Walking out of the parking lot Tuesday morning, Elizabeth glanced at Neal and briefly touched his arm. "OK?"

He nodded and flashed her a quick smile. "Great!"

"Good, so I'm going to be in the coffee shop right next door when you're done. I'll keep my phone on, so if you need anything, just call."

Neal laughed, leaning over and kissing her quickly on the cheek. "Don't worry about me; I have my class schedule, locker number and an apple for the teacher."

Shaking her head in mock frustration, she pushed him gently in the direction of the converted brownstone halfway down the block. "Go, before the bell rings and you're late."

Giving her a mock salute, he turned and headed down the side walk, fighting the urge to glance back and see if she was watching. He was sure she was, not so much out of concern that he would bail, but just out of concern. He briefly wondered what it would have been like to have someone like Elizabeth Burke as his mother to send him off on the first day of school. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he mentally reviewed the plan he and Moz had come up with the night before.

With the amazing forethought that proved why his friend was an excellent friend and partner to have around, Moz had already researched the FBI's policy on certifying someone mentally fit to resume active duty, therapists most likely to be assigned to Neal's case and the different levels of care. It had become easier once Moz had gotten the name – through means Neal really didn't want to explore - and they had pulled together a profile of the therapist, his school of thought and key phrases to use and to avoid to hopefully get the lowest level of care.

"Don't get your hopes up though, man," Moz counseled over the phone the night before. "This guy is young, but you can see he's got a lot of experience with agents and is enthusiastic. Someone older, counting down the days to retirement, might have been an easier draw."

"We play the hand we're dealt," Neal said, flipping though the pages Moz had emailed him and that he had printed off in the privacy of Elizabeth's attic office that afternoon.

"You do have two things working in your favor – since you're not an actual agent, this counseling is more of a CYA for the Bureau than them actually being concerned about the mental health of an armed agent. If you go crazy, you're more likely to hurt yourself than some innocent civilian."

Neal laughed. "Yeah – I knew there was a reason I didn't like guns. What's the other thing in my favor?"

"Your guy has booked a cruise that's scheduled to leave in three weeks; he's going to want you signed off and the paperwork delivered before he leaves, unless you look like you're going to take a swan dive off the building."

The other man laughed. "Seriously? How did you find that out?"

Moz snorted. "I never reveal my sources."

"Well, I'm glad you've got them," he said, feeling better prepared for the appointment the next day now that he was armed with some of his familiar tools.

"You know," the other man started and then paused before continuing in a more serious and gentle tone. "This really isn't a bad idea, Neal. He might actually be able to help."

"I'm fine," the other man said automatically. "I appreciate your concern though."

Moz went quiet for a moment, mulling over his next words. His rather long childhood experience with mental health professionals – those overworked, underpaid souls who had been assigned to help foster children – had taught him that most were stumbling blindly in the dark with no real clue how best to help, even if their patient or client were forthcoming about problems. Now, as an adult, he had a certain amount of respect for these people and an even deeper sense of mistrust. "I'm not sure I'd say you were fine, man," he finally said. "But I respect your freedom of choice not to have your head and mental processes examined. You're going to have to pick at least two emotions and problems though to discuss; you may want to consider having at least some line of truth to them. You know, a lie – "

"Yes," Neal said, cutting him off. "A lie is much better and more convincing when it's as close to the truth as possible. I know."

"I'm just saying," Moz countered.

"Look, I've got to go, but I appreciate the information and I'll keep you posted."

"Always happy to help – take care of yourself."

Neal smiled into the phone. "Always do."

Clicking off the phone, Moz mentally replayed the conversation, mulling over what, if anything, to report. Pocketing that phone and pulling out another, he quickly dialed. "Our mutual friend is hard at work, Suit," he said as Peter picked up the line. "You may want to push ever so slightly since my feeling is that his performance at the shrink you all are insisting on will be Oscar worthy."

Peter cursed, glad he was already in the car and not still in the office. "I thought we agreed talking to someone would be helpful, Moz, and we were both going to encourage that."

"And how much control do you think I have over him?" the other man shot back. "He is – as always – a free spirit. Our deal was simply that I keep you informed if he's going off the rails. I don't think he is at this point, but I thought you should be aware the shrink will be less than helpful and might actually do some harm if he rips open healing wounds."

