It was almost one before Peter found time for his lunch break. Neal had waited uncomfortably, going over everything available on what they were now calling the "Abby Harvey case," and gathering some new information in his own unique, not-entirely-sanctioned ways. Watching Peter through the glass walls of his office had been like watching a storm approach. Neal knew a confrontation of some variety was inevitable, but what form it would take was still a mystery. Peter never did like dealing with emotional issues, so there was a chance he would concentrate his questions on Neal's information-gathering techniques instead. But Caffrey sensed he wasn't going to get out of this that easily.

Neal hid his frayed nerves under pleasant banter but it did not escape his attention that Peter's part of the conversation was a little too forcibly congenial as they drove a route Caffrey found worrisomely familiar.

"Are we going to June's?" Neal finally asked.

"Yeah. El's catering us today. She wants our opinion—well, YOUR opinion—on a menu for an event she has coming up. Some prize banquet or other."

"What kind of prize?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, you'd have to ask El about that. I'm sure she mentioned it, but... something to do with books or something."

Neal nodded his head slowly. "Uh huh." He waited a beat before telling Peter, "You know, I've seen you lie a lot more convincingly under a lot more pressure."

"I'm not lying!" Burke exclaimed. He glanced over at Caffrey, who just fixed him with a knowing look until Peter's resolve to maintain the charade wavered... and broke. "Well... it's not a complete lie. El does want your opinion. And she does have an event coming up."

"A book prize banquet?" Neal was just twisting the knife now.

"A book reading. If you must know. Some comic book thing. The guy's name sounds like the Senator who ran for President."

"Obama?"

"Cute. No, McCain. Mackey. Something like that." When Peter next caught sight of Neal, he had to look twice. The young man's mouth was gaping and his eyes wide in disbelief.

"McKean?"

"That's it! See, I knew it was McSomething."

"Dave McKean?"

"Is there an echo? Yeah, that sounds about right. Why? It's comic books, it's not like it's literature or something."

Peter parked the car and looked over at Neal while putting on the emergency brake. Neal was shaking his head and throwing the most annoying amused glances at the agent. They got out of the car and headed to the door, with Neal still smiling to himself. Was it just last night that he had teased Mozzie about comics?

"Is there any chance I can meet him?" Caffrey asked.

Incredulous, Peter checked to see if his ward was joking, but saw only enthusiasm in the shining blue eyes. "You want to meet some comic book guy? Isn't that supposed to be below your artistic oeuvre?"

Neal laughed as he opened the front door and stood aside for Peter to enter before him. "That's like calling Sondheim 'some song-writing guy.' Dave McKean is a graphic artist who works in multiple media, often at the same time. He's one of the leading figures in the legitimization of comic books and graphic novels as a recognized serious artistic form. McKean did a graphical rendition of Dylan's 'Desolation Row' that the L.A. Times called 'A stunning Goya-esque riff on American society.'"

Peter trudged up the stairs and called over his shoulder, "Jesus, Neal how do you keep all this stuff in your head?"

Caffrey was glad his partner couldn't see the wistful expression he was sure he wore as he followed in the man's footsteps. "I was a teenager when I first saw his work. It was revelatory."

Burke turned at Neal's door, waiting for it to be unlocked, and just caught the faint remnants of unguarded reminiscence as it disappeared under Neal's trademark blazing smile. As they entered the apartment, both men caught scent of Elizabeth's offering which waited on perfectly arranged and garnished plates on the dining table.

"Wow," Caffrey said, raising his eyebrows at Peter. "Impressive. Just curious: how did this get in here without anyone to let Elizabeth in?"

Peter threw out an honest-to-goodness smirk as he answered, "As your... chaperone to the law-abiding world, I hold the keys to your kingdom. And loaned them to my wife."

"Great." Neal was suddenly clearly bitter. "Looks like I'll have to invest in a moat."

Peter felt a pang of regret at the look of betrayal he received, but he reminded himself that Caffrey had clearly shown—multiple times—that he needed to be monitored. Still, it wasn't wise to flaunt this symbol of distrust just before asking the con man to open himself up, and Burke felt like a fool for letting silly one-upmanship get in the way of the task at hand.

"Hey," he tried to ease the tension with a joke, "An invasion of privacy that comes with a spread like this can't be all bad."

Neal's smile was shallow, but he allowed himself to appear mollified, even as he directed a little dig at Peter. "If they fed us like this in my other prison, I might never have escaped."

Not good. Peter could feel the tension as both men eyed each other, their barriers rising with every passing moment. He swore at himself and mentally fumbled for a way to break through the growing frost. Neal had been on guard before they even left the office, and Peter knew it. He had hoped meeting on Caffrey's home turf would smooth things over and instill a sense of safety that would bring some of the secrets of the young man's past to light. Instead he had fucked it up by demonstrating just how unsafe Neal's refuge really was. Christ, Neal had a way of getting under his skin.

