Chapter 6

When Neal opens his eyes the next morning he's very aware he isn't where he fell asleep. For starters the surface beneath him is too soft and too large to be the Burke's sofa. Paranoia quickly sets in, fearing Peter had at some point carried him to bed. Although that would be extreme, even for Peter. Shifting carefully the duvet covering him slips, exposing his bare arms to the early morning chill and causing an involuntary shiver to rip right through him. Instinctually he tries to re-cover himself, tugging the duvet and tucking it around his shoulders. Snuggling further into his cocoon Neal rolls over and is instantly met with a very solid, very warm immoveable object.

"Good morning sunshine."

Rolling back, lying flat, Neal blinks up into the smiling face of Peter Burke.

"Morning." He frowns, not daring to move again. "What's going on?"

Peter doesn't move or lose the smile. "How you feeling?"

"Not what I asked." Slowly looking around, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heat burns his cheeks when the dresser comes into view. "This is your room."

"Yes," Peter turns his attention back to the newspaper crossword in his hand, "you decided you weren't happy with the sofa."

Worried gaze fixed to the ceiling, Neal can feel his heart race as he tries and, for the third night in a row, fails to remember anything. "Did I do anything else?"

Mouth dry, pressure building in his chest Neal pulls himself up and slumps against the headboard swallowing convulsively.

"Ransacked my closet looking for this." Peter holds up what Neal identifies as a birthday card, his expression matching his tone for gentleness.

Neal eyes it speculatively and reaches out. "I sent you that for your 40th birthday."

"Big day." Peter nods.

"The first one I ever sent you." He holds it with both hands, eyes glued to the card pretending to study the message when in fact he's focusing on regulating his breathing.

"I remember." A smile touches Peter's lips. "You called me old."

"I was 23, everyone over 30 was old." He manages to smile back, in between little gasps for air. "I'm more mature now."

"It was seven years ago."

"So, you're seven years older." He returns, letting Peter snatch the card back.

They slip into silence, sitting side by side, Peter lying on top of the covers looking worried and Neal underneath trying so very hard to appear the picture of calm.

"I've been looking into your time in prison." Peter hedges, pausing to see his reaction. "You got a lot of attention."

"I had fans." Neal giggles.

He knows it makes him look unhinged and he knows Peter can see right through him. He internally asks himself why then is he's working so hard at keeping up the façade, which raises a further question of why Peter doesn't just call him out on it.

"One of those fans was Amber Terrell."

His breathing had been calming down until he heard that. "I don't remember her."

"No reason why you should, she used a pseudonym."

"How did you get to that from a birthday card?"

Peter reaches for a stack of files Neal hadn't seen sequestered on the other side of the bed. "These are your prison records. I got Jones to bring them over first thing this morning."

"On a Saturday." Neal frowns.

"You don't get to judge me." Peter mock glares, sneaking a worrying glance at Neal when he thinks he's not looking. "Plus, I might add, it's your fault for sleeping in so late, otherwise I would have gotten them myself."

Neal opens his mouth to refute but is waylaid by Peter's last comment. "Late? What time is it?"

"After nine. You clearly needed to sleep. Given your city-wide escapades this week I'm not surprised."

"Yeah well at least I know why I've been so tired recently I guess," Neal grumbles at the reminder of what looking at his tracking data yesterday had uncovered, before pulling himself up short for getting distracted from the question he really wanted answering, "but none of that explains why I'm sharing your bed?"

"We're not sharing." Peter corrects loftily. "You wandered up here. I was advised not to wake you, so I followed and when you decided to make yourself comfy I stayed to keep you out of trouble."

"You were worried about me." Neal smiles, really smiles, teeth and all.

"I was concerned about my wife's jewellery."

Peter smiles too, though less brazenly, he can see even though he tries to hide it, which makes Neal feel all warm inside. "Whatever you need to tell yourself." His smile quickly drops, "Wait," a worried frown takes over, "who advised you?"

…

"Okay, what?"

Neal is seated on the sofa, staring up at the two men standing before him, side by side in an odd alliance.