"The wounds aren't healing so much as scabbing over," Peter said. "It was a rough weekend."

Moz sighed and mulled over his next move, debating how much to say and how much to keep private. He had known the younger man for more than ten years and knew what lay beneath many of the hidden and scabbed over scars. "There is often a fine line between healing and scabbing over, Suit, especially with people like Neal. I doubt he knows the difference and he certainly operates fine. We might consider being happy with whatever results we can get."

"I just want him back," Peter said simply.

"And that's what we're working toward," Moz said, clicking off the phone. Staring at the disposable phone in his hand, he once again considered if it was time to toss it and sever the deal he and the FBI agent had made in the frantic hours and days after Kate's death. It was something he seemed to consider almost every time he made a call to or answered a call from Peter to discuss their mutual friend. But, every time he considered it, he remembered how frantic Peter had sounded when he had called to inform him of what had happened and that Neal was being taken into custody by the Marshals, and how grateful he had been to receive the call. He had been shocked when he had finally been allowed to see the younger man 24 hours later and knew that if Peter hadn't called, it would have been days or even weeks before Neal had thought to do so. He had called the agent back, trying to hide how shaken he had been by the visit, and the two had worked out their own private support group deal. Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he knew it was still too soon to end their deal.

Under the pretense of just casually looking around as he climbed the converted brownstone steps, Neal glanced back in the direction of the coffee shop and wasn't surprised to see Elizabeth had staked out a spot at one of the small metal tables outside. From the distance, he couldn't tell for sure if she was watching, but he was willing to bet she was. Raising a hand, he gave a quick wave and then continued into the small protected vestibule. Pressing the button marked M. Underwood, he waited until he heard a faint buzz and the lock being released. A moment later, he stepped into a small waiting area and smiled warmly at the middle aged woman sitting behind the reception desk. "Hi, my name is Neal Caffrey," he said, widening his smile at her.

"I'm not sure what I'm feeling," Neal said softly ten minutes into the appointment, after the initial getting to know you and what we hope to accomplish small talk, glancing at the ugly coffee table that sat between him and the therapist, trying not to judge the other man's taste. He was aiming for slightly lost, slightly uncertain, hesitant without overplaying it, with no hint of anger or self-hatred. A bit of guilt, sadness and readiness for things to be back to normal were allowed. "I guess mostly just a bit adrift."

"That's an interesting choice of words," the therapist said. "My impression from your file was that you've been adrift most of your adult life? No permanent job, no family ties, no permanent address. I would have thought that someone like you would be used to being alone, that it was your natural state."

It was at that point that Neal lost all respect for the man and the smallest thread of any sort of honest discussion snapped. He might not have had an address to send Christmas cards to every year – excluding the four spent in prison – but he certainly had friends, connections and acquaintances. He had so many contacts on six of the seven continents that sometimes it felt as if he were in his own personal version of "Six Degrees of Separation," considering how many times in the past he had run into friends of friends. A person didn't need a 401 K, a W2 and a year's subscription to "Time" to be tied to the world and not alone. Clearly, the highly educated man in front of him had bought into his world's definition hook, line and sinker. It made sense, given that he was used to working with government employees who all had bought into the system playbook. Mentally summoning the energy to bury one more emotion and resist the urge not to bait the other man, Neal nodded slowly, as if mulling over the therapist's words. "I guess it would seem that way, but being with the FBI on their work release program has really opened my eyes. It's made this … whatever I'm building – these connections, I guess – seem not so much being tied down, which is what I think I once thought, but whole new and good way of living. It's something I've never really had before or even had a chance to build before." He resisted the urge to smile at his comeback, feeling confident that the speech was what the man was looking for - a nice, repentant con shown the error of his previous aimless lifestyle through the guidance of the FBI.

"Tell me more about these new connections you're building," the other man said with an encouraging smile.

Walking down the steps fifty minutes later, appointment card for Friday tucked into his pocket, Neal tried not to wince at the bright sunlight. He could feel a headache coming on and he consciously tried to roll his shoulders free from the tension. The 45 minute session had been harder than he thought, but he was proud of the results. The therapist seemed to buy into everything and scheduled him for Friday, explaining that the closeness of the appointments wasn't anything to be concerned about, but that he had a vacation coming up in a few weeks. Neal had been understanding and eager to accommodate him and had asked the right general questions to appear the socially acceptable level of interested in someone else's vacation plans.

