10 SO,

So, to bringing you up to speed—Neal is at Peter's with no tracker. The tracker hasn't been activated because of Neal's insistence that it may be bugged. Peter is trying, painstakingly, to get Neal to fill in the gaps to explain both Zantele's connection to the Rembrandt (Zantele, who beat Neal and wants his father's missing painting returned) and how the original Rembrandt ended up in the FBI.

"So, hypothetically speaking."

"Neal." Peter spoke with his typical level of Caffrey frustration.

"What do you want me to do, Peter?"

"Trust me."

"You know I do." Neal paused, his eyes soft, open, as honest as Peter had ever seen them. "Right now, I'm not sure I trust myself."

"Okay, hypothetically." Peter sighed. "How did the real Rembrandt end up in the New York FBI Art Crime Unit? Why not Boston?"

"There is one in Boston."

"What."

"Not a real one. A copy."

Peter sighed again. He was still tired and he felt like he was swimming through molasses. Really sticky, sweet molasses. "Go on."

"Maybe we should do this in the morning?" Neal sounded hopeful.

Peter tipped his wrist; it was close to eleven. "And just what are we going to do with you for the night?"

"Do with me?"

"No tracker. Not to mention, we were supposed to stay at the office until we had your side of things. Hughes' direction."

"Oh."

"Just oh?"

"Well, what do you want me to say?" Neal cocked his head. "Oh, oh wait. 'Oh, let's throw Caffrey in jail for the night.' No. How about, 'Oh, let's handcuff Caffrey to the couch'."

"That was your own doing." Peter's eyes peered over the lip of his mug as he took another sip of coffee.

Neal gave him a dirty smirk. "How about, 'Oh, let's let Neal go home to his own bed'."

"Not happening." Peter placed his mug back on the table.

"What then?"

"Damn it! If you run on me..."

"Oh, thanks! What happened to the trust thing?"

"I said you should trust me." Peter smiled.

"Sometimes you're a real bas—"

"Enough." El's soft voice quickly snapped two heads in her direction. "You both look exhausted, so neither of you are going anywhere tonight. The spare room is made up, Neal."

Peter started to open his mouth in protest but knew Elizabeth was right. Not surprising.

"Come on, Neal." El motioned to the stairs.

Neal glanced from El to Peter, lost as to whose direction to follow.

"I think it will be easier to explain to Hughes than to go against El." Peter nodded to the stairs.

Peter rose from the table.
He stretched, his back snapping.
He looked down at Neal, who still hadn't moved.

"You can sleep on the couch if you want, but I'm sure the bed is much more comfortable."

"I'm... You're... You're trusting me to stay in your home? Overnight?"

"Does that mean I have to worry about you running?" Peter put both hands down on the table and leaned towards Neal.

Neal continued to regard the stairs as if they were something insurmountable.

"No. What? No. I wouldn't... That's not what..."

"It's okay, Neal."

"But you're usually kicking me out."

"Yeah, and you're usually annoying."

"Do you two ever stop?" Neal and Peter both looked up sheepishly at El.

"Just get up, put one foot in front of the other, and go to bed," Peter directed.

"I don't have—"

"Move!"

Peter rolled his eyes. One minute he was dealing with an incredibly-intelligent art thief, the next an insecure, hesitant - yet charming - young man. Neal Caffrey: art thief, con man, enigma.

Neal woke to the smell of pancakes and coffee wafting through the Burke house. Neal couldn't actually remember the last time he'd awakened to the smell of pancakes. He could hear El laughing and then shushing Peter downstairs.

He rolled onto his back. Bad move. He rolled back onto his side, closing his eyes, wanting to breathe in nothing other than the smell of pancakes, coffee, and the muffled sounds of El and Peter.

A cold, wet nose suddenly smacked into his face. Neal lazily rubbed a hand over Satchmo, the dog's tail wagging the entire dog in a rhythmic hello.

Neal noted the bathrobe and towels near the window. El was definitely a very special soul with a soft spot for him. A soft spot he wasn't sure he deserved: he had done nothing to earn it; in fact he'd caused more trouble for El than anything else. Unfortunately, that trend was continuing.

Neal grabbed a quick shower, nearly tripping over Satchmo as he exited the bathroom. His escort pushed himself up and followed him back to the guest room, sitting patiently as he got dressed, then dutifully following him downstairs.

"Well, sleepy head, you decided to join us," El greeted him cheerfully, then looked worried. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"No, but you do have an interesting wake-up committee."

"Satch, you know you're not supposed to be upstairs," El admonished in a playful for-pets-only voice.