"We're worried about you." Mozzie answers after a long pause, looking to Peter before speaking.

"And?" The frown he's had in place since being informed Mozzie was downstairs and unsupervised in Peter's house only deepens. "I'm worried about me. That doesn't explain this." He points, encompassing the two of them, together.

"Oh this?" Mozzie looks aghast at Peter. "This is temporary, I'm not in league with the suits I swear."

"Okay enough." Peter walks over to Neal and drops into the arm chair, "I don't care what little games you two play in your off hours, in fact I don't want to know. Right now, the rules have changed and if we're going to keep you safe and out of prison we could use his help."

"I do want to help." Mozzie implores, not having moved from his ridged stance.

Neal looks between his friends, the only two people he can be sure will never double cross or sell him out. "I don't want any of you to get hurt."

He looks to Peter when he says this, imploring him to understand. Memories of Mozzie in the hospital after being shot, Peter losing his badge, all because of him and his research into the music box. Neal knows Peter won't back off no matter what and he's secretly very glad he doesn't have to go through this alone, but Peter is a trained FBI agent, deceptively physically strong and an excellent fighter. Not that he'll ever admit to feeling inferior of course. Still, Neal's very aware he and Mozzie can't fight for shit, running away having always been their best form of self-defence.

"I can protect you," Peter's reaches over and grips his hands, which Neal hadn't realised had started shaking. "Both of you."

…

Peter looks to Havisham, instructing him with his eyes to get the hell over here.

"Oh, right." Mozzie mutters, out loud, but meant only for him. "Suit's right." Joining Neal on the couch, "I mean in the sense that I can help, and I can keep everything in the background, stealth and secrecy are my middle names."

"I can actually attest to that." Peter grumbles, recalling the heart attack from Mozzie's home invasion last night.

Neal's eyes are distant, the shaking not as pronounced but still present. Peter looks over his head at Mozzie. He's pretty sure they can both guess what Neal's thinking, only Peter's convinced that they each advocate very different solutions. He needs to nip this in the bud now.

"Neal," Peter starts softly, "I know what you're thinking, and I want you to stop."

A blink and visible swallow are the only indicators he heard.

"Neal," he repeats.

The chin ducks, touching his heaving chest. There's no sound but Peter's sure that's because Neal's working very hard at keeping it all in. Havisham's watching on but makes no move, his lack of response telling Peter he also sees the struggle and has no idea what to do about it.

"Running isn't the answer Neal." Peter goes in for the kill, pinning Havisham with his no-nonsense glare.

There's a minor change in Mozzie's facial expression, an indication of surprise that could easily have gone unnoticed. Not surprise that Neal was thinking of running, surprise that Peter knew he was thinking of running and that he knows Mozzie would find a way to facilitate that if Neal wanted him to.

The shaking isn't stopping, is in fact getting worse. There's sweat beading on Neal's forehead, fever induced possibly, but could also be a reaction to the fragile emotions sure to be churning, creating self-doubt and allowing confusion to run rampant. Calling him out may have made things worse in the short term, but Peter stands by his belief that they need to be clear from the start, no matter how much it hurts.

Neal sniffs, frantically blinks and sniffs some more, but all the will power in the world can't stop the inevitable. The dam that's been steadily weakening over the last two days eventually breaks bringing with it a flood, and he collapses in on himself uttering a desperate and broken 'Sorry'.

There's no hesitation on Peter's part. He slips to the floor on his knees and pulls him close, wrapping both arms tight around the quivering body. Neal's uninjured cheek resting on his shoulder and facing the stairs, Peter rocks them gently, pressing a light kiss into his hair, a natural move that doesn't even need thinking about. Havisham is watching, sitting silent sentry. Peter's own raw emotions are near the surface, but he keeps them efficiently under wraps. He'll call El later. Looking over at Mozzie his intense gaze makes his demand clear. A responding tilt of a bold head communicates an agreement.

Their alliance is tentative and as fragile as Neal right now, but it's important they make it work. If Neal runs, Peter won't be able to save him.

….

