The next three days were hellish. The only mercy was that Neal wasn't "consciousness ready," as Hank put it. But while his mind hovered somewhere between a coma and a deep sleep, his brain and body were discovering all the wonderful and exciting mischief they could get into while they relearned to coordinate. Seizures. Fevers. Chills. Cramps and contortions. Spasms. Slow reflexes. Wildly fluctuating hormone levels. Uncontrollable vomiting and dry heaves. Unauthorized bowel movements.

Hank had to observe closely, think fast, and be prepared to do whatever was necessary to help. There was no way to predict the next crisis because every individual withdrawal was different, so it was a high-stakes game of call and treat. He pushed targeted medicines and IV nutrition and the Burkes did their best to keep the patient anchored and comfortable, but in the end, it was Neal's fight to win or lose and that was what terrified Peter and Elizabeth; he seemed to be getting worse rather than better, and they were scared that they'd screwed up and condemned him after all. Hank assured them that they'd done the right thing. He gave his word that he wouldn't leave until everything was resolved.

Thankfully, by Thursday morning the withdrawal was subsiding. Neal, bundled warmly in Elizabeth's arms, came around with a blinding headache, moaned in agony and smashed his face into the nearest soft object, which happened to be her chest. Hank gave him something for the pain. After a bit he relaxed and opened his clear blue eyes halfway.

"Hey there," Hank said. "Can you speak?"

Neal licked his cracked lips and tried. And instead of moaning, or meowing, he said, "Hi."

It was the raspy husk of something that had once been a soft, sweet tenor voice. Elizabeth let out a breath and Peter allowed him a few sips from a cup of water.

"Thank you," he said next.

"You're welcome," Elizabeth said. "You had us all very worried, you know." A few strands of hair had gotten in his face; she smoothed them away.

Neal leaned into her touch and mirrored her small smile. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Elizabeth's laugh was half a sob, because Neal was acting like he'd spotted her at some swanky bar. "We have," she said at last. "I'm Elizabeth." As Peter stuck his head into Neal's vision field and loomed sideways, she pointed him out. "This is my husband Peter." Peter waved.

"That's too bad," Neal said in complete seriousness, and Elizabeth's laugh was slightly hysterical this time.

However, all was clearly not right in the Land of Neal, because he introduced himself as Steve Tabernacle, called Elizabeth "Ellen," told her she had exquisite breasts and smelled beautiful, and after addressing Peter as "Pablo," ordered him to bring the lady a drink. Elizabeth just rolled with it. As Hank had warned them, Neal would be slightly scrambled for a while and sharing whatever popped into his head, whether it was appropriate or not. He called Hank "Doctor Hunk," and then "Doctor Skunk," because it rhymed. He waxed poetic about plaid and composed a vulgar limerick on the subject. And every time someone asked him who he was, he gave a different name. Peter added "Nick Halden" and "George Devore" to a growing list of possible aliases, and uncaring of his wife's scornful glance and Hank's amused expression, started interrogating Neal and taking notes. Neal defeated him without even trying – his answers were complete nonsense. When he finally asked Neal where he'd stashed all his loot over the years and Neal replied, with no trace of sarcasm, "The moon," Peter realized it was useless and gave up. Neal was looking tired anyway, so Hank suggested they bed him down for a nap.

"That was incredible," Peter said to Hank as he tucked his notepad into his pants pocket. "It's like he's on mushrooms, or he's got Asperger's, or something."

As Elizabeth tucked him in, Neal felt the need to contribute. "Mushrooms aren' so tasty, but I do like asparagus. It's excellent off the grill with a lil' salt an' pepper." He passed out a second later.

Jelly-legged and flush with victory, Elizabeth followed Hank and Peter from the room. They stood outside the door in a small triangle and on impulse she took them both by the hand and gently squeezed.

"He survived," she said in a quiet, disbelieving sort of voice, because she had survived something too. "He did it." Peter pulled her close.

"He did," Hank agreed. "And the next time he wakes up, he'll be more lucid. You guys have done great. You probably don't even realize how great."