Elizabeth smiled and waved as he approached and pushed a cup of coffee and her remaining half muffin across the table toward the empty seat for him. She held up a finger as she finished up the work call.

Breaking off a bit of muffin, he ate it, enjoying the spicy richness and smiled at her in thanks. Sipping at the coffee, Neal closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. It was unseasonably warm and the sun and lack of wind made it feel comfortable sitting outdoors. He was wearing Peter's jacket again; he had been strangely hesitant to push for getting his own. The slightly too big coat made him feel more protected and that wasn't something he was willing to think too much about. Instead, he just accepted it and waited for Peter to make a joke about getting his property back. He could then joke that it went with the casual clothes he was wearing all the time and that no coat of his would look right with the jeans and sweater.

"Sorry about that, sweetie," Elizabeth said, closing the phone. "One of my clients thinks she's not only hired me to plan her daughter's wedding, but also serve as go-between with her and her ex-husband." Drinking the last of her coffee, smiled and asked, "Want me to ask how it went, or you want to talk about something else?"

He smiled at the straightforward and honest question. "It went fine," he said, wishing he could tell her the truth, but knowing he could never – would never – put her in the position of feeling guilty for telling Peter, which he knew she would. "The guy seems nice enough; I can see why Peter thought we might click." That part was true, at least.

She reached out and gently squeezed his hand for a moment. "Good, I'm glad. Just try it and get signed off. It if helps, I'm sure you can certainly keep going for however long you want."

He laughed. "Honestly, Elizabeth? I've gone as long as I wanted to already."

Shaking her head, she laughed too. "Well, I think the FBI wants a bit more than that … unless he's already signed you out?"

"No," he admitted, pulling out the small appointment card. "He wants to see me on Friday" he said, quickly adding, "But I can get a cab, don't worry about having to take me again."

She gave him a level gaze and then asked, "Neal, do you think I minded taking you this morning?"

Neal knew what he was supposed to say. He knew he was supposed to smile and shake his head and say no, of course not. But the words stuck in his throat and he just felt exhausted from lying all morning and the thought of continuing to do it with her made his head pound. Opening his mouth, he closed it again a second later and swallowed. "Sorry," he finally said, pushing the muffin away. Closing his eyes again for a second, he took another breath before opening them and smiling.

Not pushing, she smiled back at him. "So Peter said to give him a call and he'd try to meet us for lunch, or he said we can go there so you can see everyone again." Watching his face flinch ever so slightly, something she felt sure she would have missed two months ago, she added, "Whatever you want to do."

Neal shrugged. "I don't care."

"OK then, I think he can come meet us. You guys eat enough at the restaurants around the office that it'll be good to go someplace else."

He nodded. "Any place in mind?"

Flipping her phone back open, she nodded. "There's a great Cuban place not too far away some friends swear by that I haven't had a chance to try. How's that sound? Nice pressed Cuban sandwich?"

Neal nodded and watched as her smile softened as Peter picked up the phone and he wondered if his face had changed that way when he and Kate had spoken. He didn't remember, but it had been so long since they had actually talked in person and not through bullet proof glass, just about normal day to day life. Thinking back, he wasn't sure if they had ever really talked about normal life or if they had ever had one. Instead, the days seemed to have been filled with excitement and drama, stress and plans – none of which left much time to discuss the laundry or who was picking up what for dinner or reminders about dentist appointments. He swallowed and drained the last of his coffee and tried not to think about it.

Peter wiped his mouth happily thirty minutes later. "Excellent choice, El. This is delicious."

She beamed. "The shrimp is very good, too. I'm glad you like your sandwich." Turning to Neal, she asked, "How's yours?"

He nodded, taking a bite. "It's very good, nice and crispy."

Thinking about their conversations over the last few days, Peter nodded. "It would be good if you finished at least half of it then." He met the other man's gaze and gave him a half smile. "Fighting weight, remember?"

Neal nodded and took another bite, his headache fading as the tension from earlier left him.