Peter sighed and pushed his frustration and pride down. He put a hand to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"I did," Neal said softly, putting the smiling mask charmingly in place. "I guess I just didn't think you'd use it."

Neal didn't know how he had let himself forget. He needed to remember more often that Peter was a law enforcement officer charged with shepherding a felon and not an accomplice on a benevolent con. The reassurance that Burke was a man who consistently played by the rules was countered by the fact that those same rules placed the agent in a position of power and authority over him every time. It sometimes chafed at his spirit as much as the anklet chafed at his skin.

Peter's heart sank when he saw the shades go down in Neal's eyes. God, was this going to be over before it even began? Maybe El was right. Maybe honesty was the best policy here. Caffrey could smell a con from a mile away and it wasn't going to do their relationship any favors to try to pretend there was no agenda here.

They sat across from each other at the table and Neal surveyed his plate before looking up at Peter. "Wow, this looks great!" he said. "Oh, look, Peter, Elizabeth already decanted the wine for us. How thoughtful."

"Shall I pour?" Peter asked.

"I don't see why not," Caffrey responded, his smile still in place. One may smile and smile and be a villain. The thought and accompanying image stole Neal's breath and almost swept the expression from his face, but Neal gamely held on to it as though nothing was wrong. He placed his napkin in his lap and hid his hand under it for a moment, clenching and unclenching a fist until the tremors subsided enough to reach for his glass.

"Oooh," Neal said after his first taste of the red. He picked up the bottle to examine its label, "A bold choice to pair with duck. Pinot Noir from Pupillin. A pretty new vintner, too, I think." He replaced the bottle and took up his knife and fork, looking over at Peter, who had already begun on his lunch. "Well, Agent Burke? What's the verdict?"

Peter took another sip of wine before responding. "It's good. I don't usually like duck. It can be fatty. But this is perfect."

Neal smiled his response and the two ate in silence for a while. As Peter poured them both another glass, Neal raised his eyebrows in wordless askance.

"What?" Burke asked. Neal glanced at Peter's glass and back up at Peter, who rolled his eyes. "I'm not going back to the office after this." He caught Neal's surprise and elaborated, "I didn't get enough sleep last night." Had it really only been last night? Not even twenty-four hours since they'd last left the warehouse?

They continued their meal accompanied only by their own thoughts and the clinking of silverware against ceramic. When he'd finished, Neal poured himself a third glass of wine and sat back in his chair to carefully examine an empty patch of air somewhere in the middle of the room. Peter put his utensils down and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin as he prepared to speak.

He couldn't figure out where to start. He knew Neal Caffrey's file better than anyone else at the Bureau and he flattered himself to think he probably knew the man better than anyone alive save—perhaps—Mozzie. Neal had even told him once that Peter was the only one he trusted. Jesus, how pathetic was that? How little trust had Caffrey given and received in his short life if the only one he had faith in was the man who had hunted him for years, testified against him, imprisoned him, and now held him on an electronic leash?

It was Neal who broke Peter's silent soliloquy.

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

Burke was a little startled. Neal still wasn't looking at him. He was sipping his drink, swirling the liquid over his tongue thoughtfully before swallowing and repeating the process until the glass was once again empty.

Peter thought of his wife's advice. She was usually right about these things.

"Neal, I want you to tell me about your past."

The young man gifted his glass with a slow, sad smile before setting it on the table. "I'm afraid the statute of limitations hasn't expired on much of it."

Peter grimaced. "I'm not talking about your criminal pursuits. Not entirely, anyway. I'm not trying to trick you into confessing something. I just..." He searched for the words to express how unsettling it was to watch a friend grapple with something he couldn't share. He wanted to say that Neal could tell him anything, but Peter knew that wasn't true. "I'm not... I'm not going to use what you say against you in a court of law. I'm not... It's..."

Jesus, this really wasn't his strong suit. He'd thought it had been bad after Kate, and after Mozzie, but at least then he'd had some idea of just what was troubling Neal. These were truly alien waters, and Peter did not like not knowing what was under them.

He leaned his elbows onto the table and scratched the back of his head before blurting out, "I'm worried about you, Neal." There. It was out there and now they could deal with the fallout.

Neal finally met Peter's persistent gaze, his blue eyes registering shock, then apprehension, before settling into something more enigmatic. When he spoke it was with one cool and nonchalant word: "Why?"

It hit Peter like a brick through the teeth. Angry indignation flooded him. Oh, Caffrey wasn't going to make this easy, was he? He never did. This con man... no, this KID... And as quickly as it had come, the fury subsided. It was a child's question, spoken by a man gifted enough with words to grasp the complexity of that one simple little syllable. And it was a sad, hopeless question that sparked another anger in the protective part of Peter that wanted the world to be a fairer, more just place than it was. Why would he worry? Why would he care? Was that what he was really being asked? Jesus, why WOULDN'T he care? Not for the first time he wondered what the hell the world had done to this kid to make him at once so charming and so jaded. And not for the first time he wondered if Neal had ever even had a chance at a normal life.