Peter and Elizabeth looked at him curiously.

"Look, the Animal shell personality is a total abomination, and I'm not defending what it stands for, but it's simple and resilient," Hank said. "It has a short memory, and it overwrites sensory experiences very easily. So, let's say, for example, that Neal had a rotten time in jail. Once he was released he spent seven months with you, which is plenty of time for a memory overhaul. June calls this part 'rehabilitation' when she's talking shop, but it's really just love. You guys love him. You fed him, clothed him, played with him, and made him a part of your family. … You don't get it."

They shook their heads almost in sync and Hank smiled. "Once Neal really wakes up, chances are that the only base-brain experiences he'll be able to access are from his time with you two. He'll probably never remember prison at all. And thanks to the life you've built for him here, he has an excellent shot at coming out of this with his mind intact."

Peter shook Hank's hand and Elizabeth shouted out her relief and joy into Peter's chest.

Satchmo, despite his determination to stay, had been shooed from the sick room almost from the get-go. He took this as unspoken permission to go off by himself and grieve. He knew it was selfish to be sad, because the Cat was becoming a Man, and everything would finally act the way it smelled, but the Cat had been his good and true friend. Satchmo outranked the Cat, and the Cat was not even a Dog, but the Cat was still Pack, forever and ever, and now the Cat was gone. At the end, the Cat had said to him:

I am not afraid to die. I had a good life with the Kind Man, the Good Food Woman, and you, Brother Dog. I love you. Take care of your people.

Satchmo would absolutely take care of his people. He had three of them, now. He could smell the third coming through loud and clear, even from his position downstairs. But he did wonder what sort of Man the third would be. Would he be good? More importantly, would he be as good a friend as the Cat?

On Thursday evening, after two more aborted attempts at waking up (both times he asked for the license number of the truck that hit him) Neal finally came around properly. Elizabeth was sitting against the headboard, pillows behind her back and under her arms while she cradled him because he seemed to rest easier that way. And when the residual pain of the withdrawal woke him up and he looked around him, she could tell that something was different. He was groggy but not goofy. The wheels were obviously turning upstairs.

"Hey there," she said, and his eyes immediately snapped to her face. "Are you with me?"

He blinked. He was unsettled and confused and he ached terribly, but he was warm and safe. He didn't know this woman's name. Yet, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could trust her, because she loved him. "I … I know you … but I don't know you. Who … are you?"

"I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Burke."

"Hi, Elizabeth. I'm Neal." He furrowed his brow. "I … I should have a last name. Gimme a minute."

She blessed him with a gentle smile and put a hand on his cheek. "Don't stress out. You've got the important part down."

"Okay. Well, it's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too." Her smile turned a little watery for Hank and her husband, who were approaching the bed. "Guys, he remembered his first name."

Neal observed the two men. The taller one with the straight brown hair was giving off the same trustworthy, caring aura as Elizabeth, and Neal didn't mind at all that he sat down on the bed where Neal could see him. The shorter one with the stethoscope briefly presented a problem, but once he was introduced as a doctor, Neal realized it was all right and held out a trembling hand for a very civilized shake.

"Neal, I'm going to give you a quick reflex and gland check," Hank said. "Okay?"

"Do I have to let go of him?" Elizabeth asked.

Hank smiled. "No." He took Neal's pulse and made conversation. "You know where you are?"

Neal fixed his eyes on a few places and said, "I'm in bed. I'm in a house." Then he squinted slightly at the man who had yet to give his name (this time) and finished, "You're Peter, right?"

"Yeah," Peter's eyes crinkled warmly with hope. "Yeah, buddy, I'm Peter."

Neal tilted his face up in confusion and then back down. "Peter, why is Elizabeth crying?" Then … "Peter, why are you crying? Are you two okay?"

"They're just really happy to see you," Hank said as he quickly flashed a pen light in Neal's eyes. "You've had a rough week, Mr. ..."

"Caffrey," Neal finished for him, and he knew in his bones he had it right. "That's my name. I'm Neal Caffrey."

