A/N: Sooo I finally made it far enough into White Collar to realize that my chapter with Neal's memory of his dad could never have happened…oops! One of the problems with writing fic before finishing the series… Sorry about that. Thank you for reading!

Now – Neal

Neal wakes to the sound of rustling plastic bags. When he opens his eyes, Mozzie is at the foot of the bed, arranging items on a tray.

"Hey," he says.

Mozzie glances up from his efforts. "Good morning! How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Great. Need your notebook?"

The nap hadn't been deep enough or long enough to erase the hospital trip from this morning. The memories are a little fuzzy, but whether that's from amnesia or morphine is up in the air. "No."

"Good." Mozzie scoops something from a Styrofoam container onto a plate. "I know you're probably not hungry after the morning you had, but I brought Italian."

He's far from hungry, but he sits up a little anyway. "Are Peter and El busy?"

"They're downstairs, eating the meals I brought for them." He arranges a roll and a pat of butter on a bread plate and places it at exactly ten o'clock relative to the dinner plate. "Why?"

"I need your help."

Mozzie looks up from his ministrations. "Help that doesn't involve Suit or Mrs. Suit?"

"Yes. I need to escape."

Mozzie removes a piece of tiramisu from a container, transfers it to a dessert plate, and places it on the dresser. "You only get this if you clean your plate."

"Did you hear me?"

He places a fork – real silverware, not the plastic stuff that's probably in the bottom of the bags – to the left of the dinner plate and carefully lines up a knife to the right, beneath the glass of water. "I'm assuming there's some explanation for this sudden and asinine need?"

Neal opens his notebook to the page where he learned about the Marshals and hands it over. "This explains everything better than I can."

Mozzie removes a cloth napkin from one of the bags. "If I read that, will you eat?"

"Yes."

He starts folding the napkin into something that resembles a swan.

"Moz, come on. None of that is necessary."

"Half of the eating experience occurs with your eyes. My chances of getting you to eat significantly increase without serving you slop out of a take-out container."

Neal rolls his eyes and waits for Mozzie to put on the finishing touches before placing the tray over his lap.

"There. Spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce, antipasto salad, light on the dressing, and grilled chicken. Nothing too heavy."

He picks up his fork. "It smells amazing. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Bon appetite." Mozzie waits for Neal to take a bite of the salad, gives a satisfied nod, then sits in the nearby armchair with the notebook.

Neal takes another bite. Despite his lack of hunger, he knows he needs food. Plus, he appreciates the trouble Moz went to and the trouble he's about to go through as long as this conversation goes as planned.

"The Marshals," Mozzie grumbles. "Can't they leave well enough alone?"

"I'm not working for the FBI and I was injured in some suspicious circumstances. I can hardly blame them."

Mozzie looks up. "I can blame them! There's no proof you were doing anything wrong."

"There's also no proof I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"So what happened during Peter's meeting?"

"Keep reading."

Moz eyes the still-full plate. "Keep eating."

Neal sighs and takes a bite of spaghetti.

Mozzie returns his attention to the notebook. "Wait, am I reading this correctly? Did you pull a con on Peter and El?"

"Apparently I didn't take my pills last night, knowing it would cause a headache so bad Peter wouldn't be able to leave and meet the Marshals. It worked."

"Worked, but landed you in the hospital."

He shrugs. "It's fine. I won't remember the pain tomorrow."

Mozzie finishes reading and sets the notebook aside. "So I assume waiting to see what happens is not an option?"

He breaks off a piece of the roll and dabs half-heartedly at the butter. "I can't risk being put back in jail."

"Suit wouldn't let that happen."

"He doesn't have the final say."

"Are you going to eat that bread or just play with it?"

He pops the piece in his mouth. It tastes good, so he breaks off another piece. "There was a guy a few cells down from me. I called him Diabetic Dan. He was supposed to have a special diet. They were supposed to check his blood sugar often. There was supposed to be a nurse to help with his insulin. None of that happened. Or at least not consistently enough to make a difference. I lost count of the number of times he passed out. No one seemed to care. I think they thought he was easier to deal with that way."

"Inhumane," Mozzie says.

"Exactly. I can't let that happen to me. They won't give me medication on time. I don't even know if they'll let me have narcotics." He rolls the edge of the cloth napkin between his pointer finger and thumb. "Plus I'll have to wake up every morning with the brand new realization that I'm in jail. I'll never get used to it. It will never get easier. I'm not sure I can live through that."

"Understandable. But you think running is the solution?"

"I'll need your help." He takes a bite of the chicken, hoping it earns him a few bonus points. "I'll need you to get us to a new, secure location."

"But what about all of that you just said? The pills and the doctor appointments and your treatments. You need to be here for all of that."

"The treatments aren't working."

"Neal…"

"No. Stop. They're not working, and we both know it. No point sticking around for those. And as for the pills, I can forge prescriptions. Between that and escaping, it won't be the hardest thing we've ever done. Far from it."

The sound of distant laughter filters up from the kitchen. After all the drama Neal has caused today, it's nice to hear them laugh.

"What about them?" Mozzie asks. "Can you really leave them?"

He takes a deep breath. Fights back the "no" he really wants to say. "They're part of the reason I need to leave. They've completely upended their lives for me. I can't ask them to keep doing that day after day."

Mozzie stands and paces from the door to the bed and back again. "I don't like it, Neal. There are too many variables. Your health is too precarious. At the first sign of a problem, I'd have to drag you to the hospital, where they'd no doubt be looking for anyone with your description, at which point they would put you in jail for running."

"There won't be any problems."

"Says the guy who just got out of the hospital!"

"Shh," Neal admonishes, holding up a hand and listening for any sign of approaching footsteps. It's quiet.

"There has to be another way," Mozzie says, still pacing.

Neal sets his fork down. "There isn't."

The older man stops. Turns. "There is if we play to your strengths."

"Strengths?"

"You're a con man, Neal."

"And?"

"Let's pull a con."