Diana walks into White Collar a little after eight Saturday morning. She couldn't sleep and Christie had left around six for her twelve-hour shift, so it made sense to come in and try to do something productive instead of lolling around at home feeling useless all day. Jones appears an later, looking much more relaxed than she feels and it sparks a fire of envy within her. If it wasn't for the gym clothes she'd swear he was just turning into work for a normal weekday.

"What you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same." Jones grins, "you know it's the weekend, right?"

"I couldn't sleep." Diana admits, never one for caring what others thought. "Figured I could be productive here. What's that?"

Jones looks to the keys in his hand. "This? These are keys to the holy grail."

Diana levels him with a 'no really' look.

He laughs. "Agent Burke asked me to pick up and drop of some records. I was headed straight home, but then realised I had nothing else to do today."

They share a 'isn't it sad?' look, but neither are the type to lament on how their lives have played out. Both chose a profession where the demands on their personal lives are high, Diana doesn't regret any part and she's pretty sure Jones feels the same.

"What records?" She distracts, tone light yet purposeful.

"Prison records. He did apologise that he couldn't get it himself."

"You think Caffrey's giving him trouble?"

"I think Caffrey was asleep. He said something about not wanting to wake him."

"This whole sleepwalking thing. You buy it?"

"Look I don't know. But I've learnt that if Agent Burke believes something, then he's most likely right."

"You don't trust Caffrey."

"Do you?" Jones laughs.

"I agree with the boss. Caffrey's no killer."

"Doesn't mean mistakes don't happen. Neal may not have pulled the trigger…"

"But if he was involved in the robbery then he's guilty no matter what."

Diana falls silent. Peter's relationship with Neal is unique. She'd been surprised on returning from Washington just how close the pair had become in only six months. Jones had filled her in on how Peter treated Neal more like his kid than a resource. The protectiveness was obvious and easily explained, that was part of the C.I handler relationship. Neal wasn't trained, didn't carry a weapon or from what Diana could tell even knew how to fight – not with his fists anyway. Neal was Peter's responsibility at the end of the day, but there was also that patient, nurturing side which was rare to see. Addressing his junior agents Peter was always stern and to the point, boundaries and expectations were clear. He was a strict yet fair boss who engendered a good sense of morale. But when it came to Neal he was something else. Peter coddled Neal. Shielded him from danger, worried like a parent whenever he was out of his sight. That investment in his safety and wellbeing went way beyond obligation of the job. Peter cared about Neal on a personal level, had made him a part of his family. She worried if Neal had been willingly involved in any part of this it was going to destroy her boss and friend, not just his career, his entire life.

The phone rings up in Burke's office, knocking her ruminations out of her head. She call connects it to her line.

"What is it?" Jones asks seeing her face drop halfway through the one-sided conversation.

Diana puts the handset down. "That was the clinic. Bloodwork came back…"

"And?"

"Caffrey was positive for Psilocybin."

…

"Magic mushroom's." Mozzie blinks, "Huh. Explains a lot."

Peter hangs up on Diana. "Yeah, but not everything."

"Like the memory loss," Mozzie points out, "plus psychedelics don't tend to make you depressed." He fetches himself a fresh wine glass from the cabinet. "Also, how do you think he was dosed without him knowing?"

"One problem at a time." Peter walks back over to his paperwork laden kitchen table and takes a seat, eyeing the glass.

"I think clearer when my mind is relaxed, sue me."

Peter isn't going to comment. "According to the clinic Neal had to have ingested the mushrooms within fifteen hours of the bloods being taken to show up on the test. Bloods were taken in the ER early hours of Thursday morning. Where were you Wednesday night?"

"Hey! I didn't do it." Mozzie starts to shout, spilling his wine over one of Peter's old files.

"I know that." Peter huffs, motioning with his hand to keep it down. "He left here around nine, said he was heading straight home. Did you see him?"

"No," Mozzie goes silent.

"What?" Peter snaps, persuading him to talk by snagging and withholding the Merlot.

"Fine." Mozzie takes the bottle back and finishes his pour. "Neal's been … off, the last few nights."

"Off how?"