The tail wagging the dog became pronounced. The movement garnered a treat and loving pat, with the door opened to let the big dog onto the back deck.

Neal grinned at Peter. "Do you get treats if you...?"

"Not another word, or I'll put you out with Satch. No treats either."

Neal raised his hands in submission.

Somehow, food cooked lovingly by someone else seems to have a taste all its own. Real butter, real maple syrup, fresh coffee, people that really ... friends, family, ... people that really... . Neal suddenly pushed his chair back and headed to the back deck.

Peter was right on his heels, leaving a surprised El sitting alone at the dining room table.

"Neal."

"Please, Peter. Please give me a moment."

Neal's voice seemed so plaintive.

Peter stopped and stood, waiting, patiently waiting.
Some things in life can't be forced.
Some things in life take a great deal of time and effort.
Some things in life are worth the wait.

Neal eventually turned and met Peter's gaze.

"I don't deserve this."

"Who says?"

"Who? ... I. No one. I just don't."

"Neal..."

"No, Peter. I don't know how to make this painting thing right. Every angle I've looked at just gets someone hurt."

"Then stop looking at angles."

"Peter."

"Straight won't ki—"

Neal's agonized look stopped the last word, kill.

"Thanks for reminding me."

Peter locked onto Neal's shoulders and studied his face. The small cut and bruising under his right eye were all too evident in the morning light.

"Straight has consequences, Neal; live with them."

Neal took a long shaky breath in.

"So, hypothetically speaking ..."

"... you stole the Rembrandt."

"NOT hypothetically speaking, No." Neal gaped. "And I take great offense that you would think I would do such a thing."

"You wouldn't steal a Rembrandt?"

"Wouldn't rip and tear one. Wouldn't smash frames. Have you ever looked at the frames? They're works of art themselves — hundreds of years old, intricately hand-carved, gilded."

Peter's amused look brought Neal up short.

"The thieves at the Gardner were crass, Peter. They were there for nearly 90 minutes. They tore the paintings, broke frames & glass — absolutely no appreciation."

Peter quietly leaned back on the deck railing, crossing his arms and feet.

"Peter, you know how much pride I take in..."

Peter's fingers were slowly tapping against his arm, his lips turned up in a wry smile.

"... I. You. I. You know..."

"I do know."

"I didn't steal the painting," Neal stated flatly.

"I know, not your modus operandi." Peter smirked. "And you would have been, what, 14?"

"You..." Neal scoffed.

"Hey, thought you could count." Peter shrugged.

Neal spun on his heels and strode back into the house.

Peter followed.

"Where's El?"

"She rearranged her schedule, so we have the house all day."

"She shouldn't have to do that." Neal looked around with some apprehension.

"Yes, buddy, that means you have no back-up." Peter knew El provided a cushion for Neal. Today he'd have to go it alone.

"Dishes, then talk."

Neal caught the dish towel before it smacked into his face. He rolled his eyes, scowling at Peter.

"So..."

"... Hypothetically speaking."

"No more hypothetical, Neal."

Neal contemplated Peter, his eyes narrowing, then closing. He opened them again to Peter's steady gaze. "Fine."

"You came into possession of the Rembrandt?"

"Yes."

"You forged the painting?"

"Several times." Neal bit at his bottom lip.

"Several times?"

Neal held up four fingers.

"Four times?" Peter rubbed the back of his neck.

Neal counted each finger. "Yup, four."

"You're not helping."

"How so?" Neal's oh so innocent look plastered his face.

Peter waved a four-fingered hand at Neal.

"Yup, definitely four."

Peter humphed.

"You're the one who suggested my counting was off; I'm just exercising due diligence in being honest."

Peter stood and paced the floor. "Okay. You forged four paintings."

"Of the Rembrandt."

"Yes, the Rembrandt." Peter's annoyance rang through.

Neal shrank back into the couch. "This isn't easy."

Peter stopped his pacing and glared down at Neal.

"You ask me to be honest, then question me like a suspect. I have no guarantees here, Peter."

"Information about the Gardner art has an offer of immunity."

Neal scoffed.

"It does."

"I know. Only you have to give up names, how you got the info, testify before a grand jury, and you can't even plead the Fifth. Really useless as an immunity offer. Of course, there is a 5 million dollar reward. Trust me, I thought about it, then and now."

"Now doesn't apply."

Peter answered Neal's questioning look. "You're not just a C.I.; you're a consultant — ID, a stipend, your own desk, part of a team. You, we, aren't permitted to collect rewards."