Peter pursed his lips and closed his eyes, feeling suddenly tired and more than a little old. He chose his next words carefully. "Because you're my friend," he said. Peter opened his eyes and looked straight at Neal. "There's something bothering you. And I want to help. That's what friends do."

Neal felt like every muscle in his body was pulled taut. His jaw ached. He concentrated on controlling his breath, but his voice still sounded choked. "I'm sorry, Peter. I can't." He looked away in embarrassment, steadied himself for a moment until the shine had left his eyes, and looked back to find Peter still leveling that steady gaze at him.

They stayed that way, just looking at each other, until Peter, those deep brown eyes somehow sad and angry at the same time, threw Neal's own simple question back at him. "Why?"

Neal felt himself start to crack. He couldn't do this. Not now. Not ever. He had left it all so far behind that he had hardly even thought of it until this past week. The past is never dead. It's not even past. No. He wasn't going there. He didn't need to. It was over, gone, and pointless to revisit. Then why was his heart racing? Why was his right fist clenched? His splayed left hand digging white-tipped fingers into the table? Why was that face looming over his prone form and smiling? O villain, villain, smiling damned villain!

"No. Peter. Just... don't." His voice was shaking and he hated himself for it. Too much had happened. Losing Kate. Almost losing Mozzie. Almost losing Peter. He was worn thin. Like old socks. Old, mismatched socks on cold, cold feet. Neal reached for anything to break his fall and found Eliot waiting like a cool pool of water.

Because I know that time is always time

And place is always and only place

And what is actual is actual only for one time

And only for one place

I rejoice that things are as they are and

I renounce the blessed face

It had the reassuringly melodic lilt of liturgy and the association of quiet and safety as afternoons rolled into evenings, natural light giving way to florescence on the familiar unchanging paper in his hands.

Neal sighed, relaxing into the present moment, and painted a weak counterfeit of an apologetic grin on his face. Peter's worry was fairly plastered over him now, and Neal knew it had looked as bad as it felt.

"Everyone has things in their past, Peter," Neal softly explained, laying a gentle emphasis on past, "that they don't want to go back to." He wanted to beg the agent to let this go, but even that would be giving too much away. And hadn't he revealed enough already, without even speaking? It would have to be done with words. Calm, sensible, logical words, carefully connected to each other in the proper order to achieve the desired result, with just enough emotion to convince Peter that he had gotten as much of what he came for as he was going to get.

Burke watched Neal, listened to him, and was surprised with himself when he heard his own reply. "Bullshit, Neal." He saw Caffrey crumple just a little, but there was no way in hell he was letting this go on any longer than necessary. The kid needed someone. He needed honesty. And he was gonna get it whether he liked it or not.

"Neal, what just happened right now," Peter tapped the table with a finger, "you were not in control. That was a flashback. I saw you go through them after... after the plane exploded. I let it go then. And I was wrong. I shouldn't have." His expression softened and his voice wavered ever so slightly. "It kills me to see you like this."

Neal's eyes widened, and he began to retreat back into himself again.

"No," Peter said. "Stop it. I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm telling you that it's not just you anymore. You have to let someone in, someday. And I'm here. Now." Peter paused. "I know I'm not... not that great with all the... you know... feelings and... whatever, BUT," he held up a hand to cut off Caffrey, who was tilting his head back and opening his mouth to protest, "But I can listen." He stopped again before continuing, "I've seen a lot of terrible things. Heard a lot of awful stories. I'm tough, Neal. Whatever you have, it's not gonna break me. Or push me away."

Peter let a small creep onto his face. "I caught you before. Twice." He held up two fingers. "So I can sure as hell catch you now, if you need it."

Neal returned his own tired version of the smile. "You're really proud of that wordplay, aren't you?"

"A little," Burke admitted. He leaned forward. "You understand me, don't you?"

"Not always." The sly Caffrey wit returned. "But yes, I think I do." He nodded his head toward the sofa behind Peter and said, "Should I be on the couch for this, doctor?"

Peter's grin widened. "Nah! We'll do this the manly way: with beer. Well," he amended, "Beer for me. Some sissy umbrella drink for you."

Neal leaned back and stretched. "If you prefer," he agreed. "Or we could try some cognac Mozzie got me."

Burke raised his eyebrows. "Oooh, that does sound better. Wait. Mozzie BOUGHT something?"

Caffrey shrugged. "To make up for drinking so much of my wine." Peter continued the questioning stare. Neal rolled his eyes. "Okay, I don't actually know that he paid money for it. But that doesn't mean he stole it, either. Necessarily."