"Tired. Real, real tired." Mozzie offers him the wine, but Peter abstains, opting to stick to his coffee. "Like falling asleep at the table tired. He said he wasn't feeling well, thought he had a cold."

"We've already confirmed from his anklet data that the sleepwalking, if that's what it is, has been going on more than just the last couple of nights."

"What do you mean if?"

Peter mulls over how much of his own theories to share with Mozzie. "How come Neal managed to avoid being seen by June or the staff every time he left? How did he know not to leave his radius?"

"You think he's faking?"

"I think not remembering doesn't automatically mean he was also unaware at the time." Something clicks in Peter's head. "You said hallucinogens don't make people depressed?"

"The exact opposite."

"What if under the influence of Psilocybin Neal witnessed the murder that night?"

"Neal hates guns." Mozzie shoots back, jabbing his finger in the air.

"If the victim was shot in front of him-"

"A bad trip. That can cause depression, anxiety, paranoia, sleep disturbance." He counts them off on his hand. "It fits!"

"A bad trip still doesn't explain why Neal doesn't remember what he's been up to every night previously." Peter pauses, staring at Havisham.

"Yeah," Mozzie turns shifty. "I have a theory about that."

…

Neal wakes up. This time he recognises he's on the sofa, covered with a blanket. It's simultaneously comforting and unnerving. Waking up in the same spot he remembers falling asleep is good. Remembering how he fell asleep has his face flushing and prompts him to pull the blanket over his head with the desire to hide for the rest of his life.

"Oh no you don't." Peter appears and swipes it back, not only revealing his still teared stained face, but exposing his bare arms to the cold.

Neal braves a look upward, "you're mean."

"As insults go I've heard you do better."

"I'm sick, and probably dying." He snatches the crocheted woollen back and wraps it around his shoulders.

Peter just smiles down at him, "No you're not." He forces Neal to sit up by grabbing and pulling on his arm. "Besides I have good news." He drops to sits beside him.

"They've caught the killer and I'm free to go?" He covers his face with both palms, trying to rub the tightness out of his eyes, hissing when he catches his damaged cheek.

Peter waits a beat, eyeing Neal carefully. "We think we know why you're so…. Not you."

Neal turns his head, looking inquisitive between spread fingers.

"The clinic found Psilocybin in your blood."

"What?" Neal drops his hands altogether, embarrassment instantly forgotten he stares at Peter, demanding more answers.

"We think…" Peter fidgets, looking to the ceiling. "Neal it's possible you've been drugged."

"By who? And why?"

"If we're right the Psilocybin is probably part of a drug cocktail, one that also induces memory loss." Peter shifts around on the sofa to face him. "This is good news." He leans in, squeezes Neal's leg. "Whoever dosed you is most likely our killer, or at the very least involved with the killer."

"How'd you know I didn't take whatever it is willingly?"

"Did you?"

"No."

"Then it's good news." Peter makes it sound so simple.

"Wait," Neal taps down on the smile wanting to break free. "You believe me?"

Peter leaves seconds of empty air between Neal's question and his answer, making him regret asking.

"I believe you."

Neal does smile then, he feels like crap, everything hurts from his stomach to his head, but Peter believes him and he hasn't had to do anything other than give his word. Although it feels good, really good to be believed, there's a tenseness about Peter that's dampening the moment, the way the skin pinches around his eyes. Something's bothering him and he's trying hard to hide it.

"You think it's GHB don't you?" Neal asks gently.

"I think it's a possibility." Peter breaths out heavily. "It causes memory loss, metabolises quickly, rarely shows up on blood tests and is easy to get hold of, Neal-"

"Oh god," He folds in on himself, hands covering his face once again. "I'm not going back to the hospital." Neal can hear Peter laughing and it rankles him enough to risk looking up. "I'm glad my plight amuses you."

"Many things amuse me, this not much so." Peter calms, offering a comforting pat to his back. "I've just never seen this melodramatic side of you before."

"Blame it on the drugs." Neal retorts without thinking.

The grin falls from his face and he launch's up off the sofa, propelling himself to the other side of the room.

