Mind channeling many conflicting thoughts, he reached the front entrance of his home and took a deep breath before opening the door.

"Hey, Neal. Good timing," Peter greeted as he pulled open the door to his home with a smile, welcoming the younger man who stood on the front step patiently. "Meatloaf's almost ready." He looked past Neal briefly to spot the motorcycle on the street that he knew belonged to Neal. "You ride your bike here?"

Neal paused at the reception, frowning immediately and not returning the greeting. "Meatloaf?" he asked cynically. "Are you serious?"

"No. I'm kidding…" Peter responded with a chuckle and small smirk at Neal's expression and gullibility. "Wanted to see your reaction." He paused. "By the way, why'd you ring the bell when you have a key?" He felt a need to keep his interaction with Neal light-hearted where he could. He knew he'd gain nothing by reacting to his continued concern over the undercover role extending outside the city. Or rather, he'd gain an argument and a headache. He took the bottle of wine that Neal offered to him as he squashed these thoughts. If Neal thought there was any agenda here other than dinner, things would not go well.

Neal gave him a tired look in response and rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Peter. When did you become a comedian?"

"I mean, at least you're using the front door this time," Peter continued, unable to help himself. "That's progress." As Neal continued to glare at him, he gestured him inside with a wave of his hand. "Come on in." As the younger man moved into the house, obviously bristling at the teasing, Peter moved to pull shut the door behind them, locking it as well. He turned in time to catch the sight of Satchmo closing the gap between him and the guest with an eager wagging tail as the dog immediately focused on showering Neal with attention.

Neal in the meanwhile went through his usual habits as he entered the home. First shrugging off his jacket and placing it on a hook near the front door. Next he immediately crouched down low to the floor, responding to the dog that had reached him, and rewarded him generous scratches behind the ear and on his belly, murmuring something for a good thirty seconds in a muffled exchange that Peter couldn't hear.

What the hell does he say to my dog? Peter wondered briefly, not for the first time. Whatever it was, Satchmo was in heaven.

Next Neal was up from his crouched position, making Peter slightly envious of his agile joints, and moving towards the kitchen, brushing dog hair off his jeans without much care. Peter followed him silently, wine bottle in hand, and watched him approach his wife.

"Hey, Neal," Elizabeth greeted with a large smile as she turned to greet him, embracing him once he reached her with a quick hug. As she stepped back, she gave him a once over and rewarded him with an approving nod. "Well, I have to say you look much better rested than the last time I saw you. That's good to see. You feel better?"

"Yes." He gave a small smile, almost bashful, and then glanced over briefly to Peter, who had returned to his spot next to the island counter and the glass of wine on it. He was putting the new bottle of wine from Neal on the counter and wasn't looking at them, so Neal turned back to El.

"I'm sorry about that morning, Elizabeth," Neal started to say slowly, tone sincere and expression apologetic. "I shouldn't have come over here. At least not like that. At that hour." He glanced behind her where he saw the pot on the stove, relieved to see it was indeed not meatloaf. "That smells good by the way."

"Thanks," she said, glancing at the stove herself. Then she fixed a solemn look at Neal. "And don't apologize for coming over here, Neal. You know the door is always open for you."

"In more ways than one," Peter said sarcastically from behind them, wondering if teasing Neal about possessing a key was getting old. To him it wasn't and it was just too easy to allude to. However, he then frowned as both his wife, unaware of the matter of the key, and his CI turned to look at him. The former looked confused at the statement, giving him a questioning look, while the latter looked annoyed. Peter raised his eyebrows and then innocently reached for his glass of wine, not commenting further.

El frowned briefly and then focused her attention back on Neal. "I mean it, Sweetie. There's never any harm in coming over here. I hope you know that."

"Thanks," Neal said earnestly. He then paused and made a slight face. "Though to be honest, there actually is sometimes harm," he told her. As she frowned, a puzzled look on her face, he turned his back to her slightly and reached to pull up the side of his t-shirt. "See?"

El gasped as she saw the ugly bruise on the side of his back, a dark contrast to the pale and unblemished rest of his skin. "Neal! How did that happen?" she demanded, sounding concerned. She reached out to touch the discolored skin gently. "Does it hurt?"

Neal shook his head and then pulled his shirt back down as he started to explain. "No, it's fine. Peter was –"

"Peter?" El echoed, interrupting him to send a now intense glare her husband's direction. "Peter was what, Neal? What did he do to you?"

Exasperated at the sudden change in topic and unspoken accusation aimed at him, Peter quickly lost interest in his wine and moved towards them, shaking his head emphatically while holding up a cautionary hand in the air as though to pause the discussion. "Hold on." As he reached them, he gave Neal a discerning scowl, eye contact intense and sharp as daggers. He then sent a more patient look his wife's way. "Hon. I didn't do that to him, and someone—" he narrowed his eyes at Neal "— should watch what they said before misleading people. Because I know we've talked the consequences of misleading people…"

Neal said nothing and stayed solemn, though despite the rebuke his eyes conveyed a sparkle of entertainment in seeing Peter defend himself. His amusement wasn't even muted by Peter's use of one of his least favorite words.

El looked baffled. "Then how the heck did it happen?"

"People bang into things. They bruise," Peter responded stiffly. He shot Neal a look. "Even him."

"It banged into me," Neal corrected, ignoring another glare from his handler and staring back openly with blue eyes. "Not the other way around."

"What did?" El frowned further, confusion growing.

"Hon, don't burn your sauce over this ridiculous conversation," Peter warned gently. "He's fine." He watched El turn back to the stove, still frowning as she picked up her spoon to stir the sauce while peering into the pot. She moved her other hand to adjust the dial to lower the heat. With her back still to them, Peter quickly and irritably turned on Neal, stepping forward to take him by the arm, physically steering him away from his wife and towards the other side of the kitchen. "You. Enough. Set the table." He gave him a push towards the table but Neal ignored the direction and didn't move far from him.

"Is anyone going to tell me what banged into him to create that awful injury?" El asked, still focused on the stove. "Is this a state secret?"

"I'd barely call it an injury," Peter muttered, while at the same time his CI spoke in direct response to her question.

"A door," Neal offered. He then winced as Peter's hand came up to whack him on the back of the head.

Peter took hold of his arm again, gripping his elbow and pulling him closer to mutter, "What's the matter with you?" under his breath, purposefully out of hearing range from his wife.

Neal shrugged, shaking his head without providing an answer. He had, in his opinion, simply stated a fact. He stared at Peter inoffensively. This only seemed to incense Peter's glare further.

"What?" El turned to view them both, focusing first on her husband and then on Neal with even more puzzlement than before. Her husband looked increasingly annoyed while Neal simply looked uneasy. She also didn't miss the fact Peter was holding Neal by the arm.

Neal glanced warily at Peter before explaining slowly, "I got hit by the door." As Peter narrowed his eyes, he quickly added, "But it was an accident. Peter didn't know I was there when he opened it."

Peter met his puzzled wife's gaze with a sigh. "I'm not even sure why we're talking about this… He's fine," he repeated.

"I'm fine," Neal agreed as well, reacting in response to Peter squeezing his arm. He tried not to wince.

"You opened a door… into him," she repeated the facts gathered, voice monotone, and expression remaining as though she still hadn't been given an answer.

"Not my finest moment," Peter answered dryly. He glanced at Neal. "Or his." Then he gave Neal another nudge towards the table as he released his arm. "Go do what I told you," he said stiffly. "Now." As Neal begrudgingly walked away, Peter slowly moved across the room to his wife and leaned in to give her another kiss. "It was a small accident," he said in a volume only she could hear. "On an already bad morning. But I didn't touch him. He's just looking for you to baby him."

She just looked bemused as she checked on the pasta in the pot on the burner behind the sauce, scooping out a few strands to test its cooked status. "I don't think I want to ask any further," she responded, giving him a small smile. "Because I don't think I want to know. But I do think I'll take that glass of wine now."

"Coming up," he agreed, walking across the kitchen to the cabinet to get her another glass. His eyes found Neal diligently carrying plates to their table. "Neal. You want a glass of wine?"

"Uh…" Neal hesitated in his response at first as he placed the plates on the dining table. Then he nodded, "Sure. But just a little," he answered. "I've got my bike. And…" he trailed off and then looked across the room to meet Peter's eyes. "And I have no idea where I might have to go today. Or when." He paused, watching Peter reach for the wine already open on the counter. "But, Peter – open the bottle I brought." He met Peter's questioning eye. "Elizabeth will like it."

"And you know the wine my wife likes…" Peter muttered to himself, though he moved to find the wine opener to open the bottle as directed. Of course Neal did. Neal was a natural profiler of people. Pleasing people, knowing what they wanted, and giving it to them was second nature to him. It was essentially his instinct. That is how he built his status in the world to then calculate what he could get in exchange.

He felt a little guilt characterizing the man like that, so black and white, as he multi-tasked while opening the wine, glancing up occasionally to observe Neal dutifully setting their table for three without the previous reluctance. It also wasn't lost on him that Neal knew where everything was in their home to complete the task. He moved through the kitchen swiftly, knowing where plates and cutlery and glasses were kept without having to guess. Peter wondered if it was the result of their many dinners together or the fact Neal has cased this place the moment he was invited inside. Perhaps both.

He didn't want to ask.

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table and El was placing a bowl of spaghetti with a serving spoon in the center of the table.

"Hon, that looks delicious," Peter said with a smile as his wife took her seat in a chair across from Neal, beside his own position at the head at the table. "Thank you for cooking."

"Yeah, thank you," Neal added, smiling in appreciation. "Smells great."

"Sorry it's nothing fancy," she said, shrugging briefly. "If I knew you were coming sooner, Neal, I would have planned something a little bit less simple than this."

"No, this is perfect," Neal answered, shaking his head to refute her comment. "I like simple. Really, I mean it. I don't need anything special, Elizabeth."

"Oh don't be mistaken. This sauce is special," Peter answered.

"I bet it is," Neal answered with a small smile.

"Go ahead and dig in. Serve yourselves," she told them, waving her hand at the bowl to encourage them. She watched Peter reach for the serving spoon and then focused her attention on Neal. "And, Neal, tell me about this undercover role of yours… Peter's been filling me in, but I wanted to hear about it from you. I hear you're taking a trip?"

"Yeah. But, uh… I'm not exactly sure of the details, to be honest," Neal answered slowly. His eyes shifted from the spaghetti bowl to Peter, who was focused on scooping a generous portion of pasta onto his own plate. "But they want me to help them and mentioned it would be out of town. Which presents a good opportunity to get more evidence on them."

"How do you feel about that?" she asked.

Neal shrugged, feeling his leg begin to bounce out of sight beneath the table. He had a feeling when Peter had invited him for dinner that the topic of this aspect of his undercover role would probably come up. And he wasn't sure what angle they had, which made him uneasy. But then again, if that was the topic of the evening, at least it meant he wasn't in trouble for something else. He answered her slowly, "I can do it. I mean… I think I know what they want me to do. I've done it before." He took the serving spoon that Peter offered out to him, and then clarified, "I've done it for them before."

"I didn't ask if you could do it, Neal," she said gently. "I asked how you felt about it."

"Oh," he responded, brow furrowing slightly. Feelings. He glanced up at her briefly, and then turned his attention to the bowl of pasta, a little relieved he had a reason to avoid eye contact. "Uh, okay, I guess. I just don't know when I'm going to hear from him."

"Are you nervous?"

"Nervous?" Neal echoed incredulously. "No," he replied immediately, chuckling in response as though the concept was absurd. Of course he wasn't nervous. That's what he told himself.

At the dismissive response, Peter looked up from a forkful of pasta and studied the younger man. A confident smile and poised posture remained after he had glibly answered at the question, but Peter could see it falter a bit. The lips, while curved upwards in a self-assured smirk, seemed to waver in the expression slightly. He was far too focused on the spaghetti, slowly taking a scoopful to place it on his plate as though trying to draw out the exercise. Like it was a distraction, or a shield. Peter considered calling out Neal on downplaying how he probably really felt about the task ahead of him, but decided a slightly different tactic was probably required.

"It's okay to be nervous," he told him. "If you are."

Neal sent him a look, eyes blazing briefly, challenging him as if to say don't go there. Then he responded with an even tone, albeit slightly stiff. "I'm not, Peter. I told you. I've done this before."

Peter refrained from responding. He could tell Neal was feeling a little cornered. Though he wished he could be honest with them. On multiple occasions, he'd talked to Neal about sharing his feelings, rather than bottling it inside. Eventually the feelings would erupt in his behavior anyway, but that could be avoided if they just talked about it. Whether it was feeling mad about a circumstance or slighted about a decision being made. Or being afraid of something. As Peter had told him, he wasn't a mind reader.

He'd tried to explain to Neal that being unflappable a hundred percent of the time wasn't even possible. Not for a human.

'Maybe I'm not human,' Neal had responded haughtily. He then had adeptly changed the subject.

Peter and El exchanged a quick look as Neal went back to serving himself pasta.

"What's Mozzie think?" El asked him.

Peter raised his eyebrows at the question. Interesting. He hadn't thought to ask Neal that himself.

"I haven't told him," Neal answered. He offered the serving spoon to El and she accepted it.

"Really?" Peter asked, a little surprised. It usually seemed that Neal told his bizarre, long-time friend everything. "You haven't told Mozzie?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Neal retorted tersely, shooting Peter a look.

"Neal," Peter warned reproachfully, picking up on Neal's sudden shift in mood. Neal seemed slightly edgy, as though he was preparing to be defensive. He shook his head at him warningly. "Watch your tone."

"But you're acting like you don't believe me," Neal protested. He narrowed his eyes at Peter just slightly, brow furrowing as he picked up his fork.

"No, he's not, Neal," El appeased, shaking her head gently. "He's just surprised. Don't read into it."

"Exactly," Peter responded. "I'm not questioning it, Neal. I just honestly would have thought you'd tell Mozzie."

"Why?" Neal answered flippantly. He poked the fork into the pasta. "So he and I can design a strategy to plan my escape from this agreement once I'm out there?"

Surprised and a little taken back, Peter put down his fork and sighed. He began to feeling frustrated. "Neal…"

"Well, that's what you're thinking, isn't it?" He stabbed the pasta.

"No, Neal…" Peter sent a quick glance his wife's way as he spoke. She was silent but looked concerned. He continued to speak. "And we just talked about this back at the office. In fact, we specifically addressed this. Remember?"

Neal tried to temper the defensive sensation he felt. Because Peter was right. They had talked about it. In detail. They had surprisingly been open to each other about it. Neal couldn't deny the thought of freedom potentially crossing his mind, but he wouldn't act on it. He couldn't. And Peter had to trust him from that regard. And he claimed he did.

Claimed.

Neal's leg bounced incessantly, not responding as his mind worked through their previous conversation.

El pushed her chair back quietly. "I just remembered I had parmesan cheese," she said. "In the fridge."

Peter wondered if El was stepping away from the table to give them a moment of space or whether she really had just remembered the cheese. He fixed a hard stare on Neal at the lack of response. "Neal. Did we not just talk about this?" His tone was curt. He did not want a repeat of that discussion or to start from square one. "Or did I imagine that discussion?"

"We did," Neal admitted. He poked a fork at the pasta less harshly. Maybe coming over here had been a bad idea. He wasn't in the right frame of mind. He felt distracted and that made him irritated. His attention to his phone and waiting for a sign from Jason was at an all-time high. He was hypersensitive. He was nervous about why he hadn't yet heard from the man.

Dammit. He'd just admitted he was nervous. He frowned.

"Then what?" Peter persisted. "Because I didn't invite you over here to fight with you, Neal."

Neal returned Peter's stare with a stoic look of his own. He didn't want to fight either. He realized he was unnecessarily taking out his own uncertainty on his handler. He needed to put his filter back on. "Sorry," he apologized, his own aggravation moderated by sensing the frustration from Peter. He really couldn't blame the man. He knew he was acting a little petulant. All Peter had done was express surprise at not sharing the current state of the case with Mozzie, and Neal had snapped at him in return.

"Neal, what's the matter?" Peter asked him, seemingly placated at least slightly by the apology. He gave Neal an earnest look. Sometimes he wished he was a mind reader. But there were probably things going on in Neal's mind he didn't want to know.

Neal shrugged. He ate a forkful of pasta, buying some time to delay a response by chewing and swallowing. "Nothing," was all the insight he could offer afterwards.

"Neal, come on. You just snapped at me. Are you afraid that—"

"I'm not afraid," Neal objected.

"I didn't finish," Peter answered slowly, and stiffly, giving him a look. As Neal shifted uncomfortably in his chair under the stare, he continued. "Are you afraid I asked you here tonight to talk you out of it?"

"Did you?" Neal asked. He looked up as El returned to the table, placing a small bowl of grated parmesan cheese in front of them.

"No," Peter responded simply. "I didn't."

"Okay," Neal answered. "That's good. Because it wouldn't've worked."

"Don't doubt that for a minute," Peter acknowledged, studying Neal's expression. If he was uneasy about what was going to happen next, Peter wished he'd talk about it.

"I am going to tell him though," Neal said.

"Huh?" Peter frowned, reaching for the cheese. Tell who what? The comment felt like a non sequitor.

"Moz. I need to tell him what's going on. Especially if I'm leaving town," Neal said. He twirled spaghetti around his fork but left it on his plate. "Because I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Of course," Peter answered. He sprinkled some cheese on his pasta. "Tell him anything you want." He felt nervous saying that, but at this point, he wanted to avoid Neal getting too cautious or wary. The younger man still seemed a little taciturn, though he realized not to take it personally. Plus he knew damn well Neal would tell Mozzie anything he wanted to anyway, so at least in giving him the green light to do so, he was technically avoiding Neal disobeying him.

"What if he thinks it's a bad idea?" El asked.

"It's not a bad idea," Neal answered. "It can't be because it's the only idea. We have to do this."

El sent Peter an uncertain look, but the man just shrugged. He'd already expressed his concerns to Neal and was not about to have a repeat of the conversation.

"How will you keep in touch with Peter?" El asked, shifting the topic slightly.

"My watch will tell them where I am through GPS," Neal began. "We just don't think the range on the audio surveillance will still be in tact… But I'll have my phone." He paused. "I'll have to see. I don't know when I'll need to send updates. That's step two. I need to see what they want me to do, and I also can't have it seem like I'm keeping tabs on something." While his voice expressed this calmly, his expression hinted slightly at frustration.

There was so much uncertainty here, and Peter resisted letting out the concerned sigh he felt building. Neal referred to these details as 'step two' but it was against Peter's nature to send an agent (or a CI) into the field without a communication plan.

Neal's phone started to buzz in his pocket, and he reacted in surprise, despite having been waiting impatiently for a call. He suddenly felt alarmed despite the anticipation. He reached into his pocket to withdraw it, pushing his chair back slightly as though readying himself to rise.

Peter and El exchanged a look, both uneasy. After, they quickly both focused on Neal's expression as he looked at the caller ID. Neal in the meanwhile pursed his lips and looked up at them after confirming the identity of the caller.

"It's Mozzie," he explained. He didn't wait for their response as he pushed his chair back further. "I need to talk to him." He stood.

"So talk to him," Peter responded, shrugging briefly. It crossed his mind the irony of the man calling just after they had spoken about him. It's like the odd little man had a sixth sense.

Neal paused and then gave Peter an earnest look. "I need to talk privately," he stressed.

Peter rolled his eyes and then sighed. "So talk privately. You can go upstairs, Neal."

Neal nodded, casting a quick look at El as well, before leaving the table and heading towards the Burke's stairs.

Peter watched him go and then muttered, "Privately."

"He has the right to a private conversation," El reminded, reaching for her wine glass. "Like it or not."

"Does he?" Peter mused. "I should check the CI handbook on that one…"

"Peter…" El objected, giving him a look. She sighed, dismissing the comment. "Despite what he says, Hon, he seems nervous." She then paused and glanced over to Neal's plate, where he'd definitely touched the food but it was unclear if anything other than a single bite had been eaten. "And he hasn't eaten."

Peter looked at the seemingly neglected food on Neal's plate and frowned. "The pasta's great, Hon," he told her sincerely. "Really."

El exhaled slowly. "I'm not worried about the pasta," she answered, a little unsettled. "I'm worried about this whole… situation."

"He's fine."

"Fine? And that's why he's snapping at you."

He shook his head. "El—"

"No," she interrupted, voice gentle. "Don't say it's 'fine' on account of me. He's clearly thinking about aspects of this that he's not expressing. And you… You're doing the same." Noticing her husband looked as though he wanted to interject, she continued. "And I get it. You're proceeding with this for logical reasons. It's a combination of the Bureau's best interest on this case and avoiding conflict with Neal. So that he trusts you." She sighed then repeated, "I get it."

"I wouldn't put the Bureau's best interest above his safety, El," Peter said. "And I wouldn't base my actions on creating an illusion of trust for Neal…. It's just… It's just that there's not that much information right now." He hesitated as his eyes shifted in the direction Neal had exited. "I wonder if that little misfit friend of Neal's is getting more information than I have."

"Maybe he is… But what are you going to do?" El sighed. "Follow him up there and demand to know? Tap his phone?"

"I could." He met his wife's predictable glare and gave a placating smile in return. "Hon… I won't. Was I not the one to suggest he go upstairs in the first place?"

"Good."

"I do wonder, but…" He shook her head. He only assumed Mozzie knew everything about Neal, but he didn't know for sure. Were there aspects of this case that Mozzie was aware of that Neal hadn't shared with the Bureau? He bristled at the thought but tried not to focus on it. He picked up his fork and focused on his spaghetti for a moment instead. "Thanks, Hon," he said while twirling a few strands on his fork. "I didn't know how this would go."

"Thanks?" she frowned, puzzled at the comment.

"For dinner."

"Don't thank me for that…" she said dismissively. "Just do me a favor and try to keep this case under control, will you?"

Peter stared at the red sauce of the pasta as he nodded. "Of course, Hon. I'll do my best."

Control.

He was starting to feel like he wasn't sure how much he had.

Neal paced the guest bedroom of the Burke's, phone to his ear as he patiently listened to his friend Mozzie ramble on. He ran a hand over his face in frustration, though stayed silent, torn between completing this conversation and returning downstairs to the spaghetti he'd barely gotten to touch. He hadn't realized until it was put in front of him how hungry he was.

"So let me get this straight," Moz continued, pace of his speaking accelerating with what was perhaps excitement or anxiety. "You're at the Burke's right now waiting on a phone call from a man that you don't know the full agenda of and you have a free pass from the suits to just leave town with him."

"Well, you summarized that down to pretty much brass tacks, Moz, but I guess so, yeah."

"You mean I've summarized the main fact here: the free pass."

"Moz—"

"Neal, what you've just described is existentially –"

"No, stop. C'mon, Moz… Please don't go there. I knew you'd do this." Neal continued to pace.

"Do what?" Moz responded disbelievingly. "Neal, listen to me. We've conjectured and hypothesized a million times on what it would mean for you to get freedom. How to do it. To be rid of the anklet and the Bureau ball and chain once and for all. To leave this modern form of white collar servitude to –"

"Moz, I –"

"No. Listen to me, Neal. Listen good." Mozzie took a deep breath. "This is it. You're off anklet. They've admitted they can barely track you once you leave the city. They'll have no audio unless you use your phone. And you don't have to answer that. I mean… It's perfect. Hell, all you need to do is toss that goddamn watch the minute you're out of town. Even with agents in the area, you'd just vanish."

Neal paused his pacing as he reached the window. He reached out to push the blinds aside to peer out into the early evening. He shivered though he wasn't cold. "Mozzie, if Peter even knew the conversation I was having with you right now in his house then—"

"Then what?" Mozzie interrupted, challenging him. "What's he going to do? Punish you? For the hundredth time, Neal, he's not your father. Why are you having dinner with them anyway?"

Neal sighed. He couldn't explain it to Mozzie. He didn't have to though, because Mozzie continued talking.

"I'll give you a burner," the man continued. "We'll pick a time and place. And –"

"What about Jason?" Neal responded, somewhat exasperated. Mozzie was jumping way ahead. "You're forgetting I have a job to do, Moz."

"A job?" Mozzie echoed. "You're not listening to me, mon frère. The minute you leave the city, your obligations to the Bureau vanish. You no longer have a job to do for them."

"Moz…" Neal resumed his pacing, running a hand through his hair.

"Don't be stupid, Neal."

Neal closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and flashing back once again to the multiple times Moz or Peter had beseeched him not to be 'stupid' with entirely different meanings of the sentiment.

"I'm not," Neal responded slowly. "And maybe there's an angle but…" Did he really just say that? His stomach turned and he glanced towards the doorway of the bedroom. He wouldn't put it past Peter to be listening to him, ready to pounce if he said the wrong thing. Curiously, he walked slowly towards the door.

"Maybe there's an angle?" Mozzie repeated impatiently. "Neal, this whole thing is an angle! Why are you not jumping on top of this with me?"

Neal peeked out of the bedroom tentatively, looking into the hall. No Peter. He paused and could hear voices from downstairs, unable to decipher the conversation.

Peter had left him to an actual private conversation.

Of course he had.

He trusted him.

"Are you there?" Mozzie continued. "Look, when do you expect to hear from Jason?"

"I thought I would have already," Neal admitted. He glanced at his watch. The goddamn Bureau watch. "Mozzie… You have to understand. It's not that simple."

"It is. What's the matter, Neal? You don't even have to plan anything here. It's literally freedom being handed to you. Don't you see that? You wouldn't be doing anything wrong."

Their definition of wrong was obviously disparate. Was this what Peter meant by semantics?

"I would be because I have a commitment," Neal told him.

"Commitment? To the feds? What about to yourself, Neal? Don't subscribe to some moral code which deep down has nothing to do with us."

Us, Neal echoed in his mind. Did Mozzie mean just the two of them or was it a broader reference? To conmen? "I have to help close this case, Moz. It's a big one. I've already put too much into it not to see it out. I promised Peter."

"So do the least you need to do close it and then sayonara… You vanish. They get their case, and you get your freedom."

Neal sighed audibly into the phone. He walked over and took a seat on the bed. "I can't." He pulled at a loose thread of the comforter distractedly.

"Why? What would happen?" Mozzie responded. "They won't catch you. We'll do it smart. And don't tell me guilt, Neal. We've talked about that. Guilt is a modern day illusion created by the masses to manipulate you into following the man."

"Moz…" Neal rolled his eyes. He couldn't keep having this discussion. Not now, not under Peter's roof. He couldn't. He was feeling conflicted. "Look I gotta go. I get what you're saying, but the situation is more complicated than that."

Mozzie sighed as well. "Complicated? Sounds pretty cut and dry to me. And I don't know what you expected me to say when you told me this, Neal. You've had your wings clipped too long. I don't know if that's tainting your perspective, but don't forget there's a whole world out there."

"I know. And I'll see it again one day."

"One day might be too late."

"I like New York."

"Sure you do. Just like you liked prison."

Neal exhaled slowly. "Love when you exaggerate, Moz. Look, I've got to go," he repeated.

"Fine." Mozzie paused. "Just tell me you'll think about it. And think hard. And once you do, and come to your senses, just give me the green light, and I'll have everything you need to start over."

"I'll think about it," Neal answered. Why not? He'd already admitted to Peter that the thought could cross his mind. But why did saying this now make his stomach feel in knots?

"Good."

With that the line went dead and a rush of thoughts went through Neal's head. He'd known Mozzie would take this stance. Mozzie appealing to him to be opportunistic at an escape prospect was like a moth to a flame. That was part of the reason he hadn't told the man until now. Because he didn't know how to resist and not have Mozzie think he was crazy.

He ran his hands over his face and then slowly lowered himself back to lie flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Was he crazy? Was this a chance?

Did he hate his life here so much that taking that taking that chance was worth it?

Or did freedom simply outweigh this life that was contained and controlled?

Was he so unhappy?

He tried to push those thoughts aside. Mozzie was wrong. His current situation was a temporary one. Once he served his time as CI, barring any other extenuating circumstances, he would have his freedom. He had no idea what would happen then, but it would happen. He didn't have to take advantage of an angle in this case to force that premature outcome. He could do it the right way.

Freedom.

A pang of anxiety went through him at the thought and the unknown.

What would he do once free anyway? He wouldn't be able to get an odd job again with someone like Jason. He couldn't start to conspire with Moz. Anything complicit would lead him right back to prison. If he got caught. And Peter's record for catching him was getting unfortunately commendable.

After a period of status quo in terms of home and day-to-day responsibilities, Neal would admit he'd gotten a bit… comfortable. Some of his work was enjoyable. Some wasn't but… that would always be the case. That was life.

And with Elizabeth and Peter, he had people now. He had June. He had a network here that finally didn't feel temporary.

But maybe it was temporary. Just like his CI agreement. It wouldn't last forever.

He held his phone tight in his hand, willing it to ring or vibrate. He just wanted to know what he was going to do next and when. Not knowing was driving him crazy. It was distracting him and wracking his brain with a million different thoughts of possibilities.

He hated the anxiety.

He had a feeling Mozzie would push him again. Mozzie was probably coming up with a solid argument to use next. He would remind Neal how limited he was here, how he was always restricted, refined to a two-mile radius. It impacted everything. Even simple things like going for a run, never mind actually living his life.

Going with Jason would be the furthest he'd strayed from his radius in a long time. And it was allowed.

His mind was racing. He stared at the white ceiling, not blinking until his eyes started to feel dry and he saw spots.

He stayed there, thinking, not realizing time had passed until he suddenly felt a presence next to him and the mattress beside him dipped a little as someone else sat down.

He wasn't alarmed by the sudden company, and didn't react. Not even when he felt the familiar weight of a hand on his chest, first a couple soft pats, and then just resting there.

It crossed Neal's mind that he wouldn't mind staying like that for a while. He didn't mind the silent company. Suddenly his mind raced a little less.

It wasn't until Peter spoke, a soft, "Hey," that Neal knew the moment had to end. He turned his head, suddenly realizing his eyes were closed, and opened them to look up at his handler.

"You tired?" Peter asked him, looking down at him with a frown. His hand remained pressed against Neal's chest gently.

Neal tried to interpret whether the frown was concern or disapproval. "No," he said softly.

"Then what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing…" Peter repeated.

"That's what I said." Neal started to sit up and Peter pulled his hand back. They sat shoulder to shoulder.

"How was Mozzie?" Peter asked.

"He was as expected," Neal said vaguely. He couldn't begin to describe the conversation to Peter and didn't want to.

"Okay. Well, you've been up here thirty minutes. El thought I should check."

Neal frowned. "Was I really up here thirty minutes?" He turned his hand to view the face of the phone still gripped there and noticed the time. "Sorry, Peter. I started thinking after I talked to him. I didn't realize –"

"Hey, it's fine." Peter cut him off and reached over to squeeze his knee. "It's okay," Peter answered. "You're allowed to think. You want to talk about it?"

Neal shook his head, staring straight ahead. "No."

"Alright…" Peter allowed. "But, Neal, if you're at all nervous about going through with this… You've got to let me know."

"No," Neal repeated, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not." That's a lie, he thought glumly. To try to correct it he added, "I just don't like not knowing what's happening next."

"I get it. But you don't have to—"

"I do."

"Fine." Peter sounded skeptical.

"I can do it, Peter. I don't want to talk about not doing it." As Neal said the words adamantly, he internally acknowledged he didn't even know what 'it' was.

"Understood." Peter seemed resolved not to press the issue. "If you're done thinking, let's go downstairs." Peter leaned his weight into Neal briefly. "Before my wife thinks you hate her meatloaf and her spaghetti."

Neal nodded, not reacting to the teasing. "Okay."

"It was a joke, Neal."

"I know." Neal pushed himself up from the bed. "I like the spaghetti."

Peter watched Neal move towards the door. "Neal. Listen to me for a minute."

Neal turned. He looked at Peter, who remained seated on the bed, and then sighed as the expression on the man's face. He tilted his head to the side, almost thoughtfully, and said, "Please don't change my mind, Peter."

"Kid, I'm not," Peter answered. "I'm not. I just–" He cut himself off as Neal suddenly turned his attention to his phone. The screen was lit up.

"Peter," Neal said, slightly out of breath. "It's Jason."