Chapter 10. Wow. I had imagined this as maybe five chapters, but there is so much story in my head that it seems this just keeps getting longer and longer. I hope you don't mind, and thank you for sticking around.

As always, thank you so much for the reviews, alerts and positive feedback. It really means a lot! I hope you all enjoy this latest installment.

Neal awoke hours later, the sound of kitchen chores and television news in the background. He felt a slight weight on his leg and picked his head up to see Satchmo still laying with him on the couch. "Thanks buddy." he whispered, giving the dog a slight squeeze.

Elizabeth came into view as she set plates on the dinning room table. She glanced over at the couch and was pleasantly surprised to see Neal awake. "Hey there, how are you feeling?"

Neal took a moment to self evaluate before answering. "Sore." he replied honestly. "But better. They really don't let you sleep much in the hospital."

Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic look. "You up for some dinner? It's light; baked chicken and rice..."

Neal nodded, realizing that he was hungry as soon as she mentioned food. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'm just going to wash up."

Satchmo seemed to realize this was his cue, getting down off the couch and heading towards the kitchen. Elizabeth gave him a pat as he walked by, thinking he deserved a special treat in his food dish that night. "Dinner will be on the table in about ten minutes." she told Neal as she headed back into the kitchen.

Neal waited for her to be out of view before he got up from the couch, standing slowly to ward off any threat of dizziness. Going into the bathroom he kept his head down to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror. He had looked two days prior in the hospital, and had been assured by the plastic surgeon that the scars would be almost non existent once healed. He didn't tell the doctor that the look of the healing wounds was nothing compared to how they had felt when they were inflicted.

He shook his head slightly, trying to clear away those dark thoughts. Leaning against the vanity, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Neal was well practiced in the art of denial, not in dealing. He had become an expert at hiding his emotions behind a well used mask of self-assured calmness, tucking his fears and insecurities into a tiny ball and hiding them carefully away. There was nothing to gain in letting his past control his present, be it eight days or eight years ago.

Elizabeth loved to experiment with food. Peter often found himself delving into a flaky crust only to find some truly unfortunate substance his wife assured was edible hiding within. Her profession required a certain amount of the exotic to please her more high end clients, and Peter was often the test subject. One of the advantages of working with Neal was that the conman's love of the extravagant made him a more suitable subject to evaluate her creations.

This meal however was simple and perfect. For some reason, Elizabeth's chicken and rice was one of the best dishes she made. The chicken was never too dry, the rice a perfect complement, a little gravy holding it all together. It was so good that Neal had admitted once that it was one of his favorites as well. Which is probably why Elizabeth made it tonight, Peter theorized.

Peter was on his second helping when he noticed that Neal had barely touched his plate. Well, that was not actually true- he had made an effort to construct some sort of gravy damn out of chicken and rice, but it didn't look like any had been used for its original intended purpose.

Elizabeth had noticed as well, and she shared a concerned look with her husband. She knew that Peter was waiting for the right moment to talk to Neal, and although she wasn't sure this was that moment, she suspected that there never would be a good time to discuss what had happened to their friend.

Elizabeth stood up from the table, the movement drawing Neal's eyes away from his food construction. He gave her an apologetic smile, realizing that the other two had finished their meals and he had not touched his own. "I'm sorry, it was really-"

She placed her hand on his arm, her return smile warm with understanding. "Don't worry about it Neal. Left overs are good." She picked up the serving dish and her own plate, then stopped to give her husband a quick kiss on the cheek before she brought them to the kitchen.

Peter trusted his wife's judgment, sometimes more than his own, and knew this was her telling him to talk to Neal now. As a senior agent in the FBI, he had to go through a training seminar once a year to teach him how to address issues that may arise when traumatic events occur to his team. He had only had to use that training once, after a hostage negotiation went horribly wrong, but that situation was completely different. That was dealing with a fellow FBI agent, trained to deal with the unexpected, not a civilian consultant. Not a friend who was hurting from more than just the physical injuries he sustained, and Peter was worried that an eight hour seminar once a year was just not enough.

But Elizabeth's words from earlier in the evening, as they watched Neal sleep on the couch with Satchmo laying next to him protectively were what he was relying on now.

"Elle, I don't know if I can do this. Even if there wasn't something else, something he is keeping from me- I don't know if I am qualified to be that person."

"Peter, you are better at this than you realize." she had told him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "And you are his friend- he trusts you, and all you have to do is let him know that you want to help. The rest will fall into place."

Peter cleared his throat, not sure what he wanted to say, but knowing that he had to start now. "Neal, we have to talk."

Neal looked at him, then glanced away, not making eye contact as he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Peter we do." he replied, a slight tremor in his voice that he could not control.

Peter was surprised by the younger man's willingness, and leaned forward to put his hand on Neal's lower arm. "Hey, Neal, its okay. Whatever is going on in that head of yours, we can deal with it."