Neal was finally awake, but he went under again pretty fast. After almost five years as an animal, functioning as a person again was exhausting. All day Friday he kept randomly falling asleep and Peter and Elizabeth had to wake him up a few times to feed him. But every time he woke, they would reorient him with gentle touch and quiet words. He was still achy and weak, but Elizabeth knew just where to press to make his muscles stop dancing, and Peter set him down in a warm bath of Epsom salts so he could soak for an hour. That helped a lot. Once he was clean and freshly clothed and back in bed, Satchmo was finally allowed to visit and Neal was thrilled to see him for reasons he couldn't begin to explain. He petted the dog and nodded off in the middle of having his face licked.

On Friday evening, Hank declared their week-long project a success and gave the all clear. While Neal was napping, he disconnected him from the IVs, packed up all his equipment, and left for the Hamptons. He tried to slip out quietly, because he was rather bashful at heart and not too keen on extra attention, but Elizabeth refused to let him just sneak out the back without a proper goodbye. (He'd been staying with them all week at her insistence.) She stuffed his duffel bag with clothes, neatly folded and fresh from the dryer, and a small pouch of extra toiletries. Once the bag was on his shoulder, she handed him a small cooler of food in case he got hungry on the road and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He promised he'd call and check in, Peter promised they'd call if they needed anything, and off he went.

And on Saturday morning, after drinking something chocolaty that Elizabeth had concocted in the blender, Neal was alert and remembering a lot more about his former life. So they propped him up in bed and talked. His thoughts had coalesced into questions that needed answers.

"It's like I have this giant hole in my memory," he explained. "I've been thinking back, and it's just this total blank after…" He sighed. "Okay. I don't want to alarm you two, but I was arrested, and I went to prison."

To Neal's surprise, they didn't balk at the idea of having someone they'd nursed for a week turn up with a rap sheet. Instead, Peter asked, "Do you remember why you were arrested?"

Neal shook his head. "I know I pretended to be a lot of different people, and I made a lot of money." He stopped suddenly and looked at Peter. "Was I an actor? Wait, no, that can't be right. Actors don't make any money. I must have done something else."

"Here's an easy question," Elizabeth said. "Do you know what you like to do?"

"Draw." Neal said this without hesitation. "I love drawing, and painting, and sculpting. I love art, I think."

They both smiled and nodded. "All right, that was a big hint," Peter said. "Do you have any idea why you went to prison now?"

Neal pursed his lips as he struggled to connect the dots. "Did I draw something illegal?"

"Pretty much," Peter said. "You forged a very valuable bond."

Neal looked genuinely surprised. "Huh. Was it any good?"

Peter laughed. "Yes, it was very good. So you went to prison, and …"

"Well, I don't remember anything after getting into my uniform. It's bizarre. It's like my memory just stops right there. I don't know how long I was in, or how I got to your house." He looked from Peter to Elizabeth. "I can trust you two to tell me the truth, right? What happened to me?"

Peter glanced hopefully at his wife.

No dice. "You tell him," she said.

He frowned and sighed; delivering bad news sensitively wasn't exactly his forte. He just ripped off the band-aid and hoped for the best. "They shut down your brain and pumped you full of drugs that made you think you were a cat. You spent four years incarcerated that way."

Neal's expression of white-faced shock was priceless. "You're making that up."

"Wish I were." The look in his wife's eyes promised death later, but Peter only shrugged. "What do you want, Elle? I'm not going to lie to him, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it."

On the one hand, Neal appreciated this information. On the other, he kind of wanted to throw up. He did his best to steady himself and breathe through his nose.

"As to how you got to our house, we adopted you." Peter shrugged. "You lived with us for seven months."

There was a moment of silence as Neal shook his head and Elizabeth took his hand.

"I can't believe this," he said finally. "Was I at least a big cat, like a lion or something?"

"Nope," Peter said. "House cat. Although, to give you credit, you were a pretty fearsome hunter. I mean, you never caught anything, but you tried real hard."