"Great!" Neal threw his hands up. "No reward. No immunity. No life."

"You have a life."

"I soon won't."

"Neal, the outcome is up to you." Peter shook his head. "You're not in this alone."

Silence.

Silence, except for the thumping of Satch's tail. Satchmo, who thought he was an integral part of the conversation, had not left Neal's side. Neal reached down, absently rubbing the big dog's belly. Neal looked up at Peter and then settled back into the couch. Crossing his legs, so his ankle sat over his left knee, Neal casually brushed at his pant leg.

"Remember our meeting in '04."

"You offered me a chair in my own interview room; how could I forget?"

"You made me wait three hours; I made myself at home."

Peter snorted.

"Home never lasted too long, Peter. This persistent FBI agent was chasing me."

"I had a tip."

"I almost came gift wrapped."

"Wasn't enough for an arrest. Just a chat."

"You have no idea how close you came."

Neal paused, then finally let the breath he was holding out.

"I had the Rembrandt wrapped around my leg."

Peter's eyes widened. He opened, then closed his mouth.

Neal held up a hand. "Please, please just let me."

Peter gave a still-disbelieving nod, especially considering the size of the painting.

"I had the Rembrandt. You had me. I had a tip. You had a tip. I had my tip first. My partner... I. It doesn't ... I mean... He sold me out!"

To Neal, Peter looked like a cat ready to pounce. Neal took a breath and steadied himself.

"Here it is:

"We hooked up in southern France. The Rembrandt was already in his possession, some side deal with the backers of the theft: he'd sell the painting and then replace it with a forgery with part of the take going back to the backers. He could forge a painting, just not as good, so he put the word out, and we hooked up. I did the paintings, we alternated on the pitch, then we'd retrieve the original.

"I know that look, Peter." Neal took a breath.

"We had very discerning buyers: they paid for the best to authenticate the painting. Our connections also provided for some provenance. The trick came in switching the painting out — patience, timing and stealth — one little thing out of place and..."

Neal flicked his hand across his throat.

"Things got tense when a certain FBI agent started knocking on doors. Our last mark got antsy, so we moved things up. Only my counterpart decided I'd become a liability. He tipped you off. I got word about it and switched the painting out before he did. He got my forgery and the mark got one of his older forgeries. That's the forgery the FBI ended up with, one of his. Kinda of worked in my favor. No way the mark would give the FBI any info; the painting the FBI thought was real — wasn't, and the painting that wasn't — didn't match up to the works you were trying to credit me with forging. Case closed."

"No."

"No?"

"No names, no..."

"You're not supposed to use real names in hypotheticals."

"Hypotheticals? And you call me persistent."

"Did I use your name?"

Peter rubbed his hands over his face. "Ohhh, I need something stronger than coffee."

Neal stood.

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter snapped at Neal.

Neal halted, startled by Peter's sudden ire.

"Peter, even in prison you're allowed bathroom breaks."

Neal considered the big dog, who'd sat down on his right foot when he stopped, and now pushed against his leg. "Well, Satch, your master rubs my nose in everything else, do you think he'd—"

Neal hastily retreated up the stairs, as Peter slowly stood.

Peter held his hands over his face again, then ran them through his hair. Neal's knack for creating as many questions as he answered frustrated Peter to no end. His own hunger, however, he could rectify without too much effort.

Peter had just completed his deviled ham masterpiece when Neal entered the kitchen and just as quickly spun on his heels and exited, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Hey, don't knock it until you try it," Peter called after him.

Peter made himself comfortable at the dining room table, while Neal paced back and forth.

"There's lots to eat; help yourself."

Neal shook his head. "I'm good."

"I need some clarification."

"No names."

"Neal, this is serious."

"Like I don't know. I just admitted to forging a stolen Rembrandt. Four times." Neal's frustration was evident in the increasing pitch of his voice.

"Neal."

The softness of Peter's voice drew Neal back to the table. He grabbed a chair, spun it around and straddled it. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair, nestling his chin into them, then he fixed a questioning gaze on Peter.

Peter sighed softly. "Neal, as far as I'm concerned you've recited a tale of a con man who planned a dangerous and foolish con. Four times."

Neal gave him a relaxed smile. "Four times."

"How about you answer my questions as if I were a book editor, instead of you taking offense and feeling like a suspect."

"You're going to make my story, um tale, into a book? Do I get royalties? What about a movie deal?"

"Yes, a book that ends with a crazed FBI agent who shoots his frustrating, annoying consultant."

Neal eyed Peter with trepidation.

"Ask your questions?"

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