Peter's serious eyes are on him. "Look I'm not taking you back to the hospital."

Neal steadies himself against the mantle. "You're not?"

"No."

"Good. Because I wouldn't go anyway."

That matter settled, the dizziness caused by his sudden movement fading, Neal tries to focus on what he does want to do. Somebody's been using him, using his skills, using his body and mind without his consent. Whatever form that took he isn't going to stand around and cry about it. He needs to catch whoever's been pulling his strings. If their aim was to get away with this, so far, they've done a terrible job. He may not know much and be hours away from being thrown back in jail, but at least he knows these feelings, the desire to burst into tears, the fear, anxiety and confusion - none of its really him. It's the after effect of an unknown drug cocktail that's conveniently left little trace.

"Moz?" Neal looks around the living room but can't see his friend anywhere.

"He left not long ago, he's working an angle." Peter eyes him.

Neal nods, glad while he may not be completely brain functional others are picking up the slack.

They drop into companionable silence, which would have been nice if it wasn't for Peter's still tense face. "What else aren't you telling me?"

Peter sighs, confirming his suspicion. "Think you're up to a car ride?"

"Will it help?"

"It might."

"Let's go."

…

They pull up on the side of the road, stopping a block away from Riverside drive.

"Where are we?"

"West 148th street."

Neal looks up at the street sign. "I can read. Why are we here?"

"You been here before?"

"You know I have." He points up the street. "There's the pastry bar I always go to on the way home from work."

"Always go?"

"Schedule allowing." Neal shrugs, "they have excellent donuts."

"When did you start?"

"I don't know, a few weeks ago, after the Architect case." Neal stares at Peter. Not willing to verbally acknowledge his chosen method of managing his grief. "I've been so tired recently I've gone every night this week just for the sugar rush."

"You've eaten donuts every night for dinner?" Peter glares.

"Yeah." Neal rolls his eyes up and to the side, "except Wednesday, you brought me to yours for dinner. Elizabeth made gelato."

Peter stares without blinking. "I hate you." He mutters, undoing his seat belt.

"What, why?" Neal follows Peter's lead and climbs out the car.

Peter looks him up and down, as if it should be obvious, "Never mind," he shakes his head when Neal continues to be clueless and waits for him to catch up before walking again. "We were so fixed on where you didn't remember going, we overlooked where you did."

"You think someone drugged my donuts?" Neal laughs and frowns. "How would they even do that?"

"If they're using a liquid cocktail all they'd have to do is inject it into the pastry, follow you home and wait for the drugs to take effect."

It sounded so much like something Mozzie would say Neal had to double check it was Peter walking the sidewalk next to him. "Not exactly a full proof plan, what if I didn't eat it all? And the effects wouldn't be immediate because it would take time to enter my bloodstream. Slipping it in my coffee would be a more effective delivery. Plus, why go to all this trouble for a small-time gallery robbery? And why me?"

"All excellent questions." Peter grins and points at him.

"But?" They come to a stop outside the bohemian style pastry bar.

"No buts." The grin drops. "I don't have the answers, but we have to start somewhere."

Neal senses the tension coming off Peter in waves and decides to do something about it. "I thought you said no buts?"

It takes Peter a second to react to his lame joke, but it hits its mark, the tension eases.

"I'm hungry. You?"

He really isn't but understands this isn't about cheering him up with his favourite treat. Neal isn't even sure donuts are his favourite. He's been craving them recently, but then after everything that's happened the last few days he's lost any trust in his own judgement. He could be craving the donuts because someone has made him crave them. Every choice, thought or feeling he's had since whenever this began could have been influenced by someone else. He was no stranger to control, but it was usually him in the driver's seat, getting people to trust in him, believe what he wanted them to. Neal has never to his knowledge been on this side of the con before and quite frankly it's terrifying. He always thought no one really got hurt by his crimes, but if this experience was teaching him anything, it's that every crime has a victim, and the loss suffered isn't just material.

"Neal, over here." Peter clicks his fingers at him, commanding his presence at his side.