This failed to make Neal feel better. Elizabeth jumped in. "You really were a wonderful pet. You crawled into our laps all the time and you ran around with our dog. You cuddled and played, and you were so loving and affectionate… I'm not saying this to embarrass you, Neal."

Too late. Neal threw himself back against his pillows and groaned. "Somebody shoot me."

Peter smirked. "I thought you didn't like guns." When Neal looked at him, he shrugged. "It's all over your file. You have … um … quite an extensive one."

Neal's look turned calculating. He was starting to wonder about Peter. For the moment, he shelved it. "Well, you're right. I don't like guns. Makes killing too easy, but the worst part's the sound. It's all right if I have to fire a weapon because I know the shot's coming, but there's just something about a sudden gunshot that I can't tolerate."

"What do you do if there's gunfire?" Peter asked.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "I get the hell out of there, that's what I do."

Peter and Elizabeth smiled at each other, remembering that banging door the day they brought Neal home. And to think, they'd thought it was the cat that had caused his reaction.

They had a few more conversations on Saturday, and by Sunday afternoon, Neal was up to speed on most of the details of Peter and Elizabeth's life. His memory had come back too, and now that he was reacquainted with himself, he remembered every detail of why he'd been imprisoned. As he admitted his actual profession to Peter he couldn't stop a wince.

"I'm a con artist," he said, flushing in embarrassment and nervously fingering the lapel of his pajama top. "Career criminal."

"I know that," said Peter. "You know how I know that? I'm an FBI agent."

Neal opened and shut his mouth a few times, but nothing came out. "Ah," he said finally. "Well, this is awkward." A thought startled him. "You're not going to put me back in prison, right? I mean, just because I don't remember it, that doesn't mean I want to go back."

Peter hastened to reassure him. "No no no, I'm not putting you back in prison. Well, unless you do something stupid, in which case, you know, I'll have to." Neal shrugged. The doorbell rang downstairs, and Peter started to fuss over him a little bit, pulling him up into a higher sitting pose and packing the pillows behind him. "Come on, let's get you ready."

"For what?" Neal heard a jumble of voices downstairs, but nothing distinct.

Peter's eyes danced as he smiled. "Guests. You have a visitor."

Neal was hoping for more information, but all Peter did was pack the covers in at his waist while several sets of feet clunked up the stairs.

"You can let go of my arm, Mrs. Suit. I'm temporarily klutzy, not permanently crippled. Is he in there?"

Neal stiffened. He'd know that pleasantly nasal tone anywhere. Was it? Could it be? He could remember his "wipe" in prison with full clarity now, and his last terrified thought before the procedure had been that his best friend was about to be just as lost to him as his mind.

The door opened, and Neal stared. "Haversham" stopped in the doorway and stared back. He looked well taken care of, dressed colorfully in layers under a bomber jacket. He was leaning on a cane and he was tired, but he was there.

"Mozzie." Neal said with emotion. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Mozzie just stumbled over to the bed, sat down and put his hands on Neal's shoulders, as though trying to make sure he was real. "The bastards told me you were dead."

Neal gave him the ghost of a smile. "Not yet. Thanks for coming."

Mozzie's face was crumpling, and he was choking up. "What was I gonna do? Not come?"

And he threw his arms around Neal and quietly lost it into the pillows. Neal managed to bring his arms up a little and hug his friend back. Elizabeth slipped in along with an elegantly dressed woman that Neal didn't know, and he kind of wanted to tell them all to get out, but since Mozzie was well beyond caring, he stayed quiet. Finally, the other man pulled himself together and began to clean his glasses.

"Mozzie, what happened to you? How did you find me?"

"I got pinched, and they wiped my mind. I almost died a dog, but I got lucky because June helped me out. She told me that I treed this guy in the park – sorry about that, by the way – and he was owned by her new friends the Burkes, and they were releasing him. When she said your name ... I kept hoping they'd lied to me. I had to know. I'm glad she brought me over."

The lady with the beautiful tawny skin and the furry shoulder wrap waved at him. Neal gave her a little wave back.