Elizabeth watched the interplay between the two men for a moment before turning her attention back to her husband. "So honey, how's your day going?"

Watching Neal out of the corner of his eye, Peter told them both about the boring budget meeting he had gotten called into first thing. "And I'm a numbers guy," he said a few minutes later, "and even I was half falling asleep. I swear, no one should be required to attend something so boring before 10 am."

Neal laughed, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. "Did you tell Hughes that? I'm sure he'd be more than willing to take that suggestion."

The other man rolled his eyes. "That's quite all right. I'll wait until you're back and then you can make all the scheduling suggestions you feel are appropriate." Giving him a nod at the mostly eaten sandwich, he smiled. "Speaking of which …"

"This morning went fine, Peter," Neal said evenly.

"I wasn't asking about that," he said. "If you want to talk about anything, I'm trusting you to tell me." His eyes met the other man's for a long moment. "Neal?"

He nodded. "Yes, I'd tell you if I wanted to talk about anything. But I don't – everything is fine."

Peter held up his hands. "Great. What I was going to say is that I think we might be getting a good case in a few weeks, so it'll be great to have you back on board."

Neal smiled. "Oh really? What?"

"Bank robberies."

Elizabeth laughed at Neal's expression. "Oh my god, it's like you've just said the magic words, Peter."

Neal grinned. "Hey, it's exciting! I've never even been accused of robbing a bank."

"Safe deposit boxes don't count?" Peter countered, remembering a possible link to a job Neal had been suspected of pulling off and he had once investigated.

The younger man grinned, obviously knowing exactly what the agent was thinking about. "I've allegedly been thought to do a few things with boxes, but those are much different than banks. Banks are just brute force, big chance of someone getting hurt or getting yourself into a situation where there's no way out." He shook his head. "Too much risk for too little gain, plus too many police academy washouts living the dream as security guards." He shook his head, thinking about it. "Just not my style."

"So how many boxes have you had fun with?" Peter asked, aiming for casual.

Neal grinned at him and rolled his eyes before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Well, we'll know in about two weeks if we're going to get kicked this case or not," Peter said, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "It'll be nice to have your input."

"I'm willing to start back tomorrow," he said.

"Did the guy you saw today sign off?"

Neal glared. "No."

"Did you get your physical taken care of?" Peter asked.

"The appointment is for next Thursday morning," he admitted. "I tried for sooner, but that was it. I could find someone else," he added, the whisper of a plan forming in his mind.

Peter eyed him for a moment as if sensing the eagerness, instantly suspicious. "No, that's fine. We have plenty of time."

Parting ways again at the parking lot, Neal tried to focus as he walked toward the therapist's office. His head was pounding already and he felt tired, like he did in the past when he had pulled several cons in too close succession. Summoning the mental energy to smile, charm and lie while mentally adjusting for the audience's reaction could be tiring even when he was 100%. Now, shivering slightly in Peter's coat, he felt that he was maybe 60%, which at least was an improvement. There was no doubt in his mind that if he had been asked to pull this … job, as he liked to think of it, off two weeks earlier, he would have been locked up for his own protection. Forcing himself to smile, he slipped into the right mind set and pushed the buzzer.

"So how was your week, Neal," Dr. Underwood asked.

Knowing he should resist, but unable to, Neal smiled. "It's been good, Mike." He saw the therapist flash a small bit of annoyance at the use of his first name. "I've got plans this weekend with some friends to go to a new exhibit that's opening at the Brooklyn Museum about miniatures."

The therapist frowned slightly. "Are you concerned about tempting yourself by visiting a museum?"

Inwardly Neal smiled. He and Moz had worked out this conversation last night and he felt he had the perfect answer. Shaking his head slightly, he said, "I trust the friends I'm going with to help me if I feel that I'm being tempted. It's important to me that I push myself a bit and learn to control the sometimes destructive impulses, since it's not like I can live in a world without temptations."

"How honest do you think you can be with your friends?"

Again Neal smiled. "Very honest. They're my support system, I know they care deeply for me and I care about them. I'd never do anything to hurt either one of them and I trust them not to hurt me." He swallowed, hearing himself being honest and hating to reveal so much. "I can tell them anything," he said. "I know they'll help." Wanting to deflect the therapist's attention, he threw out a question of his own. "Are you going with friends on your vacation?"

Underwood nodded. "I am – there are four of us going. Two weeks in Italy; I can't wait."

Neal had already known where the man was going and what their itinerary was based on hotel reservations and was prepared. "That's great," he said and then turned wistful. "My girlfriend – Kate – the one who was killed – and I loved Italy." And, with that he was off, speaking of memories and his feelings and fears and throwing in the occasional travel tip and restaurant recommendation when he felt it was appropriate. It was a beautifully crafted lie.

As the 45 minute hour was wrapping up, the other man glanced at his notes. "I'm really impressed, Neal. You seem to have a good handle on the challenges ahead and I'm glad to see that you have already created a support system. Unless you have any objections, I'd like to see you continue to explore these issues in more depth than we can in just an hour. How do you feel about keeping a journal? You can write in it, send me the pages either by scanned email attachment or fax, and then we can discuss it over the phone next Wednesday?"

"I love to write," Neal said with a smile.

Stepping into the coffee shop – the two tables outside already taken – Neal spied Elizabeth sitting at a table in the back.

She waved and motioned toward a second cup sitting all ready in front of the empty chair.

"Thanks," he said, feeling the tension from the previous hour slowly dissolving. "So, good news."

"What?"

"The guy wants me to keep a journal about my thoughts and then send it to him and we're going to talk on the phone next Wednesday," Neal said, trying hard not to sound too happy that his plan had worked so quickly. During Moz's research, the other man had found two different articles written by Underwood touting the benefits of journals instead of traditional sessions with clients who were capable of making good progress on their own and they both had zeroed in on that action plan.

Elizabeth took a long sip of her drink, studying him. "Do you think that will work, Neal? I know it might seem attractive, but do you think that will be helpful?"

He nodded. "I think so." And then, unable to continue the lies, he leaned in closer. "Honestly, Elizabeth, he's not helping now. I just need time to work things out on my own. I've done it before, I know what I'm doing and it's what I'm used to doing."

"I know that, sweetie," she said carefully. "But you don't have to go through it by yourself anymore."

"I've got you guys," he said and then quickly regretted it. "I mean I've got Moz and you and Peter, so it's not like I'm alone. I've always had friends around." Feeling as if he was just making a bigger mess, with every word, he shut up and played with his coffee cup. "I mean …" he said after a second, trying again.

"Yes," she said, "you have us and I'm thrilled about that. But it's been a rough few months …"

Neal nodded. "Yeah, but thanks to you and Peter, it's getting better." He took a sip of his own coffee, going for all out honesty or at least as much as possible. "I feel like I'm just playing this guy, he doesn't understand me and I don't have the energy or desire to try to make him." Watching her, he added, "Plus, Peter said this is just a Bureau paperwork thing and making it sound good is all that was expected."

Mentally cursing her husband and knowing that while he might not have said exactly that, the attitude sounded familiar, she frowned. "This isn't a game, Neal."

"I know, I know," he said hurriedly, backtracking. "But I think I can work things out on my own. I give you my word," he said honestly. "I'll keep a journal and I'll write down what I'm feeling until this guy clears me. I promise."

"What sort of journal do you need?" she asked after studying him for a moment. "We can pick something up on the way home."

He smiled at her. "Just whatever – a spiral notebook is fine, or one of those black and white composition books you use in school."

Studying him, wishing that Peter were there, both so she could chew him out for giving Neal the impression that the therapy was a quasi-game, and so he could get a better read and clue her in to what Neal was really feeling. She had gotten much better after living with him for over a month, but she knew she could only really read him when he was off his A-game. Giving him another nod, she motioned toward her phone. "OK, then – next issue. Lunch? With Peter? You want to go to the office?"

He really didn't want to go into the office, he really didn't want to see the looks of pity or distrust or hostility on anyone's faces. But the day was coming and facing everyone now, casually, with a quick escape, was much better than walking into the office cold some Monday and being there for nine hours. It wasn't that much different from doing a test run before pulling off a major job – you walk the scene, survey it, look for problems and address them. Of course, on a job you always had the option of canceling the whole deal. He didn't have that option here. "I'm good with seeing everyone," he said carefully. "If Peter thinks I'm dressed OK." He was wearing what had rapidly become his new uniform – jeans and a sweater with a button down underneath. Today's sweater was reddish-orange, not so close to orange that it was immediately dismissed by throwing into the fireplace, but close enough that he was sure Moz – who had brought it over in the original suitcase of clothes – saw it as a joke. It was warm and comfortable and reminded him that he was playing a new role.