Neal scowls, unhappy at being summoned the same way Peter entices Satchmo for a walk but does as he's told anyway and takes the few steps forward towards the counter.

"What can I get you?" A cheery young man asks them.

Peter flashes his badge, "You know him?" and points at Neal.

Neal's face heats with the complete disregard Peter's showing for subtlety. The young man initially looks puzzled, but quickly slots into customer service mode with ease.

"Er, well maybe. Your Chocolate Cream Delicious, am I right?"

"What?" Neal blinks.

He's having a really hard time focusing, most likely the stress catching up with him once again.

"I think he means your donut of choice." Peter's pointing at the display case filled with flavours of unimaginable sugary goodness.

"Oh, right." Neal grabs the counter to steady himself. "Sure."

Peter asks his identified donut suppler and his co-worker who apparently also remembers his frequent visits several intrusive questions. Neal tries to listen, but eventually zones out. He's hot all of a sudden, which makes no sense what with it being the middle of winter and all. They probably have the heating cranked up way too high.

"You should turn down the heat. Not good for the donuts."

Peter gives him a strange sideways look, muttering something to the two servers about him owning a bakery once and shuffles him out the door.

"Hey, you okay?"

Neal opens his eyes to find the wall he thought he was holding onto and leaning up against was actually Peter. Releasing the intense grip he has on Peter's forearms Neal struggles to right himself and stumbles off down the sidewalk in the direction of the car.

Peter's cell starts to ring, he shows Neal the unrecognised number before answering cautiously, putting it on speaker.

"Suit, I got some information."

"Mozzie?"

Neal, discovering himself holding a paper bag containing a recently purchased donut at arm's length as if it might bite, gives him a look of complete surprise.

"Don't worry I'll be dumping this phone the second Neal is in the clear."

"Good to know. Meet us at Neal's place, we're heading there now."

…

"Hey Moz."

Peter meets Mozzie's gaze as Neal greets and moves passed him, through his kitchen into the dressing room without even a second glance.

"He okay?" Mozzie asks.

"Yeah, he'll be fine."

What Peter doesn't say is clear on his face. They're here to pack a few more things before heading back to Brooklyn. The couple of nights looking to be turning into a more permanent arrangement as the hours move on with very little useable progress.

Taking a seat at the table they wait. Mozzie tells Peter what he's found out about potential drugs. Peter fills Mozzie in on his theory about the pastry shop.

"Drugged donuts, seriously?"

"Hey it's a start."

"You don't seem convinced."

"I'm not, talking to the two behind the counter nothing stood out. I didn't spook them like you'd expect if they were drugging their customers."

"You thought it wasn't just Neal?"

"I don't know what to think. The Terrell connection could be a coincidence. For all I know this is a scam to get people to empty their bank accounts."

"And you think this thing with Neal and the gallery could be wrong place wrong time?"

"Maybe? I don't know. I'm grabbing at straws here."

"You're grabbing at something." Mozzie agrees.

"Well I don't see you making much progress." Peter throws back.

"Is it my fault there are a seemingly endless number of drug combinations out there that could cause the symptoms Neal's experiencing?"

Peter holds up his hand and shakes his head, seeing no point in continuing this conversation. They've both reached a dead end today and they know it.

"Look suit," Mozzie draws his attention across the table. "I just think you're trying too hard."

"Would you prefer I slack off?"

"No, but what I'm trying to say is you're coming at this like a friend. You want to protect Neal and believe me I'm very grateful, but I think what Neal needs right now, as much as it pains me to admit to such a thing-"

"Mozzie spit it out for god's sake, it's been a long couple of days."

"Okay, okay." Mozzie grounds himself. "What Neal needs most isn't Peter Burke friend and patriarch. It's FBI Agent Burke, the man who relentlessly chased and threw him in jail."

Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. "I know, I know I'm too close, that's why Jones and Diana are following up on the Hayes and Terrell connection, but it's hard not to be when the kid's an emotional train wreck and crying in your arms. What if the evidence points to Neal, I can't send him back, not on these chargers. They'll throw him in solitary or worse. He won't survive a second go around, I know it."

