AN: So, I have a fairly good excuse for the delay. :D I was out for two weeks with whooping cough, and the medication they gave me was quite strong. It was horrible, that's all I'm going to say. So I was behind in everything, and am only just getting caught up with my writing. Thus, I give you (finally), the next chapter. Hope it doesn't disappoint. Big thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab for her beta work on this chapter, and for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites. And a huge thanks to whoever nominated "Vital Lies" for the White Collar Fanfiction Awards! I was really touched when I saw that it was in the running. You guys are totally awesome. :D

Chapter Thirteen - Paradigm Shift

Neal glanced at Shaw in concern and continued to apply pressure to the man's wound. The bleeding had slowed down to a much more manageable level, but there was a pinched look to the man's face, and he was still white as a sheet. The saline appeared to be helping; however, until they made it back to the Studio–where he could replace the blood Shaw lost–there wasn't much he could do. He had been worried at first that the bullet may have nicked a larger blood vessel, but after checking the site he hadn't seen anything to indicate that. Thankfully, because while he could have dealt with Shaw bleeding out, it would have been extremely difficult. As it was, he had a long day ahead of him.

"Did it do what I thought it would?" Shaw's soft voice sounded loud in the small car. Neal knew what he was asking about–the Intersect–and he nodded.

"I think so," he replied, just as quietly. "It rebooted like it was designed to do, and it's there. Still, I'm pretty sure I have a concussion."

"Yeah, I hear that happens when your head meets solid ground at a great speed." The agent was gritting his teeth in pain when Neal shifted his position and jostled his arm accidentally. "What are you going to do?"

If that wasn't a question open to many interpretations, then he'd eat his hat. Which reminded him: it was missing.

"About what?" he asked, avoiding Shaw's gaze and fiddling with the gauze he was working with.

"You know very well 'what'. How are you going to handle seeing them–"

"I'll handle it just fine," he hissed as he cut the man off. Ignoring Peter's startled look from the front seat at the violent tone, he continued more quietly, but just as intense. "It's been five years. They've moved on."

"Bullshit," Shaw said, and Neal flinched. "If you think those two aren't going to remember, then you're sorely mistaken. You're also an idiot, but I think we established that already."

He remained silent, his jaw clenched tight. He wasn't quite sure how to respond. In all honesty, he was absolutely dreading seeing Chuck and Sarah again. Not only would it no doubt dredge up some feelings that he had long since buried, but seeing the betrayal on their faces would hurt. Deeply. His death, and subsequent incarceration, had affected him more than he had ever admitted. A spy's life was often lonely, but those three years in prison had been the worst of his life.

He had had plenty of time to reflect, though, and he had taken advantage of it, looking back all the way to Stanford. Chuck had been his best friend, and Neal certainly didn't regret getting him expelled. While in the long run it had not really helped much, as Chuck had still become involved with the CIA, he hadn't become corrupted by them like Neal had–at least, not then. Now was a different story, and he was actually terrified to see his old friend. Would he hate Neal for lying and faking his death? Probably, but there had been a good reason behind everything, and he hoped Chuck would see that. He always remembered his friend as being rather levelheaded, but if it involved something the man cared about, that was a different story.

"Do you think he'll hate me?" he blurted out, and was unable to stop the horrified expression from crossing his face. Shaw's pain-filled eyes met his, and he gave Neal a searching look.

"I think he'll be pissed off that he was left in the dark. Five years is a long time, but death is an eternity," Shaw said, shooting Peter a look. The FBI agent had been listening to their conversation, but still seemed both confused and in shock, so not much was registering. Neal knew it wouldn't last forever, and frowned as he saw Peter avoid their eyes.

Suddenly, the sound of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance echoed in the car and startled Neal. Glancing at the phone in his hand and seeing Fowler's number, he shot Shaw a look of exasperation. The man just shot him a tired smirk in return, and Neal rolled his eyes.

"Strangely, it fits," he muttered, and hesitated. At this point, he didn't feel much like being yelled at, but the man would just keep calling. With a sigh, he picked it up. "Yes?"

"I hate you, Larkin. Next time, you're cleaning up your own messes. Maid wasn't in the damn job description."

"And to think I will miss seeing you in that French maid outfit." Shaw snorted next to him, his eyes dancing with laughter at Neal's joking. "I'm so disappointed."

"Laugh it up, Larkin. But remember, I'm sure Burke would enjoy those pictures of you and Shaw on that mission in Par–"

"Are you there yet?" Neal cut him off, unable to let him continue for both his and Shaw's sakes. He thought they burned those pictures. Damn.

Fowler was chuckling on the other end as he answered, letting the subject of incriminating pictures drop, "I will be in a few minutes. Beckman didn't say much other than I've got two dead bodies to deal with. And I need to deal with the Bureau. Jones was worried that Burke didn't call in."

"I expected nothing less," Neal said, worrying his lip between his teeth for a moment as he debated whether he should have Peter call. "We're headed to the Studio. You did clear him, right?"

"Jones? Yeah, his clearance went through fine. Would you like me to bring him down after I get through over here?"

"I think that may be best. I'd rather explain it once." He met Peter's eyes in the rearview mirror again, and held the gaze for a moment.

There was a pause on the other end before Fowler said, "Fine. Cruz's clearance is still being processed, so I won't bring her. Hughes has one already, but Beckman was going to have someone else brief him about Carson. Not you."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever she wants." Truthfully, he was relieved. Reese Hughes was not someone he wanted to bring in, despite the fact that the man was completely trustworthy. It was just too dangerous for anyone outside of his group to know. It was too dangerous for Peter and Jones to know, but it had to be done now.

"Shaw?"

"He's fine," Neal said, glancing at the agent next to him who had his eyes squeezed shut. "He's had worse. I'm just mad that we can't call him Superman anymore. As much as we would like to think he's bulletproof…"

"Good," Fowler replied, and Neal had to hold back a smile when he caught the relieved tone. "I'm picking up Agents Bartowski and Walker in a while, so we can have this damn talk already. I can't wait till I'm reassigned and I never have to see your face again."

"I think I'll take that as a compliment."

The conversation made absolutely no sense at all to Peter. It seemed to be a running trend as of the past hour or so. Nothing made sense anymore. Things had changed. Something had shifted. His world had been tilted. It happened the moment Neal shot Hutchinson in front of him. Well, behind him, really, as he had been held hostage.

Flashes of the moment kept trying to creep up on him. The name Bryce Larkin, Carson's self-satisfied look, Neal's cool voice and cold eyes, the flash of a gun, blood. It completely contradicted everything he knew, or thought he knew, about the conman. Neal wasn't supposed to be a killer, let alone a good one. Peter still wasn't sure how he had pulled that shot off. Seeing him hold Carson at gunpoint had also been jarring. It was like he had done it before; he was so collected and familiar with the weapon. As an FBI agent, it scared him, but as Neal's supposed friend, it terrified him. Neal was not Neal anymore.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly, keeping his eyes glued to the road and his hands on the wheel of the car. There was some shifting in the backseat, but he didn't glance at the two.

"Special Agent Daniel Shaw, CIA. I'd show you my pretty ID, but I don't have it on me at the moment."

"Not you."

"Peter, I don't want to do this–" Neal started, but he viciously cut him off.

"I don't really give a damn what you want or don't want." He gripped the steering wheel tighter, and resisted the urge to jerk it when a turn came up. Instead he turned the car smoothly, semi-mindful of the injured agent in the back seat. "Who are you?"

There was a moment of tense silence, and he risked a quick look in the rearview mirror. Neal's eyes were squeezed shut as if he was in pain, and when he opened them, Peter hastily glanced away again.

"My name, my real name at least," he could hear him take a deep breath, "is Bryce Larkin."

"Why do I call you Neal Caffrey?"

"I wasn't picturing this conversation taking place in a car," Neal, or Bryce now, apparently, muttered. "It's an alias."

"An alias," Peter said flatly. Absently, he realized one more turn and they would be on his street. "Neal Caffrey isn't real?"

"I never said that," Bryce Larkin said defensively. "Neal Caffrey is perfectly 'real'."

"Right," Peter said, nodding his head. "And so is Puff the Magic Dragon."

"Peter–"

"No, Neal. Or Bryce. Whatever the hell your name is." He shook his head in frustration. "You lied to me."

"I lied to a lot of people," Neal said softly, a trace of some sadness in his voice. "It's my job to lie, Peter."

"You're not a con artist, are you?" Peter inquired.

A dark chuckle came from the back seat, and it caused Peter to shiver. It sounded cold, calculating almost. "I never said I wasn't. If you want to classify me as one, feel free. It undeniably fits."

The other agent, Shaw, let out a bark of laughter, followed by a groan of pain. Peter didn't glance back, as much as he wanted to. He wasn't sure he could stand to look at Neal–no, Bryce–right now. Not only was he confused, but it was just starting to set in that he didn't know his partner anymore.

"Back there," Peter started slowly, "Carson called you Agent Larkin. That wasn't a mistake, was it?"

"No," Nea- Bryce said quietly, looking out the tinted window at the New York landscape as it passed by. "It wasn't."

"Who are you?"

The man let out a short laugh, and said, "My full title is Special Agent Bryce Larkin. I haven't used the name in five years, though. Legally, my name is really Neal Caffrey, as you undoubtedly know. Those FBI background checks are quite thorough."

"Not enough," Shaw muttered, and Peter caught him rolling his eyes.

"Special Agent for who?"

"I would have thought you guessed by now," Neal said, and Peter shook his head.

"I have an idea, but I need to hear it from you," he said, sounding oddly desperate. There was an uncomfortable silence in the car as Peter waited for what he already knew.

"The CIA. I work for the CIA."

It was hard to believe that three letters could effectively shatter conceived notions, and bring the world to a stand still. But for Peter Burke, it had happened, and there was no going back.

"I don't understand, Peter!" Elizabeth hissed, eyeing Neal and Shaw with disbelief. They made for an interesting sight, the larger man draped over the smaller one as they walked behind them down an alley. Apparently, blood loss makes you woozy. "Why am I here? And why isn't he in a hospital? He's shot!"

Peter shook his head and stopped before he pulled El closer to him. Gently taking her face in his hands, he met her scared blue eyes and tried to convey something helpful, but failed. "I don't know, hun. I'm about as clueless as you are. Neal says he'll answer our questions after he gets the other agent fixed up. I just need you to stay calm. Can you do that?"

It wasn't a great question, as he was pretty much still freaking out over some of the revelations in the car, so his voice held a small tremor that he was unable to conceal. He was coming off of an adrenaline rush, too, which may have contributed to his shakiness. Her eyes widened when she caught it, though, and shot over to the two over Peter's shoulder.

"Did Neal do something bad?" she asked, whispering. Peter had to close his eyes for a moment. He wasn't sure how to answer that.

"I don't know," he muttered, opening his eyes and glancing back at the two men. They had stopped in front of a dingy-looking door, and he was startled to see it open automatically. Neal called out to them and, without looking back, disappeared through the door.

Peter reluctantly moved away from El and took her hand before leading them towards the open door. She went quiet at his tone, silently tightening her grip on his hand. The other hand held Satchmo's leash, the dog surprisingly docile at his master's side. It was as if he knew now was not the time to be sniffing the overflowing trash cans littering the alley.

They came up to the open door and walked in. It was much nicer in the hallway than it had been in the alley. Gleaming white tile floor and whitewashed walls gave the small space a clean look. The door behind them made a clicking sound as it shut them in, and there was a feeling of finality.

Satchmo's paws clacked against the floor as El followed Peter. At the end of the hallway, there was a single steel door, protected by what looked like a high tech security palm scanner. Shaw was leaning against the wall nearby, his eyes shut tight in pain from his wound, while Neal fiddled with the scanner. The injured agent was much paler than he had been a few minutes ago, Peter noticed, and the sound of heavy breathing filled the small area. He felt a pang of sympathy for the agent, and could practically feel El's motherly instincts firing up.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked, staring at the man's bloodied shirt in horror. A brown eye wearily cracked open, meeting her gaze with indifference, before closing again.

"I'll be fine," he said, his voice raspy. "I'm in capable hands."

"Who?" she trailed off, her attention caught by Satchmo when he suddenly whined and shuffled towards the man.

Peter watched as the dog nudged the man's free hand where it was hanging limply by his side. This time both brown eyes flew open, and the man looked at the dog in astonishment. Satchmo was incessant, butting his head at the man's leg repeatedly so he could be petted. The man hesitated, but then shaky fingers reached out and stroked the top of the dog's soft fur. It was hard for Peter to restrain a small smile at the dog's antics. Being a certified therapy dog, Satch had apparently picked up on the man's distress and wanted to fix it.

Neal had finally gotten the door open and turned back to them, answering El's question. "I'm trained in trauma. This place has a whole medical wing with everything we could possibly need."

"Where are we?" Peter asked, watching as Neal let the man lean on him again. El pulled Satchmo back when they moved away, heading to the open door. He hesitated for a moment, shooting a look at the closed steel door leading back out, then took a deep breath and went forward. When he caught a glimpse of the palm scanner, his heart beat a little faster. In bright green letters for all to see, it said, BRYCE LARKIN (CIA), IDENTITY CONFIRMED. El must have noticed it too, because he heard her let out a little gasp and her grip turned to a crushing one.

"The Studio," Neal answered shortly, his attention focused on helping Shaw make it down the metal steps. "It's a CIA substation. Just please, don't touch anything."

Peter was barely capable of speech, let alone moving from his place at the top of the metal staircase. The room below them was like nothing he had ever seen before. Massive amounts of technology flashed and blinked brightly. A large bank of flat-screen monitors dominated the room, with a screensaver showing the seals of various agencies. He recognized the FBI's, but also caught the CIA's and some other agency he didn't recognize. An odd glowing table was positioned strategically in front of the screens, and Peter wished that the FBI could afford technology like this. It would no doubt make their jobs much easier.

Large strip lights were stuck to the concrete walls along the staircase, and soft blue light filtered into the small underground cavern. He could make out glass screens separating the main room from other areas, but could not make out any other features of the rooms, as the glass was frosted. The whole area felt like something out of a spy movie or Batman, if he could call it a bat cave. It made him surprisingly uncomfortable and off balance. Sure, he worked for a law enforcement agency that dealt with intelligence, but he had never been exposed to an operation like this. He'd never worked with the CIA. At least, not that he had known of.

"I need to take him to the medical wing," Neal called from below, and drew Peter's gaze. There was a pained look on the man's face that was out of place. He attributed some of it from the fact that Agent Shaw was currently draped over him, but he had the feeling that it was something more than that. "You can either come with me, or I can put you into one of the detention cells. It's protocol."

"Detention cells?" El asked, scrunching up her nose. She made it sound like a dirty word.

"Fine," Peter said, grabbing his wife's hand again and leading her down the steps with Satchmo trailing. He was not going to sit in some cell, being held hostage by, well, he wasn't quite sure what to call Neal, or Bryce, rather. "Show us to the medical wing."

"The x-rays indicated no broken bones or bullet fragments lodged in your arm. I cleaned the area already, so now I just have to stitch it up." Neal turned away from the large computer monitor where Shaw's x-rays were displayed. He pushed his glasses–black framed specs that he didn't use too often–back into place and walked over to Shaw where he was lying on an examination table. For the moment, he was ignoring the stares he could feel coming from Peter and Elizabeth as they watched him work. "I want to put you in a sling so you don't pull it too much, though we need to do some exercises everyday to get full function back. The bullet took out a pretty good chunk of your flesh."

That was true. While it had not been as bad as Neal had originally feared, it had been quite the graze. Like a knife through butter, the bullet had sliced into the man's left arm, cutting into muscle and leaving a long gash that had bled profusely. Painful, yes; life threatening, no.

He checked the IV and made sure that the blood was still flowing from the bag properly, then sat in a rolling chair on Shaw's left side. There was a small metal table nearby that had a set of latex gloves and a suture kit all ready for him.

"That's it?" Shaw asked quietly, watching as Neal snapped on the gloves and reached for a syringe and vial. Deftly, he exposed the needle and stuck it into the vial, drawing out some of the clear liquid.

"I can't exactly tell if there's been nerve or soft tissue damage," Neal said, hesitating slightly. He met Shaw's eyes as he drew the needle from the vial and looked away, rolling forward in the chair so that he could work on the arm. Prodding the area he was going to numb, he started to inject the Lidocaine, not even warning the man of the pinch. It was certainly not as bad as the gunshot wound. "I would put you through the MRI, but that takes time we don't have right now."

"What about when the rest of the team arrives?"

"We'll see. If I decide it's needed that bad, Chuck can always run it on you. He doesn't have to go to work." He jerked his head towards Peter and El, who he knew had been following the conversation.

"Chuck?" Peter sounded a little confused, but Neal knew he had made the connection.

"Charles Carmichael. I think Jones gave you his file this morning," he replied casually. Finished with the anesthetic, he placed it back on the tray with a clang and picked up the suture thread.

"Yeah, he's part of your team," Peter said. Neal caught the agent pointing at Shaw out of the corner of his eye. The CIA agent grinned in response, and Neal shot him a warning look that was promptly ignored. "He's not FBI either, is he?"

"Agents Charles Bartowski and his wife–" Neal almost pricked himself with the needle he had been trying to thread, and he stared wide-eyed at Shaw. "Sarah Walker-Bartowski are CIA officers under my authority."

"Chuck and Sarah," El breathed out, wide-eyed. Neal clenched his fists together, the latex sticking slightly, and glanced at the two.

Her right hand was clasped tightly in Peter's grip, and she had brought her left hand up to her mouth. There was something in her blue eyes that made him really uncomfortable–pity. Peter's gaze was more angry than anything, and he directed his next question at Neal when they locked eyes.

"You know them." It was a statement, not a question.

"I–" Neal stuttered, still in shock over Shaw's comment. "I… yes, I do."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter sounded like an odd combination of broken, confused, and angry. Neal shook his head and turned away, unable to stand the intense stare from the FBI agent. The room was quiet.

He finally threaded the needle for the sutures and bent over Shaw's arm, intently checking the area again. Breaking the silence, he said, "I couldn't. You don't understand–"

"Then help me," Peter pressed. "Help me understand this, because I'm lost."

"Not right now," Neal said, dismissing the agent. A sound resembling a growl echoed in the room, but he ignored it and started to stitch up Shaw's bullet wound.

"Not right–not right now?" Peter asked incredulously. "Why not? What's so wrong about right now?"

"Because," Neal started, injecting some coldness into his voice. "I don't want to discuss it more than I have to. Not everyone that needs to hear what I have to say is here yet, so you're just going to have to wait. If you can't handle that, I'll be happy to show you to a detention cell where you can wait with Elizabeth. You're lucky I haven't already."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter seemed angry, and Neal heard El whisper something. He was focused on working on the bullet wound, and he really didn't want to look up. Although, he could imagine the worried look on El's face, and the reassuring hand on Peter's arm.

"Just what he meant, Burke," Shaw cut in, and winced as Neal poked him in a place that was not numb.

"I wasn't asking you!" Peter was on his feet in protest.

"It means what it sounds like. Sit quietly and keep your mouth shut, or I'll place you in a cell." He looked up from his work, and grey eyes pinned the agent with cold glare. "Understood?"

Peter sat down with a thud, staring at him wide-eyed again. The flash of fear that crossed the agent's brown eyes might have pleased Neal if the circumstances had been different, but now it only served to remind him of the real gulf between them. It wasn't one of criminal and law enforcement anymore.