"You look fine, but if you'd feel more comfortable, maybe Peter can just ask Jones and Diana to come down with him when he leaves. You can say hello and then we can leave."

Neal nodded, liking that plan much better – easier and more accessible escape routes and controlled exposure to people who would be on their best behavior because their boss was around.

"OK then," she said, picking up her phone and dialing her husband. "Sounds like a plan."

Pulling up to the FBI offices twenty minutes later, Elizabeth put her hazard lights on as she halted the car.

Peter waved to one of the security guards patrolling the plaza, indicating the car was with him, as Jones and Diana followed him.

Taking a deep breath, Neal smiled and slid out of the front seat. "Hey guys," he called.

"Hey, man," Jones said, reaching out and shaking his hand and then patting him hard on the back in a half hug. "It's great to see you! And out of the suits; I never thought I'd see the day! I didn't even know you owned a pair of jeans."

Neal laughed. "Of course, got to blend in and in Brooklyn ... you know ..." They had discussed the living situation over dinner Monday night, and Tuesday evening Peter told him that he had made a casual reference to Neal camping out in his guest room while discussing previous weekend plans with Jones. The general feeling was that it hadn't been a secret anyway and was pretty much assumed by anyone who cared about Neal.

"It's hardly Staten Island, Neal," Peter countered with mock gruffness.

Rolling his eyes, Neal grinned at Diana. "Good to see you again, too."

She smiled back, shaking his hand with both of hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. "You too, Neal. It's good to see you again and I'm thrilled that Peter says you'll be back in a couple of weeks." She had been at the airport ten minutes after the explosion and was looking forward to making new memories of the charming con she had enjoyed working with briefly.

"Yeah," Jones said, interrupting. "You wouldn't believe how boring and quiet it is. We've got a new batch of fresh agents who are dying to meet you." The word was out of his mouth before he thought about it and he stumbled for a second. "What I mean is …"

"What he means is," the other agent said smoothly, not wanting the meeting to get awkward, "that Jones has been filling them in on some of your greatest crimes and they can't wait to meet the mastermind himself."

"Alleged crimes," Neal said with a smile.

"No, no alleged about it," Peter said, cuffing him on the shoulder. "You did actually send coffee to me and our teams several times, pizza at least twice and there was something about an escort in Vegas, but I was never able to get the full story about that one."

Neal grinned. "And you'll never get it from me."

"Or me," Jones added, remembering the scantily dressed woman knocking on their van door one evening, asking for them all by name. One of the other agents had been going through a bitter divorce and he swore later that she was just a great listener. He and Neal exchanged matching grins.

Rolling his eyes, Peter shook his head. "OK, I'd actually like to eat lunch with my wife, so if you guys are done …"

Holding out his hand, Neal laughed and Jones pulled him into a quick hug.

"Great seeing you again, man," the agent said.

"You too," he said and then held out his hand to Diana, too. "And you. I'm looking forward to working together again."

"Bye Neal," she said with a smile.

"Back seat," Peter barked as he saw Neal heading toward the front.

"But I called shotgun earlier!" he protested, smiling.

"No - there is no shotgun in my wife's car," he said, shaking his head, causing two other agents passing by to glance at him and the car worriedly.

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Neal smiled at the other two agents. "In the office or out, he's still bossy."

"Get in the car," Peter ordered as he slide into the front seat, "or we'll leave you."

Waving one last time, Neal slid into the back seat with a smile. As soon as the car pulled away from the federal plaza, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He wasn't exactly tired as much as drained. He felt out of practice of being On all the time. It was certainly better than Tuesday, though.

"That was good," Elizabeth said a few minutes later, after a brief discussion with Peter about lunch places settling on some place near her office so parking wouldn't be a problem and she could pick up some needed files while Peter caught a cab back afterward. She glanced at Peter and nodded.

"Everyone is looking forward to you coming back," the other man added. "Jones really has been keeping the new agents entertained with stories of your antics."

Keeping his eyes closed, Neal chuckled. "My antics? Please tell me that you're not reducing my alleged brilliance to antics." Shaking his head, he sat up straighter and smiled, repeating in a disbelieving voice, "Antics."

"Do you prefer shenanigans?" Peter asked, glancing behind him.

Neal laughed. "I prefer brilliance."

"Antics or shenanigans," Peter countered, "one or the other."

"Elizabeth …" Neal started.

"Oh no," she said, interrupting with a laugh. "I am not getting into this one. You two can work it out."

Staring at the white, blue-lined sheet of paper in front of him, Neal tried to find the right mind set for his journal for Dr. Underwood: stable; grieving, but not despondent over the sudden murder of his girlfriend two months earlier; certainly not casual about the tragedy, which would suggest that he wasn't in touch with his feelings. Folding his hands together and resting his head on them, he mentally reviewed the play and then, picking up the pen, began to construct his journal. It took three attempts before he finally felt himself slip into the right mindset and the words began to flow. He took care to switch pens and writing angles every now and then between entries, giving the illusion of time passing in the form of days, not minutes. Like other jobs, once he got into the groove and became the journal writer, as he liked to think of the person writing – not himself – the words flowed out onto the page and time seemed to stop.

"Whatcha doing, Neal?"

He jumped, startled to hear Peter's voice from the door of the guest room. He had been using a lap desk, sitting in the old wing back by the bookcase, away from noise and Elizabeth's slightly reproachful eyes. When they had stopped at a local drug store and he had picked up one blue spiral bound notebook, she had very simply touched his arm and looked him in the eye.

"Remember your promise to me earlier? Get another one, too."

He had nodded and swallowed slightly. "What's your favorite color?"

She studied the small selection. "Get the yellow one. It's cheerful and it's hard to lie to something so cheerful."

Not necessarily believing that, but nodding anyway, he had picked up the yellow. Now upstairs, he had started writing in the blue one, while the yellow one mocked him from the plastic bag on the bed.

Staring at Peter standing in the doorway, he smiled and motioned toward the notebook open on his lap. "Writing."

"I can see that," he said, moving into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed across from him. The action suddenly reminded him of the night he had gotten Neal out of prison several weeks earlier. A lot had happened since then, their relationship had made several fundamental shifts, and now he could tell the younger man was trying hard to rebuild the walls that had surrounded him. Peter understood that, but was determined to make sure that the walls included him and Elizabeth and didn't cut them out. "Hughes got a great preliminary report today from the therapist," he said finally.

Neal grinned. "Good. We seem to get along great, really hit it off – nice guy, easy to talk to. He was a great choice, by the way."

"Don't bullshit me, Neal," Peter shot back, suddenly annoyed at the other man's attitude.

The other man half shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Peter?"

"The truth would be nice."

"You want me to say the guy's an idiot, doesn't understand a thing about me, where I'm coming from or who I am, and isn't interested in learning? He just wants me to fit into his little mold of what Good is and what's the right way to deal. But that's not me; I don't fit in molds." The true anger and frustration in his voice took him by surprise and he quickly tried to cover it. "Or maybe …"

Peter held up a hand. "No, I'm betting that's pretty much the truth, isn't it?"

Neal didn't say anything, but glanced away with a shrug.

The other man stared at him and then said in a firm voice, "You have a new rule, Neal."

His head jerked around and he glared at his friend. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No," Peter said firmly. "This isn't your choice; you're not in charge here."

"What?" he asked a long moment later.

Tapping the notebook in the other man's lap, he said, "You can play games with anyone else, but you do not do that to me or Elizabeth. I don't care what games you're playing with this therapist, what lies you're telling him. I think it's stupid, but I can't stop you, so I'm not even going to try. But I won't have you lying or playing stupid games with me, not while we have any sort of relationship."

"I don't lie to you," Neal said firmly, pointedly leaving off the games aspect.

"Good, then it shouldn't be a problem," the agent said, noting the admission.

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but closed it quickly at the other man's glare.

"No, I don't want to hear it. We're going with broad concepts here. I'm talking about when I tell you to be honest with me and you're not; I'm talking about you lying when I ask you whats wrong. I'm not talking about the almost knee jerk reaction you have to instinctually say Fine! when asked how you are or any of those little white lies, if you will. Those I know, I can work around them."