Neal turned to look at Peter, his blue eyes harboring more emotion than Peter was used to seeing in them. "Peter, I killed three men." the words were quiet, Peter having to strain to hear them.

Peter sat back, his hands coming to run through his short hair. "Neal, I know. I saw the tape." he felt like it was a confession, like admitting that he had witnessed Neal's abuse was a secret he was not supposed to share.

"Tape? It was recording..." Neal replied, more of a statement than a question. "I didn't know. I thought it was some kind of live feed so they could watch me." What little color he had drained from his face as the information sank in. "Peter, I can't go back- not for this-" Neal said after a moment, panic creeping its way into his words.

Peter stared at him a moment, at a loss. Where did Neal think he would be going back to? Not the warehouse...

Prison. Neal thought he would be sent to prison for killing his captors. The thought made Peter feel ill. "God, Neal, no. You are not in trouble for what happened to you. It was self defense. They would have killed you." he took a breath before adding, "and Elizabeth."

Neal blinked at Peter's words, unsure of how to respond. How could he regain his control when there was documentation of him loosing it recorded for all to see? How could he get his life back when it was always only a carefully crafted facade?

"I saw what they did to you Neal, and it's going to take some time for you to deal with it. I know they tried to use Elizabeth against you, and your actions saved her life." Peter's words were shaky, the fear for his wife still fresh in his memory. He took a breath, getting his emotions back under control before continuing. "But Neal, I need to know something. I need to know what your connection is to Martin Finch and the Russian mafia."

Neal closed his eyes, the question overwhelming him. The name brought everything Neal was desperately trying to repress surging to the surface. Martin Finch had stolen Neal's life and had paid for the offense with his own. How could Peter know this man's name? Long forgotten fears made Neal's heart race as if he had been running, his breathing far too rapid. He felt like he was trapped, like there wasn't enough air to breath. The sudden need to be moving, to verify that he was not tied to the wooden chair he sat in made him get up and move.

"Peter, I can't- I don't know how to handle this-" Neal's was shaking, his movements unsteady. The feeling of being trapped was overwhelming, more so than when he actually had been.

Peter stood up, carefully stopping Neal's pacing with a hand on each shoulder. Neal was barely contained panic, and Peter was sure the recovering man could not take this level of stress. "Neal. Listen to me. I need you to calm down." Peter's voice was gentle, encouraging. "Slow breaths Neal, come on buddy, you can do it..." he led Neal over to the couch, guiding him to sit down.

"Peter, you don't understand. How could you know..." Neal didn't know how to say the words, how to trust them in someone else's hands. How do you explain to your friend that the three men in the warehouse were not the only people to have died at you hands? How do you tell that to your friend when that person was also an agent of the FBI?

Peter sat on the table across from Neal, his tone quiet. "Then explain it to me Neal. I need to know what this threat is. I need to know why they know you. I need to know if they are going to come after you again." he hesitated a moment before playing his last card. "I need to know if these people are still a danger to Elle."

Neal looked down, unable to make eye contact. That was all he needed. Elizabeth had shown him more kindness and understanding then anyone had in a very long time. He knew that she was the reason Peter trusted him as much as he did now. But how could he confess all his sins to Peter, knowing what the consequences would have to be?

"Are you asking me this as Special Agent Peter Burke?" he took in a steadying breath, then let it out slowly. "Or as my friend?"

Peter leaned down just enough to catch Neal's eye. "As your friend, Neal." he replied, the meaning in his answer clear. There would not be any repercussions from anything Neal told him tonight.

Neal blinked, surprised by the answer. "You may regret this deal later."

"I haven't so far." Peter responded. "We can deal with this. But you have to trust me."

Neal nodded in agreement, leaning back on the couch. "How do I do this? I don't normally share-"

Peter smirked at the statement. "Yeah, no kidding."

Neal smiled in return, feeling strangely comforted by the sarcastic remark. "So what do you want to know? Where do you want me to start?"

Peter thought it over a moment. There were so many questions about Neal Caffrey that he wanted answers to. He wasn't sure how long Neal's walls would be down, how much Neal would be willing or able to provide before the door would close.

"Why do you know how to speak Russian?" The question came out unexpectedly, and as soon as it was voiced, Peter was sure it was the perfect one.

Neal's eye's widened in surprise, curious as to how Peter would know such a thing. Peter shrugged his shoulder. "You talk in your sleep."

"Oh." Neal replied, sighing. He glanced away, realizing that if he answered this question, there was no going back. He cleared his throat, the sudden emotion he felt at thinking of his childhood making him uneasy. "I can speak Russian because I was born just outside of Saint Petersburg, Russia."

There, it has been done. In my world, Neal was born in Russia. Since we have so little information about Neal's past, I have taken some liberties.

I have a much harder time writing dialog then straight story, I hope it doesn't show too much. Thank you for reading, more about Neal and his childhood in the next chapter.

~km