Prison.

Over the course of the next four years, Neal had learned that prison wasn't all that different from Sunnydale for several reasons: If you kept your head down you were left alone, everyone inside denied the reasons why they were put there, and Neal could use his gift to make friends where he needed them. Of course, Neal couldn't exactly conjure up the people he wanted to speak to - it wasn't exactly dial-a-ghost - but if he did happen to bump into a late friend of an inmate, he made sure to pass a messages on. He learned very quickly that the inmates in Supermax weren't as susceptible to his gift as the patients in Sunnydale, so when he started receiving funny looks and the occasional punch in the gut he kept quiet about it.

Most of the dead folk in prison were, unsurprisingly, previously inmates themselves. Which of course, meant that Neal always had company and someone to talk to when the lights went out for the night and he found he couldn't sleep.

Neal's favourite to talk to was a serial art thief known only as Chase - a pleasant coincidence that meant the two had much in common whenever he appeared for a chat. One particularly gloomy night when he was pining for Kate and longing for the feel of freedom at it's finest, Chase told him a story.

Chase was originally born in Africa, Kenya to be exact, sometime in the eighteenth century, at the peak of the Atlantic slave trade. He was taken as a young adult from his homeland to Europe - the fabled 'New World' - and forced into domestic slavery, working for many years in a large country manor along with several other African slaves. They weren't mistreated, but Chase was a free spirit imprisoned in a golden cage - like Neal he longed for a life with no boundaries, to live to his potential.

In his time as a slave, Chase had learned to pick the family's grand safe, and one night he fled the house and his life in chains with all the silver he could carry, assuming a new identity and going on to travel the world. He made a living by stealing artwork from those practising slave labour, and used the money to buy the freedom of other slaves. When he stole the silver on the night that changed his life forever, he replaced the contents of the safe with round white pebbles from the garden. So after that, whenever he stole a piece, he would leave behind a white pebble which then became his trademark signature.

Chase was eventually caught and hanged for his crimes, on the same grounds the super max was built upon.

Neal would spend hours with Chase discussing their greatest heists, and Chase took it upon himself to teach Neal his native tongue, so not only did he always have company, he could learn conversational Swahili at the same time. In the four years he spent in prison, he never managed to get Chase to cross over, but he knew if he did he probably wouldn't have made it through the system with his mind intact. Chase's story's were what kept him together when his cell felt too small or he awoke in blind panic after the monsters of his past clawed their way into the present.

It didn't take long for everyone to believe he was off his rocker, what, with sitting in his cell taking to himself at night. But quite frankly Neal was used to it, and found it made people stay far away from him, effectively keeping him out of harms way. Neal quickly adapted it as a sure-fire defence mechanism. In four years he never had one incident on record.

Unfortunately, romance got in the way of things, and Neal being a follows-his-heart romantic ended up slamming another four years onto his sentence.

Her name was Kate, he'd fallen head over heels for the her after meeting her in the middle of a con, deeply in love before he even knew what hit him. One of his biggest cons yet, and he would have walked away with nothing if it meant he could have her. Kate was Neal's creation, just like he was Mozzie's - he'd passed on his own knowledge to her after Adler had destroyed their lives, he'd picked her up when she had nothing and given her a new life, like Mozzie had given him.

He never told Kate about his past, or his gift. She didn't know about what he saw - there had never been a right moment to tell her, and he didn't want to lose what he had gambling it on the chance she would believe him and not walk out of his life. That didn't stop her from doing so anyway, and when she walked out on him in prison he had already broke out after her before he realized what he'd done, or just how much doing so would change his life.

He'd spent three long, brutal years chasing 'James Bonds' - the man who had infuriated yet captivated him in every way - yet Peter now found himself stood in a prison reception at 7:00 on a Sunday morning, signing papers for said man to be placed into his care with only ankle jewellery to keep him grounded. He couldn't say what had changed his mind when Caffrey had broached the subject of work-release after that stupid stunt he'd performed got him another four years. And for what? A girl? Just when he thought he understood him, the kid did something like that.

He had to admit, it was a damn impressive escape, one that could have made Neal Caffrey disappear from the map for good, yet Peter had found him in a cheap apartment less than a couple of miles away, clutching an empty bottle of wine like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He'd never seen that side of Neal, and he never wanted to see it again.

Peter fully expected him to run at the first opportunity, but somehow that didn't deter him from signing the contract. Waiting in the reception for the inmate felt strangely like starting school all over again - the same feeling of apprehension pooling in the pit of his stomach. Or like the day he and his wife adopted Satchmo, except this time he was bringing home much more than a puppy. That could pick locks, forge art, and speak eight languages.

"You here for Caffrey?" Peter hadn't realized he was so preoccupied with his thoughts until he looked up to see a prison guard stood in front of him. He must have missed the question, but the guard continued anyway. "Call me Bobby, my rounds go through his cell block. Word on the block says the FBI's taking him on, your Agent Burke right? The one that caught him the first time?"

"Twice actually." Peter didn't care if that was boasting. He'd worked damn hard to achieve it. He shook the hand the man offered.