The other man glared at him, "So how am I suppose to know the difference?"

Peter looked at him for a long moment, "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Neal. If not, you're a quicker learner and I'm sure after a few examples, you'll catch on." He waited, giving the other man a chance to respond and when he didn't, he reached over and tapped his knee, lowering his voice slightly. "I know you; I know how your mind works. I'm saying to you no more games and I'm not playing them with you. If I start trying to make this rule iron tight, it will just give you a challenge to work toward. The rule is that you don't lie or play games about what you're feeling, what's going on with you – period. If I decide you're doing either one of those, even if you protest, you're going to get paddled." He was deliberately keeping his voice firm and level, with no trace of anger or threat – just a firm statement of fact. "Clear?"

The other man glanced down at the notebook, his gaze briefly flitting toward the yellow one on the bed.

"Neal."

"What?"

Peter shook his head. "That tone isn't going to win you any points."

He made a face, but nodded. "Clear," he said finally. "I got it: no big, personal lies, no games, no looking for loopholes, because you don't care."

"I wouldn't say that," the other man said with a small smile, nudging Neal's foot with his own.

Neal glanced up and felt himself smile back. "OK, so you care, but not about whatever mythical loopholes I think I manage to find."

"There you go," he said, standing up. Briefly resting his hand on the younger man's head, he dropped it to his shoulder and squeezed. "Come down when you're ready and you can help us make dinner."

Nodding, Neal watched him walk out of the bedroom. Closing the blue notebook with a disgusted sigh, he tossed it on the bed and glared at the yellow one. Its cheerfulness seemed to mock him. He stood up and pulled it closer and then picked up a fresh pen, one that he hadn't used in the other journal. Positioning it on the small lap desk, he stared at the lined page for a long moment and then started to write in a quick code he had developed years before. As far as he knew, the FBI had never broken it, and if he was going to try his best to be honest, he needed the privacy.

Elizabeth knocked on his door frame an hour later. "Hey," she said softly as he glanced up in surprise. "Dinner's going to be ready in about ten minutes. Coming down?"

Blinking, pulling himself back to reality and away from the yellow journal, he stared at her. "Yeah," he said slowly.

She smiled and nodded. "Good." Heading back down the stairs, she slowly shook her head, understanding why the young man had caught her husband's attention. He was a fascinating mix of young and old, honesty and deception, cold hardness and warm softness, all bundled into one very complex and ever changing package. She would do anything to have changed what happened on the plane, to allow that horrible woman to tell Neal once and for all that it was over, to admit she had been the one to betray him, turning on him by cutting a deal to save herself, and then ride off into the sunset of some tropic island, where, if there were any justice, Elizabeth felt, she would be eaten by a shark. But she was also ever so grateful that the fates or gods had decided to entrust the care and healing of one Neal Caffrey to her and Peter, giving her the time to get to know and understand him better.

"Is he still up there?" Peter asked, glancing up as she walked into the kitchen. "I was having visions of him slipping out to go roaming again."

"Oh ye of little faith," she said with a smile. "He's writing, from what I can tell, in the yellow notebook I made him pick out." She sighed as her husband pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "He seems to be doing better," she whispered. "I just want him to be honest."

Peter chuckled, kissing her hair. "That's a lot to ask of Neal Caffrey, honey. But I talked to him about it and told him I expect nothing else. Honesty and no games."

"Do you think he can do it?"

"I think so," he said after a moment. "I don't think many people have asked that from him and he hates to disappoint."

She smiled, pulling back so she could see his face. "He hates to disappoint you," she corrected.

"Yes, he hates to disappoint me," he said with a nod. "So we have that in our favor and I told him that he'd be very sorry if he wasn't honest."

"Can you really punish him if you don't know for a fact that he's lying?" she asked softly. Her sense of fairness and right conflicted with the idea that her husband had, in a sense, the final say over the younger man.

"Oh, I'll know," Peter said confidently. "I know how to read him." Kissing her again, he pulled back and glanced toward the living room as the faint sounds of someone coming down the stairs reached him. "It'll be OK," he said with a smile. "Now, what sort of salad dressing do you want?"