"Did it ever occur to you it would be easier to go straight if you didn't surround yourself with criminals?"

"Hey, you're the one who has me chasing after law-breakers day after day," Neal replied as he rose to retrieve the bottle and two glasses more appropriate for their aperitif. "Besides, since when is Mozzie a criminal?"

Peter cleared the table and put the spent dishes on the kitchenette's counter. "Your little friend may never have been caught, but that doesn't mean he's squeaky clean, either."

"Use every man after his desert and who should 'scape whipping?" Neal quoted.

"Hamlet. Really?"

"It's a classic." Neal's careful outward smile remained, but he was chiding himself. He really should read that Inferno translation Mozzie kept going on about. At least he could distress himself with different material.

"I better not be Polonius in your mental analogy."

"If we start assigning roles, this conversation is going to get complicated very quickly."

Peter's mind flashed through a series of possibilities. Caffrey must fancy himself the eponymous hero, which would make Mozzie a balding Horatio, Kate the doomed Ophelia, and who would be enlisted as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? "Let's not. I don't recall that play turning out well for anybody."

"Fortinbras did all right," Neal pointed out, gracefully transferring the amber fluid from bottle to glass.

"Yeah, and the grave diggers probably got some great overtime, but somehow I still don't like the direction this goes." Burke watched Neal settle into the chair opposite the couch to sip his drink and perch his feet on an ottoman. His jacket was off now, but he still wore the vest and his tie was perfectly crisp. He was as composed and staged as a portrait.

Peter sat on the sofa and reached for the tulip glass on the low table before him. He sniffed the beverage, appreciating the delicate scent before tasting. It was Neal's turn to watch now, and consider his options. He was off balance. Both of them seemed to be, their tempers flaring and fading too quickly to be quite natural. Lack of sleep must be a large part of it, though not its entirety. Caffrey thought perhaps he could use that to push and pull their exchange so Burke got what he thought he needed and Neal got to keep his pain to himself, where it belonged. At least for a while longer. Peter might consider that a con, but every relationship involves manipulation on one level or another. A good con was just a relationship which one party carefully planned and controlled without making the effort too apparent. A form of romance, really. And Neal could do romance.

"Why now, Peter?" Neal made the first move. "I know you've wanted to know about my past for a long time, so why are you asking me now?"

"I told you. I'm worried."

"I can do the job."

"I know."

That hadn't been the reply Neal expected, and Peter continued before Caffrey could readjust his strategy. "When we were in that... that basement, Neal...," Peter stopped and frowned, leaning forward and hoping he could translate what was in his head into something his partner would understand. "You had some kind of connection with her. With Abigail. Not...," he cut off Neal's protest before it could begin, "Not with her as an individual. But with her... situation. Her circumstances. It's been clear since we first got this case... since you found this case for us, that you have some kind of..." Peter swallowed. "Some kind of intimate understanding of what she was going through."

Burke put his glass down. Neal was very quiet now, and a little paler than usual. He knew what was coming. Peter hoped if he was direct enough, Caffrey wouldn't be able to deflect the question. He hoped that somewhere in Caffrey, something wanted to talk about this, and to talk about it with Peter.

"Neal, please tell me. Before prison, before I started chasing you. I need to know. Did someone hurt you like that? Did someone... did someone hold you against your will?"

An icy chill spread from Neal's heart and froze him into an exquisite sculpture of dread. He was trapped. Even his breath had nowhere to go as his chest ceased its steady rise and fall. There was no way out of this question. Peter had been very clever. He had caught him again.

Their eyes were locked onto each other and neither spoke a word.

With a sudden shaky inhalation, Neal began once again to draw breath. He was deathly pale now. There was desperation in his eyes that took Peter back to a time when he was holding the young man for dear life to keep him from flying to the burning wreckage of Kate's plane.

"Peter. Please. Please. Don't ask me this. I can't do this." His eyes were so wide, so blue, and so pained.

But Peter wasn't letting go. Not now. Not ever.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Neal," he said softly. "If you don't want to tell me about it now, that's fine. I get it. It's okay." Burke paused. "I only need one word. Just one. Please. Just tell me. Yes or no. Before we met. Were you held against your will? Just yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Neal could feel the word begin to form on his lips, but he couldn't find the will to push it out, to give it life. Instead he raised his glass to them and downed the remainder of his cognac in a single swallow. It nearly choked him and he was suddenly dizzy. The alcohol burned down his throat into his gut, and the fumes of the strong liquor consumed too quickly rushed through his head.

And Peter was still looking at him. Still waiting. No exit.

Neal couldn't tear himself from Peter's gaze. He had lied before. Lied to Peter's face without flinching. Almost without guilt. So why was this happening? Why were his ears hearing his trembling lips release that single damning word?

"Yes."

...