"He's a good kid. Smart. Though I'd've thought he would be a bit of a handful, what with-" the man raised a hand, tapping his temple.

Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bobby paused in thought, unsure how to address the topic. "Well, he's 'armless and all, but I guess he'd not exactly 'all there', if you know what I mean. Don't know if it's being in prison that's done it, but I guess if he's useful to 'ya..."

Peter's face must have portrayed his confusion, because the man cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "He talks to himself. A lot. I've heard him have entire conversations with himself, it keeps the other inmates up at night. And he gets these real bad nightmares too. Keeps his head down though, and I make sure to keep an eye on him, but in here he's 'sorta known for being a little..." Bobby trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. "Look, I better go, work starts in five. He should be out in a minute, final checks and all. Nice meetin' 'ya." The man began to head down the hall before Peter could ask anymore questions, so he filed away that knowledge to address later.

Sure enough, Caffrey turned the corner a few minutes later, dressed as as smartly as one could wearing the same suit he was put away in.

"Let me see it."

Neal lifted up his trouser leg to show Peter the anklet, before continuing his casual saunter over.

"It's not too tight is it?" Peter asked, because as much as he wanted to assert a not-to-be-messed-with first impression, he did still care about Neal's welfare, and not just because it was his job.

"Well, you know, I guess it's manageable but I think it would be even better if we just left it off." The trademark grin glued to his face seemed to somehow put Peter at ease. It usually meant trouble, but somehow it made Neal easier to deal with. And it cleared the room of any tension.

A happy Caffrey was much better than the melancholic wreck he'd found in that apartment.

Peter smiled back. "Nice try kiddo, but you wanted it, now you have to deal with it. Come on, my car's outside," he gestured with his head to the door, and the two made their way out and across the tarmac at the front of the prison.

Neal came to a dead halt halfway, eyes narrowed, making Peter stop and turn to face him. Bobby's words were still floating around his head, but he'd known Neal for years and he was the most sane guy he knew. "You okay?" he said hesitantly.

"Is that a new suit?"

Peter's face fell in relief, and he shot the man a look. He knew Neal enough to know the man knew full well it wasn't a new suit, but asking the question was indirectly insulting Peter's fashion choices.

"No it's not, and I like this suit. Now move."

Peter thought he heard Neal chuckle to himself, but it could have been the wind.

The car journey was silent, but it wasn't an awkward silence. Neal didn't want to start up conversation, so Peter gave him the time he needed to adjust while he listened to the radio. But of course, because it was Neal's life goal to get on Peter's nerves, he didn't stay quiet for long.

"I don't like this song."

"Tough, I do."

"This being my first day out of prison and all, I think I should get to choose the channel."

"Neal-"

"Can't we listen to the news then?"

"No Neal."

"News is good for you. You get to learn all about what's happening around you."

"I don't need to know, I have a newspaper waiting at home for that."

"What about Jazz?"

"What?"

"Do you like Jazz?"

In the end, Neal got to choose the channel. Peter promised himself he would start being tougher tomorrow.

About half an hour later, Peter had turned off the motorway into a fast food car park.

"What are we doing?" Neal turned from looking out the window to cock his head curiously.

"Eating. I need to set some ground rules and your probably more likely to listen to me after I've fed you so let's go."

Neal was more touched than he should have been by the simple gesture, but he said nothing as he got out of the car and headed after Peter.

"Okay, I'll order food, go find a table." Peter instructed once Neal had caught up. Neal chose a window seat in the corner, giving him a full view of the restaurant. Good for people watching, because he didn't want anything to catch him off guard. The last thing he needed was for Peter to ask questions. All Neal wanted to do was go home and have the night to adjust, put his smile on right and perfect the illusion of sanity. Of course, he was perfectly sane, but he needed more than himself to believe that if he wanted to remain out of prison.

Which reminded him, he didn't even have a home. In fact, Peter hadn't discussed accommodation at all since he left prison. He made a note to ask when Peter got back.

Looking around, he watched a man in a cleaners uniform dragging a mop across the floor, before he walked through the wall into the car park, promptly disappearing.

This was going to be much harder than he thought.

Neal's eyes flicked back to Peter's seat to see a man sat there, and because ghosts didn't tend to warn you when they simply popped into existence, Neal couldn't help but flinch, rather noticeably. No matter how many times you see it, you never get used to it, or prepare for it. The man looked only slightly younger than Neal, with dark brown hair slicked back with product, his eyes glazed with loathing and general hate for humanity. The kind of ghost Neal tended to avoid. Neal regained his composure and looked down at his hands.

"I need you to leave..." he whispered.

The man didn't leave though, and he wouldn't say anything to Neal. He just kept staring, with a look that sent shivers up Neal's spine and clawed at his stomach.

"Sorry that took so long, here," Peter sat down in the seat just as the ghost disappeared, placing down a tray of food. Neal looked around the room but the ghost was nowhere to be seen.

"Thanks," Neal reached for his burger, mentally brushing off the strange encounter.

"Everything good?" Peter seemed to sense his unease, following Neal's gaze out into the room.