"You really do care about him." Mozzie looks at Peter as if seeing him for the first time.

"Yeah, yeah I do." Peter says, sounding like it's a revelation, even to himself.

He's always had a thing for Neal. Not in a weird sense, but there's something, a feeling that makes this particular criminal, out of all those he has arrested over the years, stand out to Peter. A feeling that Neal can be good, under the right circumstances. Sending him to jail the first time Peter felt justification, he'd done his job. But he also felt immense relief. That day was the first time in three years he could finally relax, knowing the kid he had come to like was safe and being taken care of in a federal prison where conditions were good and violence amongst inmates was low. He wasn't committing any crimes, getting involved with killers or putting himself in harm's way with dangerous stunts. Tough love his own dad would have called it. And in taking his deal four years later Peter had seen another opportunity, one to help shape a kid who had clearly lost his way at some point. Neal's confidence acts were just that. No one risked their well-being as often or as frivolously as Neal did if they had an ounce of self-worth. Survival is what matters to Neal, what drives him even now, but once that motivation's gone, what then?

"We need to Protect him Mozzie, I don't want to lose him."

...

Neal thought walking into his own place would feel great, but instead it feels cold and strangely scary. He walks passed Mozzie, unable to meet his eye for fear he'll see there's nothing there. See he's little more than an empty shell, floating in the ocean, at the mercy of the waves dragging him away from shore.

Now, standing in his dressing room surrounded by suits, the irony is not lost on him. Four years ago, he risked everything just to see her one last time. Knew walking into that warehouse there would be no escape. What he hadn't told Mozzie back then was he was tired of running. The Burmese jewel heist planning was a cry for help he hadn't realised at the time. It would never have worked out. He'd have either died during the execution or in jail. He had no powerful father to call in favours. Neal had no one. He'd have died young and alone, miles from anywhere and no one would've known or cared.

Neal walks up and down row after row of fancy suits and wonders. Is this really him, or is this him living as someone else still? Jumping into someone else's shoes to hide from himself. Byron and June, Peter and Elizabeth, he envy's them. He's pretty sure although Byron's gone what he and June had still lives on. Even Mozzie is an individual, has his own identity and is happy with it. What does Neal have, truly have that's his? He's been playing the role so long, had so many different names and aliases – some his choice, some not – that it feels like all he does is live other people's lives. For all his world travels, alleged forgery's, thefts and schemes, he's still not a grown up. Neal left home at eighteen, after fifteen years living as a kid that didn't exist. He may have claimed back his original name, but he's been on the run from who he really is his entire life.

...

It's quiet. Too quiet. Shit.

"Neal?"

Peter jumps up in a flurry, Mozzie following on his heels. They discover the back room empty.

"Goddamn it." Peter whirls on Mozzie. "Where is he?"

"I don't know." The little man shrugs, backing up.

"You sure?" Peter snaps, face fierce and turning an impressive shade of claret.

"As hard as it is to believe, I'm with you on this suit. Neal isn't himself-," Mozzie freezes, hand held high to halt any further anger fuelled retorts. "-maybe he stepped out for air?"

"How? There's no other way out of here." Peter doesn't like Mozzie's look. "There's another way out of here isn't there?"

"Well-"

"Mozzie!"

"Yes." Mozzie walks over and removes a false wall from the back of one of the wardrobes, revealing a passageway. "In Neal's defence, he only found it after your guys did the once over on the mirror room."

"God damnit." Peter pulls out his phone. "I gotta call this in."

"What? No! They'll send the marshal's after him and look at the damage they did the last time they got their hands on him."

"Mozzie." Peter holds up his hands in frustration. "Neal isn't supposed to be out of my sight, he doesn't even have a radius anymore. The only reason the anklet won't signal is because he's out with me. If I don't call it in I will lose every ounce of credibility to help him get out of this mess."

Mozzie sighs. "Just remember he's not himself. Ordinarily Neal wouldn't run unless he had a plan."

"I know, that's what worries me." Peter taps in the final digit and the call connects. "Reece. Yeah sorry I know it's the weekend, but we have a problem."