replied, managing a grin he didn't feel. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "Four years, fours months, six days," he raised his wrist, inspecting his watch, "eighteen hours and...," he carried out the word, frowning at the dial, "...fifteen minutes, give or take." He looked up to find Peter regarding him with a mix of amusement and irritation. "But who's counting?"

"Yeah, right," Peter said dryly. "Let's get a move on. You're mine for another eight hours, and I plan to get the most out of it."

Eight more hours. Neal felt simultaneous excitement and dread, elation and despair. Again, he was torn between what he was gaining and what he was losing. He tried to shake the discontent he was feeling on what should be one of the best days of his life.

Should be, but so far, wasn't.

"Let me guess," he replied, pulling the door closed before following Peter down the sidewalk. "I'm going to spend the day behind stacks of Mortgage Fraud and Copyright Infringements, aren't I?"

On any other day Peter would have responded by saying "better behind stacks of files than behind prison bars," but today he didn't.

"You've been around long enough to know those kinds of crimes make up the bulk of our caseload," he said instead.

"But they're boring," Neal protested, making the same complaint he'd been making since the first time he'd been handed one, "and the perpetrators don't present much of a challenge.'

That was something the two of them had in common; they both loved a challenge. Peter had pointed that out to him the first day they worked together. He'd said it was one reason he'd agreed to accept Neal's offer to work off his sentence with the FBI.

That and, he'd added, he liked him.

"Well, they can't all be art thieves and bond forgers, Neal."

Surprisingly, Peter's tone wasn't one of sarcasm. Was he mistaken or did he detect regret, sadness even? Could it be that Peter, too, was having mixed feelings about today?

They'd reached the car. Neal opened the passenger door as Peter circled to the other side.

"I know that," Neal admitted, "but they are the most fun to catch, aren't they?"

Peter, having reached the driver's door, stopped with his hand on the handle. He met Neal's eyes across the top of the car.

His expression confirmed Neal's suspicion; Peter, too, was struggling with the day.

"Yes, they are."

Maybe he wasn't ready for a Neal-free life after all.