"Me, too." Neal wanted dearly to reminisce without witnesses, but that wasn't happening and he didn't know how long Mozzie was going to stay anyway, or how long he could hold out without falling asleep, so he didn't waste any time. "Hey, Moz? Where's Kate?"

Mozzie's face fell and he muttered "Oh, God." He steeled himself. "Look, Neal, when they animalized you, she left. She figured you were done for. I was going to take you home when you were released, but I got arrested about a year before you were due to be let out, and when I asked, they said you'd gone crazy and they'd euthanized you." He visibly swallowed his disgust and went on. "Anyway. There's no easy way to say this, but Kate shacked up with Mathew Keller. And about two years ago, she pulled off this brilliant heist that he planned." Neal winced because Peter was right there but Mozzie was undeterred. "She lifted a music box. It was that famous amber one that belonged to Catherine the Great. Anyway, she had to rappel off a roof to get away with the goods, and the rope broke. She fell eight stories onto solid concrete. It was such a stupid, terrible accident. … I'm so sorry, man."

Neal didn't take the news well. Pain blossomed in his chest as he realized that he could have won Kate back from Keller, but there was no way to win her back from death, and he was still so raw, so freshly human, that he wasn't up to the emotional control he'd exercised for so long as a con man. He shuddered as Mozzie held him. By the time he caught up to the fact that he was crying, he was dimly aware of another set of arms enfolding him and someone saying "Shh" in his ear. It was a few minutes before he was able to look up. Peter had taken him from Mozzie.

"I'm sorry." He was scattered and broken, loose plywood in a tornado. "It's just … she was … I loved … we were … I wanted – nyeow!"

The squeaky kitty-cat noise startled everyone, especially Neal, who blinked in horror and stared at Peter. Peter pulled him close again and rocked him a little, mumbling assurances. They stayed this way for a bit and Neal tried to relax and breathe, but after a few seconds, he furrowed his brow.

"Are you … petting me?"

Peter pulled back like he'd been burned. "I'm so sorry."

Neal nestled against him again and sniffled. "It's all right. I … I like it." And those three words turned him upside-down again. "This is so messed up. What is wrong with me?"

"Hey," Peter said, catching his gaze. "There's nothing wrong with you, okay?"

Neal was too upset to argue and a few minutes later he conked out again. They all worked together in silence to lay him down and tuck him in, and hastily convened downstairs; Elle and June were worried and Peter looked furious.

Mozzie apologized immediately from his seat on the couch. "I swear I wasn't trying to set him off. But you have to understand, Neal thought he and Kate Moreau were meant to be. You know, he's a con artist and she was a thief…" When Peter looked at him quizzically, he huffed. "What, I gotta spell this out? He wanted to steal a house for her and make little baby criminals. He had to know what happened to her."

This brought Peter up short, but not for long. "Six days ago he was having seizures. He's barely functioning right now. He wasn't ready for news like that."

Mozzie bowed his head. "I know. I'm sorry. But he did ask. Just, please, don't shut me out."

June stepped in. "Peter, I told him what you and Elizabeth are to Neal now. But you must understand, before it was you, it was Mozzie. He's known Neal for a very long time."

"Since he was eighteen," Mozzie said. "When they told me he was dead, I just…" He shook his head and couldn't go on. June put an arm around him.

Elizabeth turned her best pleading eyes on Peter, and June gave him a small smile. She wasn't just here because Mozzie had dragged her; she was genuinely interested in Neal's welfare, too. Peter just sighed. Team Neal was expanding whether he liked it or not.

Kate's death was a setback. Granted, Neal's reaction wasn't as awful as it could have been if she'd died in front of him or something, and his grief was tempered by his anger because in the end she hadn't loved him enough to stick around, but the shock and the pain still did him in. He spent the next two days terribly depressed and ill. It wasn't until Wednesday that he started to come out of it, and it wasn't until Thursday that he finally felt hungry.