"Yeah, fine. I've been meaning to ask, where exactly am I staying now that I'm working for you? You don't strike me as the type of guy to drop me off on the roadside to fend for myself," it wasn't his smoothest distraction technique but Peter didn't seem to notice.

Peter began to speak, but suddenly the man was there again, stood on Peter's left, and if you've ever tried to listen to two conversations at once, it's pretty impossible.

"Always be looking over your shoulder Caffrey..." The man's voice was low and venomous, in fact his whole persona resembled that of a snake. "It's all a game you know? They have you right where they want you, and just when you begin to trust them...bam!" Neal's hand jerked a little on the table. "He's lying to you. He doesn't care. You think your his first CI? He'll use you until your no longer an asset to the FBI then that's when he'll get rid of you. Sweep you under the rug. That's what he did to me. You think he cares but he doesn't. He killed me Caffrey! His own CI, and he'll kill you too. Ask him if you don't believe me. Ask him about what he did to Marcus. Don't let him fool you-"

"-greatest but I'm sure you can hack it."

Neal looked back to Peter, to see Peter studying him, and not doing a brilliant job at hiding his concern. He looked back to the left but the ghost had left just as quickly as it arrived.

"Neal?"

"I'm uhm, I'm just gonna...I'll be back in a sec," Neal stood up before Peter could continue, making his way over to the toilets and almost stumbling through the door. Looking in the mirror, he didn't realize how pale he'd become.

"So much for acting normal Neal, now he thinks you've got a screw loose." Neal muttered to himself, leaning down and splashing some cold water over his face. What the hell was that about? He'd had some crazy encounters before, but that pretty much topped the list. One rule he'd learned to live by though, is that not all ghosts tell the truth. Sometimes it's not always deliberately, depending on when and how they'd died, details often became hazy. FBI agents don't just go around killing for fun, and Peter was hardly psycho material.

Neal put it to the back of his mind, straightened up his tie, and went to go find his handler.

"Sorry about that, must've been something I ate. And nerves. I'd be lying if I said this was an easy adjustment."

"No problem..." Peter didn't hide his disbelief, but he didn't push the matter further. "Look, don't force yourself to eat it, the FBI's paid for it. I'll take you home, you can get some rest. You start work tomorrow, but If I don't think your up for it your staying in bed."

"I'm sure I'll be fine. Thanks Peter."

"So that's why you took me for lunch..." Neal took in the disfigured front of the sleazy hotel. The corner sign may have once been lit up, but was now hanging off at the hinges, and missing the letter 'T'. "To sweeten the blow when you installed me in this place. If this building comes down on me in my sleep, am I entitled to compensation?"

"Aww come on, don't be like that. I'm on a tight budget with you here - What it's cost to house you on the inside, that's what they're giving me to work with. If you can convince the Marshals you deserve a bigger budget-"

Peter silenced himself after taking one look at Neal's broadening smile. "On second thoughts, scrap that, that's exactly what you'd do."

"What about clothes? Your looking at my entire wardrobe here," Neal spread his arms, then let them fall heavily to his sides.

Peter handed him a twenty. "There's a thrift shop down the road. I'll stop by to pick you up tomorrow, unless your still sick I want you ready at six on the dot."

Neal forced a smile but it fell flat. "Great."

Peter turned away, but then he stopped himself. "Look, Neal..."

Neal raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had a feeling this was where the questioning started. He wasn't wrong.

"Are you sure your alright? I mean, back there in the restaurant, something got to you. I don't know what it was but - look, I'm pretty bad at this sort of thing. But if this is going to work, I need you to be able to trust me, and tell me if there's anything wrong alright?"

Neal thought he'd take a wild chance, "Did someone say something to you this morning? You've been treading lightly around me all day. Nothing happened in prison, if that's what you want to know. I mean it."

"No, no it's not about that..." Peter was right, he really wasn't good at this. "Someone told me your behaviour in prison was...unique. I just want you to know that if there's something you need to talk about...The bureau would cover any costs for-"

"You think I'm crazy?"

"No! No. It's just-"

"Peter relax okay? It was just a ruse to keep everyone off my back. Put it this way, nobody thinks twice about picking on the looney. It worked better than just keeping my head down. I'm fine, honestly."

"So it was a con?"

"It fooled you," Neal's eyes twinkled to match his smile, and Peter's relief was visible.

"Yeah, good. Yeah. So see you tomorrow okay?"

"I'll be waiting. Oh and Peter," Neal called after the agent, who stopped and looked back.

"We've just had out first moment."

Peter rolled his eyes, getting into his car. Neal waited until he was out of sight before allowing the smile to slip. He'd handled that pretty well, but Neal couldn't afford to slip up again.

In case anyone was wondering, Chase is purely a figment of my imagination. Any constructive feedback is appreciated as I haven't wrote a WC chapter by chapter before, so I have no idea how I'm doing ^^

More Mozzie in store next chapter as we learn something new about our favourite paranoiac.

Edit: Okay, so I've just realised during formatting I've lost all my dividers between sections, so I've put those back in for both chapters.