His hand-eye coordination and fine motor control weren't quite back on-line and because of some balance issues he wasn't allowed out of bed too much, so on Thursday morning, with a drop cloth spread over the comforter and a small table in his lap, he was eating breakfast and talking to Peter. Elizabeth first had to confirm that he wasn't still getting urges to eat nonsense. In that spirit, she'd offered him a cold hot dog and a lump of applesauce, and when Neal said, "That's not breakfast," she smiled in relief and handed him a plate of French toast along with a rubber handled fork. He ate like an idiot and made a total mess, but most of it made it into his mouth and Peter's only comment was to assure him that it would be better at lunch, and better at dinner, and better tomorrow.

"So, when you recover, what do you want to do?" Peter asked. "Technically you're a free man. You can go anywhere, do anything. Are you going to stay, or leave?"

Neal carefully sipped his orange juice. It sounded as though Peter knew what he wanted. "Well, I'm thinking leaving might be for the best," Neal said, trying to hide how much he didn't want to go. "You get to go back to your life, I get to have one of my own."

And Peter realized he'd said that completely wrong. "Neal, you already have one. Right here. I wasn't throwing you out. You're welcome to stay, if you want to."

Neal brightened. "Really?"

"Really. So what would you do?"

"Well, I don't know. Obviously, crime is out of the question but … Peter, I'm good at it. Let's face it, you guys didn't catch me for years. ... Sorry," he added when Peter glared. The FBI's botched investigation of him was still a sore point.

"It's okay. You're right. You are good at crime." Peter pretended to think, when in reality he'd been mulling this over for weeks, fantasizing about this conversation. "How about consulting for the Bureau? You could help us out. Do some good. Maybe make up for all the not-so-good you've done in the past. Besides, you probably have insights no one else does. And you'd get a stipend. It's not much, but it's something."

Neal wasn't objecting so far. "So, what, I fill out an application? Is there an interview? How does this work?"

Peter sighed. "That's the downside. Hughes … well, when we work with people like you, he doesn't like any kind of arrangement that isn't airtight. And considering your past, I'm thinking that the only way we'd be able to get you this job would be to arrest you and officially put you in FBI custody. You'd never go back to prison, don't worry about that, but you'd be ours for at least three years. It's kind of like parole."

The response he expected, something along the lines of "That's insane, I did my time," or "What's wrong with you guys," didn't come. Instead Neal asked, "What if I escape? I'm pretty good at that, too."

"First off, if you run, I'll catch you. And second … hold on." Peter left and quickly returned with a large photograph, which he handed to Neal and tapped with his finger for emphasis. "Tracking anklet. These new ones are tamper-proof. Never been skipped on."

Neal looked skeptical. "There's always a first time."

"That wasn't a challenge, Neal."

"Oh. Well, say I say yes. Is it long hours?"

"Sometimes." Peter realized the fish was on the hook and ruthlessly squashed his excitement, lest he jinx this.

"Bad coffee?"

"I always bring a thermos from home. I'm sure Elle wouldn't mind giving you one, too."

"Hmm. … You'll be there?"

Peter smiled. "Of course." He sat down at the bedside again. "So, what do you think? You want to try this?"

Neal took another sip of his juice. Peter had told him all sorts of stories about how he'd helped out around the office as a cat, and spoken to him about Cruz, Jones, and Hughes. "You know, I know I should be completely freaked out and humiliated by the idea of going back there, but … I want to go. I keep getting the sense that it was fun, of all things." Then something occurred to him and the glance he turned on Peter was shy and vulnerable. "Nobody from the office hates me or anything, right?"

Peter gave the question some thought. "Well, there's Ruiz in Organized Crime, but he hates everybody, so don't take it personally. Other than that, you're good." Then he narrowed his eyes. "And you're really okay with an anklet."

Neal set the picture down. "Peter, I was on a leash for seven months. I think I can handle some blinking jewelry."

A/N: The title of this chapter was shamelessly stolen from Kurt Vonnegut (1922 - 2007), the grandmaster of modern American satire. I hope he doesn't mind.

Bonus Bonus Book Club Question: Did Mozzie do the right thing by telling Neal about Kate? Discuss.

Forward to the finale! (-: