Note: I did not have time to proofread this update! Will be doing so tonight so apologize for any typos or paragraphs that need to be reigned in. Sincere thank you to those who are reading.

Chapter 3

A few hours later, Neal had conscientiously gone through a few of the folders that had been assigned to him, with a highlighter in hand and a focused look on his face.

Peter walked towards him slowly, taking in the scene a little skeptically. Despite their earlier conversation, he found himself slightly quizzical of the apparent diligence. Active by nature, it wasn't common for Neal to stay at his desk for a long period of time. Even if assigned to responsibilities that equated to desk duty, he usually found a way to socialize, to make an excuse to step outside (like a coffee run), or at a minimum would occasionally meander back up to Peter's office to linger in his doorway to talk. He had developed an uncanny way of making Peter lose his focus, effective at getting them caught up in conversation before eventually being redirected.

Today there was none of that. He was head down, focused, and quiet. Each time Peter took a look across the bullpen, it was the same consistent image.

After a few months of working with the younger man, this was the least amount of movement he'd ever observed from him. At least during waking hours.

Peter briefly considered that he may have finally gotten through to the younger man. Was it possible? Had El been right and all that was needed was a discussion around the context of why things had to be done a certain way? And had he really successfully explained that the first try?

The feeling was fleeting. No, he realized. Their discussion was unlikely the reason for his quietness. And even if it was, their latest discussion certainly would not have done anything to address Neal's innate inability to sit still.

But still, he was sitting still... And despite the fact it meant Neal was allegedly following his instructions without detour for once, Peter slowly found himself not just cynical but also actually missing the interruptions that he had grown accustomed to as part of their daily routine. For those reasons, after a handful of hours had passed, he found himself at that point venturing down into the bullpen himself.

"Hey," he said as he arrived within a few feet of his CI's desk. "Neal."

Neal looked up, pushing the current paperwork on the desk a few inches away as he turned his full attention to his handler with a smile. "Hey." In his hand, the highlighter turned, rolling across his fingers in a repetitive fluid motion.

"I see you've been busy." Peter nodded his head towards the documents. He examined Neal's smile. Neal used his smile for a lot of things, he mused. What underlying meaning could be there this time… He was still learning to read between the lines of Neal's expressions.

"Well…" Neal glanced down at the papers on the desk. The highlighter continued to turn between his fingers methodically. "It's a small mountain, Peter."

"I hope you realize you don't have to do all of those today," Peter told him pointedly. He briefly studied the heap of files, now clearly organized and split into separate stacks versus the original unorganized pile that had previously been left there. That morning, he had purposefully grabbed a larger than typical handful of folders to give to Neal, still annoyed from the prior day's incident and determined to be taken seriously on his threat of paperwork.

Pushing aside his thoughts from the morning and focusing on Neal's new categorization of the case files, he let out a soft sigh. He suspected that despite the organization effort that most of the files were untouched; in fact, he didn't think it was possible for Neal to get through it in one day, at least not thoughtfully, even if he tried.

"I think I can do most of this today," Neal responded, glancing over at the files in question as well, as though reading Peter's mind and rising to the challenge.

"Neal. This was meant to keep you busy the rest of this week," Peter pointed out, frowning slightly. "Not just today. If you think you're off desk duty after today, think again. And if you get through that—" he gestured at the papers, "—too quickly, then I'm going to need to find something else to keep you busy."

Neal responded with a wider smile. "Peter… Come on. I feel like finishing work early should be rewarded," he challenged.

Peter stared back at the blue eyes now fixated on him, now noticing they held a bit of a mischievous look, as he replied, "Rewards? Not likely. Especially when it creates more work for me."

Neal shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I'm just doing what I'm told, Peter," he said simply. "You didn't specify a time frame. Or anything really. You just left this on my desk."

Peter eyed him warily. Those blue eyes would be the death of him. "You want a timeline and instructions, Neal? That's interesting, since last week you made it pretty clear to me that you don't like micromanagement."

Neal pursed his lips, nodding slowly. "Touché."

Peter rolled his eyes and then cast another look across the desk and the mound of paperwork. He glanced at his watch and then back at his CI, who was still looking at him. "You want to grab lunch? I can fill you in on what Hughes and I just discussed. You'll find it interesting."

Neal paused, narrowing his eyes just slightly. "What?"

"The case. I told you I was debriefing with Hughes, and we have some updates. I'll tell you over lunch."

"Lunch?" Neal echoed, brow now slightly furrowing. "Right now?"

Peter noted that Neal actually looked genuinely confused by the offer. He realized he rarely offered off-premises lunch opportunities. Feeling slightly affronted, he defended his offer – rare didn't mean they were impossible. "Yeah. Lunch. You and me." He watched Neal's expression. Was it possible the younger man now looked conflicted? "What?" he asked, before a response was verbalized. "You don't want to do lunch with me?"

"Well," Neal started slowly. "I thought you were mad at me."

Peter gave him a look. "I was, and now I'm over it. I thought we just agreed earlier to move past it, Neal. I already told you. No grudges."

"I also didn't know you ate lunch," Neal continued.

"Don't be ridiculous. You know I do…" Peter replied, rolling his eyes slightly. "You've seen me eat lunch."

"Away from your desk?" Neal replied suspiciously.

"Neal. You've seen me eat away from my desk."

"Yeah, but that's usually an on-the-go dirty water dog or something equally unappetizing," Neal answered, furrowing his brow in disdain at the topic. "Not real food, Peter. No offense, but I'm not interested and neither are my arteries."

Peter sighed. "Not what I had in mind, Neal. And I do that… rarely."

"Rarely," Neal echoed, scoffing. "Uh-huh. Sure. If that's what you tell your wife, I'll stick to that story. A white lie never hurt anyone."

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly in return. "Anyway," he said, emphasizing the word with a slightly stiffer voice. "That's not what I'm offering. I was thinking we sit down somewhere. Nothing fancy, but…" he paused and gave a small smirk, "I promise it'll better than prison food."

"That's low, Peter."

"Isn't it just factual?"

Neal shook his head stubbornly. "No. And those jokes get really old, you know."

"Anyway. What do you say?" Peter persisted. "It's on me."

Neal pursed his lips, eyes shifting from Peter to the work on his desk. He looked hesitant and took a moment to respond. "Normally, despite the subpar attempt at humor and a reminder of the cuisine my palate was once limited to, I'd be up for it…" he started slowly.

"But today?" Peter asked. "And don't say you can't because of the paperwork. I'm your boss. I decide when you can go to lunch. All of that can wait."

"It's not that… But still, I can't…" Neal began very slowly. "Not today. Can I take a raincheck?"

"Why not today?" Peter asked.

"Because. I'm… fasting."

"Fasting," Peter repeated. Now his suspicion was heightened further. Silent at his desk, no activity all morning, and now fasting? He stared into the blue eyes that gazed back at him unblinking. They were void of any tell. "Why?"

"Well, that's a very personal question, Peter," Neal replied without pause. He gave Peter a critical look, as though the question was offensive. "It's for a private reason."

"Well, you don't get privacy from me."

Neal scoffed. "I don't think that's actually true."

"It is actually true, Neal. Privacy is a privilege." Peter continued to stare into Neal's eyes. The blue orbs steadily stared back, showing no sign of uncertainty. "So let me get this straight – the first time I ask you to lunch, you're suddenly fasting."

"That appears to be the case," Neal responded, exuding nothing but innocence. "It's unfortunate timing, Peter."

"I'd call it convenient."

Neal tilted his head, frowning innocently. "Convenient?" he repeated. "Peter, fasting is challenging. I doubt most would call it a convenience. You don't think I'd rather go to lunch with you?"

"I thought you were always looking for an excuse to step out of the office," Peter persisted. "Now after you've been glued to your desk all day, I'm offering you one, and you reject it."

"What can I say, Peter? If only it wasn't today," Neal replied with a small shrug. "Plus, I do have a lot to do… Maybe another day. I appreciate the offer."

Peter nodded slowly, studying his CI with increased skepticism though he tried to keep his face neutral. He realized, as he increasingly did, that there continued to be a hell of a lot for him to better understand when it came to his CI. Neal was commonly surprising him and presenting more complex layers. Often in good ways, as El would remind him, but sometimes in confusing ways. Like today. On another day, Neal would take any opportunity to get outside. He'd be thrilled for lunch. Now, he seemed unwilling to leave his desk, unswayed by the offer. "Sure. Fine, Neal. Another time."

Neal nodded and then, as though deciding that the conversation had concluded, turned his head back down towards the closest set of papers, shifting the folder closer to him once again.

Slightly suspicious, Peter left him at his desk.

Another day with Caffrey, who continued to be like a case file himself with more and more left to uncover.

Later than night, Neal faced a different angle of suspicion when he requested that Mozzie come over to his place. Mozzie had come without question, and upon arrival Neal quickly filled him in on his current state.

"You were doing what exactly?" Mozzie stared at Neal with a mix of weariness and incredulity. "And why?"

"You said, and I quote, that 'to be prepared requires preparation'," Neal reminded, a little disdainfully. "Don't you remember that discussion? We were right here when we had it." Seated at the table in his apartment, leg propped up on a second chair, he could still feel the lingering aches in his body from the fall, but mostly the throbbing pain in his ankle. Beyond the physical annoyance, he now also felt the need to defend himself as Mozzie promptly met his depiction of the prior night with skepticism, despite the fact that he was the single person that had suggested (indirectly or not) the whole thing.

If this was Mozzie's reaction, he could only imagine Peter's.

"I did not suggest this," Mozzie stated.

It didn't escape Neal that while last night he had blamed Peter and his rules for his limited choice of activity, he was now displacing that culpability to his closest friend. "Didn't you?" he challenged, feeling slightly childish for the displaced blame.

"Hey. Don't you put this on me," Mozzie frowned, eyeing his younger friend with a shake of his head. He shifted his gaze over to the chair where Neal's foot sat, elevated with a large plastic bag filled with ice resting on top of it. "I didn't tell you to do that. Or anything like it." He then turned his attention to the large, generously poured glass of wine in front of Neal doubtfully, despite a similarly poured one in his hand. He paused. "By the way, overindulging in fermented grapes is probably not your best choice of care, Neal."

"I'm not overindulging," Neal objected. He reached for his glass at the mention of it and took a meaningful sip. "But I'm not going to pretend it isn't helping."

Mozzie shook his head again, giving Neal one of his rare unapproving looks. While he often offered advice to Neal, he rarely extended authority over him unless he deemed it necessary. Tonight was potentially turning into one of those instances.

'Come over," Neal had texted him. 'And bring ice." He had, not knowing why. He now felt silly to have originally assumed that the vague reference to ice would have something to do with cocktails. This was anything but a cocktail party.

Upon his arrival, a sure sign of something being wrong was Neal being casual. His knock was met by a verbal indication to come in, and in addition to the elevated, iced foot placed up on a chair, at only nine-thirty at night, Neil was already wearing a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of track pants.

"Don't give me that look," Neal told him, bringing him back to the present. "And going back to the reason for this… You did say," Neal continued, "to prepare and—"

"Fine. I heard you the first time, and I may have said those words," Mozzie interjected, recalling the story he had told the other night and the wisdom from it that he had tried to instill in Neal. A good discussion had resulted from his comments. But since when had Neal been so recklessly literal? "But, mon frère, had I known that it would lead you to a careless climbing expedition on your own residence… Then I might have reconsidered my phrasing."

"What do you mean by careless?" Neal frowned. He was irritated to feel chastised by his friend. He got enough rebukes at the office. Usually Mozzie was on his side. "How else would I prepare, Moz?" He shook his head irritably, feeling annoyed and in pain. "Not to mention that I lost my favorite rappelling hook."

"Prepare for what, Neal? You planning something we haven't talked about? And wait— You have a favorite rappelling hook?" Mozzie scoffed. "Since when?"

Neal narrowed his eyes and took another long sip of wine. Why was everyone so condescending today? "Yes," he answered monotonously. "I did."

"What are you planning that involves scaling buildings, Neal? Unless my memory is suddenly failing me, we don't have anything planned."

"I don't know yet. Isn't that the point of preparation?" Neal sighed. "Besides, I would think you of all people would agree that having an alternative exit from this place in the case of an emergency is not a wasted effort. Wasn't that the whole lesson of the story?"

"Fair point," Mozzie acknowledged. "Until you fell."

"Until I fell," Neal agreed. He eyed his elevated foot. "Exactly." He moved his ankle slowly under the bag of ice, which had been on the foot for almost thirty minutes now. "I think the ice is helping though. I can feel a difference."

"Do you really?" Mozzie challenged. "Or is it just numb?"

"Isn't that the same thing?" Neal gave him a charming smile but then added, "But seriously, I think it's better. I think the swelling has gone down."

Mozzie sighed. He wasn't comfortable being involved in medical assessments if he could avoid it, and wasn't sure why Neal had called him in. He was capable to acquire ice on his own. Since providing the ice, Mozzie had really done nothing more to help. Was Neal looking for assistance, comfort, or just company? Neal would never admit to any of those needs, even with him. He would instead operate under the pretense of good wine that he needed to share or a desire for conversation or anything else. Still, Mozzie wanted to ensure he could help if he could. "And you're sure nothing is broken, mon frère?"

"Pretty sure," Neal answered slowly.

"Pretty sure?"

"More sure than not. I can walk on it. It's just really swollen." Neal took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. "It really swelled up today. Which I wouldn't worry so much about if not for…. You know."

"Your ball and chains."

"Yes." Neal rolled his eyes and then settled his gaze on the location of the anklet, hidden now under the bag of ice. "It was getting a bit tight… But the ice should take care of it." He looked up. "Thanks for bringing that, Moz. I didn't have much left."

Mozzie dismissed the courteous gratitude. "And you didn't tell the Suit?"

"No." Neal frowned and shook his head. "What would I say?" he asked skeptically.

"Didn't you say you 'trust' him?" Mozzie replied, tone a bit sarcastic. He was constantly giving Neal a hard time on opening up to the Suit, and here he was injured and keeping it to himself.

"Depends."

"Now it depends…" Mozzie couldn't help the sarcasm that laced his tone.

"You know everything I do is under a microscope," Neal said defensively. "And I didn't exactly earn any high scores the last couple days. Kind of the opposite." Neal shook his head. "What am I gonna tell him that would do any good, Moz?"

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "You could have just told him what you just told me. You technically didn't do anything wrong, Neal. Just ill-advised. An accident even."

"Ill-advised?" Neal narrowed his eyes again. "Moz…"

"You could have said you fell down the stairs."

"The stairs," Neal echoed with a roll of his eyes. "Like he'd buy that."

"Why not?"

Neal shrugged. He was less concerned about Peter buying that sort of story than the blatant dishonesty the excuse would entail. If there was one thing Peter had harped on the most over the last few months, it was the request that Neal always be honest with him. He'd never felt guilt about lying before, at least not white lies or lies that could result in rewards, but there was something about Peter and the look in his eyes when he spoke to him that made him feel completely exposed and gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach the minute an untruth started to form.

"Because he'd see through it," he told Mozzie simply, ignoring the thoughts in his head. If he told Mozzie he didn't want to lie to Peter, Mozzie would think he'd hit his head in the fall.

Mozzie looked skeptical nonetheless. "Well, whatever the reason… You should be able to tell him that you just need a temporary reprieve of the anklet from one foot to the other…" Mozzie shrugged. "That's a legal request. And I think it's probably necessary given its limited circumference…" He eyed Neal's covered foot skeptically.

"It would be a legal request," Neal agreed slowly. He continued to reassure himself. Even Mozzie had said he'd done nothing wrong. He'd stayed in his radius, and had no iniquitous intentions. Why did he feel so guilty about the situation though? Switching the anklet certainly was a legal request (he was pretty sure); it was a just not a simple one. After all, what exactly was he going to say? Oh, hey, Peter, I was climbing June's brownstone wall and free-fell ten feet, busting my ankle; no big deal but would you mind removing my anklet? That would go over great.

And after the last twenty four hours with Peter…

"What's the matter?" Mozzie asked, jarring him from his thoughts.

Neal looked up. "What?" He shook his head. "Just the damn ankle, Moz."

"You sure?"

"Well, and the anklet..."

"So tell him." Mozzie sighed. "Mon frère, you should know that there are very few things I would ever suggest you tell that man, but in this case do you really see an alternative? Would you rather do nothing and compromise your blood circulation? I wouldn't recommend that."

Neal paused. There was only so much he could explain to Mozzie. Mozzie didn't understand the dynamic he had with Peter at the office. And how it shifted. He felt like he was back in a probationary period. How could he explain that in the prior day he'd been afraid that Peter would potentially put him back in prison, and today Peter had just seemed…. Nice?

"I'll ask him tomorrow," Neal said. He decided one day without disturbing Peter and going off course would benefit them all. Tomorrow would be a fresh start. He took another sip of wine, which turned into more of a gulp.

"Well, in the meantime, if your foot starts to turn a different color…"

Neal shot him a look. Mozzie had a small smirk on his face, but the teasing rubbed Neal the wrong way. "You know, when you got here tonight, Moz, you reminded me that you are not a medical consultant. So why are you now providing a medical opinion?"

"I wouldn't call it a medical opinion, Neal. I would call it simple common sense."

"Common sense, Moz?" He watched his friend shrug and was about to retort when there was an unexpected knock at the door. He cut himself off from responding as he turned his attention towards the entrance of the apartment.

He skeptically looked at Mozzie as they both went silent.

Neal spoke first once his friend met his eye. "I'm not expecting anyone," he explained softly.

Mozzie raised his eyebrows, but then shrugged. "June?" he suggested, nearly a whisper.

Neal shook his head. "No…" he replied slowly. "When I saw her earlier tonight she said she was leaving town for a couple days to visit a friend. She already had bags packed and was expecting car service a couple hours ago."

"Her granddaughter?"

Neal shrugged, looking towards the door with a frown. "It's possible. But I don't know why she'd come by so late…"

"You owe someone?"

"No," Neal responded in a hiss, giving Mozzie a look.

"Just asking…" Mozzie whispered back.

Their question was answered soon enough when another knock came, more persistent, followed by a familiar voice from behind the door.

"Neal," came Peter's voice, sounding stern and impatient. "I know you're in there. And if you're not, there's a conversation we need to have about your tracking data…"

Neal and Mozzie exchanged another look. Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Guess you don't have to wait until tomorrow," he mumbled.

Neal frowned. "What?" he mouthed.

"To tell the Suit about your condition," Mozzie replied in a soft tone.

Neal gave him a disgruntled look and shook his head. He then gestured at Mozzie to grab the chenille throw that was arranged over a chair in the corner of the room. Rolling his eyes but not questioning him, as another knock sounded at the door, Mozzie did as instructed and took the blanket from the chair, quickly coming back to Neal to drape it over his lap and the elevated foot, hiding both the foot and its ice treatment.

"You can let him in," Neal said as the blanket settled.

"You sure?" Mozzie asked. He gained a slightly protective stance. "I can—"

"No, Moz. He knows I'm here," Neal replied.

"As you wish…" With that, Mozzie strolled over to the door and pulled it open, as Peter was almost mid-knock again.

Peter's hand, curled in a fist to knock, hovered for a moment before dropping to his side. He looked at Mozzie, unimpressed.

"Mozzie," he greeted in monotone.

"Suit," Moz responded dryly with equal enthusiasm. He looked at Peter uninterestingly, taking in the man's brown suit attire, and then simply said, "Do you not make an appointment before stopping by this late?"

"An appointment?" Peter chuckled, looking into the apartment at Neal, who had as casual a look on his face as he could muster in the moment. He then turned his head back to Mozzie. "That's cute. But no. I don't need an appointment. Did you forget who your friend is?" He gestured at Neal. "Ward of the state? Convicted felon? In my custody?" He walked past Mozzie while closing the door behind him, muttering sarcastically, "Appointment…"

Mozzie rolled his eyes but didn't respond. He also didn't move to follow.

"What brings you by, Peter?" Neal asked casually as the man approached, giving what he hoped was a very nonchalant and welcoming smile. His pulse had increased slightly at Peter's arrival with a foreboding sense of apprehension, and he felt the throbbing of his ankle matched that rhythm. However, none of that breached his external façade of calm, composed self-assurance. Acting was a skill he cherished on a daily basis. But while he was effortlessly masking his expression, he was also desperately wondering why Peter was here.

"What brings me by…" Peter repeated slowly. He gave him a look, up and down, obviously giving him the once over. He somehow seemed slightly more at ease than his initial knocking had implied, as though Neal being was here in the apartment meant something, but only marginally. "Funny thing, actually…" he started. "Got a phone call." He paused. "Is your anklet working?"

"My anklet?" Neal genuinely frowned. "Working? Why wouldn't it be?"

"Exactly my thought..." Peter trailed off, frowning. "So when they called…. I told them you were with me." Peter walked towards him then, closing the gap between them. When he was close enough, he took an edge of the chenille blanket and yanked it, pulling it off of Neal in one swift movement.

Neal didn't move as the blanket fell to the floor, trying to hide the flinch that was more an automatic reflex than anything else.

Peter repeated his once over, now focused on the elevated foot and the bag of ice. "Neal," he said stiffly. "Explain."

Stay nonchalant, Neal reminded himself. "Explain what?"

"What's this?" Peter gestured to the elevated leg.

"I exceeded my limits exercising," Neal responded carefully. He was determined to downplay the injury, as doing otherwise would lead to needing to explain it. "What do you mean my anklet isn't working?"

"I didn't say it isn't working."

"You asked if it was."

"What kind of exercising?"

"I exercise."

"I have no doubt you do, Neal. Want to give me some details? What the hell did you do?"

A door opened and nearly slammed shut. They both looked up. Mozzie was gone. Neal frowned, a little frustrated that Mozzie would just ditch him like that, but he was also a bit understanding given Peter's presence. Moz was never very comfortable with any kind of law enforcement present. While he'd grown accustomed to Peter, it still wasn't completely symbiotic.

In the moment Peter turned away to view the door, Neal took the opportunity to sit up straighter, removing the bag of ice and placing it on the table. Attempting to downgrade the situation, he slid his injured foot off the chair to the floor, noting his whole leg and knee felt stiff from the prolonged extended position on the chair. He planted his foot on the ground and sat in the chair normally. He was totally fine. That's the image he would get across. But what was this about the anklet? He glanced down at the device skeptically.

"Why are you icing your foot?" Peter persisted suspiciously. "Are you hurt?"

"What was the phone call about, Peter?" Neal asked, frowning.

Peter narrowed his eyes at him slightly, appearing more inquisitive than anything else. "My questions first, Neal. What did you do?"

"Nothing, Peter…" Neal commented, frowning innocently. He leaned back in his chair and gave his handler a questioning look as well as he folded his arms across his middle. "I've been here all night. The anklet should say the same." He wasn't about to offer information without knowing Peter's full agenda. The man was here for a reason, and his response would have to address that carefully. But he needed the full reason to know how to act. "Why'd you get a phone call?" he asked again.

"You tell me." Peter then pulled his cell phone out from his pocket and quickly dialed, holding the phone up to his ear. He kept his eyes on Neal as he did so. "Jones," he spoke after a minute. "He's with me…. Yup…. Thanks for doing that…. Okay. Call them back." He paused, listening to the other side of the call. "No—I'll take it from here." He pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it closed. As he returned the phone to his pocket, his attention to Neal grew more intense.

"Neal," Peter started. "What—"

"Call who back?" Neal interjected, anxiety piquing, both at the words and the proximity of his boss. He tightened his folded arms around himself, chair feeling hard and uncomfortable beneath him.

"The Marshals, Neal…" Peter responded. "That's why I asked about your anklet." He moved to take the seat that Neal's foot had vacated a moment earlier, sitting to face Neal directly and giving him a curious look. "They said they were receiving a distress signal from your anklet. Any idea why?"

"Distress signal?" Neal echoed in surprise. Peter's question had no hint of judgment behind it. Maybe a little frustration. Or fatigue.

"Correct," Peter responded.

"What kind of distress?"

"That's what I want to know."

"I didn't do anything," Neal objected defensively.

Peter raised his eyebrows, studying Neal carefully. The look on the younger man's face seemed genuinely puzzled and even a slight bit concerned, particularly since Peter had referenced the Marshals. And that surprised response didn't seem fabricated. But something was going on. He realized his approach of simply questioning his CI wasn't going to get much more information going at this rate. Neal was easily circumventing all questions with ones of his own. So instead he changed his tactic.

Peter sighed and gestured to Neal. "Give it here. Let me see."

Neal hesitated for a moment. "Peter," he whined slightly.

"Come on. Show me," Peter persisted, reaching to tap two fingers again Neal's knee emphatically.

After a brief continued pause, as though weighing his options, Neal begrudgingly gave in. He shifted his posture, twisting in his seat to face his handler, and moved to extend his leg up, lifting it to rest his bare foot on Peter's thigh where the man pointed. Normally this exchange would be to replace or reinstate the anklet. Not for a wellness check, or whatever this would be called.

Neal sighed and tilted his head back, studying his apartment's ceiling as he waited. He winced slightly as Peter first took him by the heel to reposition the foot slightly. It was a gentle movement, but Neal's ankle disagreed.

Without a word, Peter then brusquely pulled up the cuff of the track pants, damp from the ice, to do a cursory check of the anklet.

Neal awaited the reaction he knew would come, unsure of what form it would take. There was no way Peter wasn't going to notice. If there was one thing Neal had learned, it was that Peter had superior attention to detail. No surprise as an investigator, he supposed, but nonetheless occasionally inconvenient. Peter's initial attention was on the anklet itself, the boxy part with the indicator, which was obviously green given he was in his radius. He studied that for a moment, as if perplexed why any distress signal could have happened.

But then the attention shifted to the ankle itself, and the strap around it.

"Neal," Peter began. He tried to dilute the frustration he felt building. "How long has your ankle been this swollen?" He ran his finger across the black strap of the anklet. Usually he could slip a finger between Neal's ankle and the strap. He always took close attention to its fit whenever he replaced it, ensuring it wasn't too snug. Currently the anklet was so constricted he wouldn't be surprised if a mark was left. He frowned as he touched the pale skin against which the device was so tight and repeated his earlier unanswered question as he looked up at his CI. "What did you do?" he asked, voice rising in a hint of wariness and annoyance.

"I didn't do anything. What's a distress call?" Neal tried to shift the conversation back to be less about him. He kept his head tilted back, now seeing spots on the ceiling.

"It's when there's an anomaly on the sensor…" Peter responded. "Such as extended periods of time outside of a normal temperature range. Given you had ice on the anklet, likely for an extended period of time… That's probably what sent the signal." He looked up at Neal, frowning. "Seriously, Neal. What happened?"

"The ice was temporary," Neal answered slowly. "It was helping." He was making mental notes about the new details of his anklet's sensitivity. He assumed the same thing would happen with extended exposure to heat. "Would the same thing happen with heat?"

"Probably," Peter responded. "Hey." His CI's attention span was to anywhere but him. "Look at me."

Neal rolled his head to the side, finally giving Peter his eye contact. He sighed.

"Enough about the anklet," Peter told him. "What happened?

Neal pressed his lips together, not sure how to answer. These were the details he'd been hoping to avoid. "I was exercising," he explained again. He felt it was an accurate depiction of the activity. At least not entirely inaccurate. He then started slowly on another tactic, trying to maintain a nonchalant tone. He felt a little vulnerable with his leg elevated on Peter's lap. The man's hand was still on the strap of the anklet, and he felt a bit frozen. "I meant to ask, Peter… If I needed to request that we move the anklet to the other foot temporarily…"

"You meant to ask," Peter muttered, tone hinting at annoyance. He studied the foot and the anklet once more. "How long has it been like this, Neal?"

Neal paused and then slowly started to respond. "Well… It's an interesting question…"

"Fine," Peter interjected. "I don't need to hear whatever half truth you're about to give me. You don't want to tell me?" As he spoke he gently took Neal's ankle in his grip in order to hold it while he stood up. He then replaced the foot on the chair to keep it elevated. Without talking he then went towards the kitchen.

"You didn't answer about changing which ankle it's on, Peter. Is there a process to do that…?" Neal trailed off as he watched Peter go through a few of his drawers in his kitchen. "Did you pick which leg to put it on or is it standard? I didn't pick." He remained expressionless when Peter located a pair of scissors despite suddenly feeling alarmed. "Peter," he objected, voice elevating slightly.

"Neal…" the man responded, saying the name with little emotion beyond a warning. Stop it, was what he meant by the tone. With the scissors in hand, he returned to the table, and moved towards the elevated foot. Before Neal could protest, he swiftly used the scissors to carefully but purposely slice through the band of the anklet. "There's your process," Peter said. "Happy?" He leaned down slightly to examine the now exposed ankle, running a finger over the clear indent in Neal's skin where the device had been too tight. "Dammit, Neal."

"Peter…" Neal's tone was now a little panicked as the indicator on the anklet dangling from his ankle immediately turned red. And blinking. Even though Peter had done it, Neal couldn't help but feel a surge of anxiety as the anklet did everything it wasn't supposed to do if Neal was behaving. "Why'd you do that?" he asked with a raised tone.

"Because I don't have the key with me, Neal," Peter replied stiffly. "And if I waited to go get it and—" he cut himself off as within seconds his phone started to ring. He reached to take the anklet in one hand, pulling it easily from Neal's ankle and taking a couple steps away as he answered the call, pulling his phone to his ear with his other hand. "This is Burke." He paused. "Yes, he's still with me…. Yes…. As we discussed… I had to remove it…. Yes. Replacement tomorrow is perfect. Thank you."

"Peter…" Neal said again, this time more softly, almost a question. He watched the man return the phone to his pocket and walk back towards him.

"Neal," Peter responded, more sternly. "Your ankle. I assume Mozzie is the only medical consultant you've seen. Can you walk?"

"Yes, I can walk," Neal answered defensively, rolling his eyes. "I was obviously walking fine at the office today, wasn't I?"

"Okay. Confirming what I suspected… That this didn't just happen tonight." Peter shook his head, giving Neal a disappointed look and scrutinizing him. "You did this yesterday? I thought you told me you stayed home like I asked, Neal."

"I did stay home, Peter!" Neal insisted.

"Well, you were in one piece when I dropped you off, weren't you?" When Neal simply stared at him and didn't answer, Peter shook his head again and sighed. "Is this why you didn't want to leave your desk today?"

"No," Neal lied. It was a white lie. "I had lots of paperwork to do today…"

"Right." Peter gave him a frown and then gestured to him to rise. "Well, now you're gonna have more. Get up, pal. We're getting it checked out."

"What?" Neal frowned, unsettled by that suggestion. "Why? I don't think that's needed, Peter." He shook his head as well. "Honestly, I just need to keep the ice on it. I'm fine." He kept himself still in his seat despite Peter's instruction to stand. As a general practice, he preferred not to see a doctor unless absolutely necessary. Doctors were a paper trail. Doctors asked a lot of questions. He didn't need doctors if he could handle it himself. Nothing was broken. He managed to walk on it all day. "I appreciate the concern, but—"

"This concern," Peter interrupted, taking a step closer to Neal with a stern look, "is the Marshals calling because there was something unusual with your anklet monitoring signal. That's serious, Neal. This concern is me just now seeing that the anklet was cutting off your circulation." He waved the anklet in his hand in front of Neal's face, shaking his head incredulously. "Did you not notice, Neal?"

Neal's brow furrowed. "I noticed, but that's an exaggeration. My circulation is totally fine." It bothered him that the admonishment was similar to Mozzie's earlier skepticism. To prove he was as fine as he alleged, he removed his leg from the chair, setting his foot back on the floor normally once again and sitting up straight. It did feel good to have the anklet off. He stretched his foot slightly.

"I'd rather have a third party confirm you're fine. Get up," Peter responded unbendingly, gesturing with one hand for him to stand. "Up. We're going."

"Going where?"

Peter glared. "Urgent care, Neal. Get up." He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and let out a sigh. He took it out briefly to see the text from Diana. It was regarding the current case. He cursed internally at the timing. Why did the universe have to collide all these events? He returned the phone to his pocket and looked again at his CI, who remained unmoved in his chair. The sooner he could deal with this current problem, he could get back to the case. "Neal, come on."

"This isn't urgent," Neal objected. "Not at all. Whoever just texted you is probably far more urgent. Is it Elizabeth? I'm sure she's thrilled you're here rather than at home. Listen, I think the ice was really doing its job, and –"

"I didn't ask your opinion, Neal. Now are you capable of getting up or not?" Peter shot back.

"Yes," Neal responded.

"Then show me, or I'm going to get you up myself in a minute."

At Peter's challenging look, Neal responded with a disgruntled expression of his own but pushed himself up to his feet. "See?" He ignored the throb in his ankle as he set weight on it for the first time since earlier that evening. On the outside he simply smiled confidentially, showing his teeth. "Totally fine."

"Stand on one foot," Peter directed. He nodded to the ankle he'd just released from the constrains of the anklet. "That one."

Neal hesitated, smile wavering slightly. "What?"

Peter crossed his arms over his chest. The severed anklet dangled from his hand. "Apparently nothing's wrong. Do it."

Neal slowly shook his head. "Peter… What am I, a circus animal?"

"Can't do it?"

"I don't want to do it."

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. "Right. Neal, whether you remember the details or not, when you signed yourself out on our little agreement, you agreed to make me your medical proxy. That means I get to make decisions – and guess what? I'm making a decision. We're going."

Neal tried to mirror the stern look. "That's a little overbearing, don't you think, Peter?" He couldn't hide his irritation. He began to wonder what control Peter actually had over his medical well-being. He had signed a lot of things to ensure their agreement and to guarantee his ability to step foot out of prison. He hadn't really thought about the medical responsibilities, despite assigning Peter and Elizabeth as his emergency contacts. Surely he had a choice in his own medical treatment…

"Get some shoes on," Peter instructed. "It's swollen enough that we need to get it checked out. If it's fine, then you can say you told me so. If it's not fine, then I guess you have a desk job for longer than we originally planned. We can stop back here in the morning so that—"

"Morning?" Neal's expression fell, confidence dwindling. "What do you mean by morning?"

"You're off anklet," Peter reminded, nodding his head pointedly at Neal's feet. "You know what happens when you're off anklet. You're not alone tonight."

"Peter, I'm only off anklet because you cut it off!" Neal objected, voice rising in a protesting whine, which he immediately regretted. He quieted himself but still felt his chest rise and fall in indignation. He hadn't intended to show emotion, but Peter's persistence was wearing him down, and this entire interaction was not something he'd planned for this evening. He'd planned for just Mozzie tonight, and ice, and a lot of wine, and then hoping all stars would align and he'd feel better tomorrow.

Peter uncrossed his arms and moved to drop the anklet in his hand on the table. It hit the wood surface with a dull thud. "I cut it off, Neal," he spoke slowly, in a low tone, "because you failed to tell me that it was cutting off your circulation." He turned towards the younger man and waited for a reaction. At none, other than an expression that looked more sulking, he continued. "When were you going to tell me?"

Neal shrugged, feeling heat rise to his face as he felt judged. His ankle chided him as well, throbbing with renewed vigor. He tried to think of something clever to say, but came up at a loss. He wanted to elevate his foot again and replace the ice, but also didn't want to admit it still hurt. He continued to downplay the injury instead, hoping they could reach a resolution where Peter went home.

"You weren't going to tell me?" Peter spoke again as his question went unanswered.

"There was nothing to tell," Neal replied defensively. "I didn't know that the anklet had some kind of temperature sensitivity. The thing didn't exactly come with a manual, Peter." He looked downward towards his ankle. "I didn't do anything wrong," he added. He looked back up and squared his shoulders, erasing the frustration from his face and bringing the self-assurance back. "I didn't break any of your rules."

Peter studied him silently for a moment. Then, voice remaining calm, he simply said, "Next time, tell me."

Neal's brow furrowed, a little unsettled by that response. He'd expected Peter to be angry. "Tell you?" he echoed.

"If you get hurt, you tell me." Peter let out an exasperated breath. "Don't hide it."

"I didn't hide anything."

"No?" Peter responded in frustration. He gestured towards the anklet on the table. "Then what's that?"

"You did that."

Peter sighed. "Neal, I asked you specifically at the office today what was going on. I knew there was something off with you. And you said nothing. You told me you were fasting."

"I was fasting," Neal replied. Because I didn't want to get up, he added the secondary comment silently.

"Did it happen last night?" Peter persisted.

"Yes…" Neal answered slowly, cautiously. He didn't have a good answer as to how. Mozzie had suggested stairs. That maybe wasn't so much a lie. It was due to the stairs in the sense he had opted not to take the stairs in order to get downstairs. That was plausible logic. He added, "But it's fine."

Peter eyed his wayward CI warily. Neal's blue eyes were conveying a stubbornness as he maintained eye contact.

It's not fine, Peter wanted to say. He wanted to get Neal to understand that hiding an injury from him wasn't okay. But he didn't feel like lecturing. It was also getting late. When he told El he was going to go check on Neal after getting the call about the anklet signal anomalies, he admitted to her he wasn't sure what he was going to find. Considering Neal's behavior – or lack of behavior – that day, he wasn't sure what to expect. She was sympathetic, but more concerned that Neal was okay than what hour Peter would return.

So Peter changed his tactic yet again. He dropped the tempting argument over his personal definition of 'fine' and instead focused on the evening's tactical next steps. "Look, pal. You know I'm not going to back down here, so let's just go get it checked out so we don't waste any more of our time." He kept an even tone of voice. "Let's just make sure it's only swollen, and then we can call it a night."

"I know it's just swollen," Neal replied. "I'd put money on it."

"We're not betting." Peter tried to maintain as much patience as possible while he watched the wheels turn in Neal's head. He held up a hand to cut off the impending argument. "Don't start, okay? It's not my ideal evening either. But you're stuck with me until they replace the anklet anyway, and I am not staying here."

For a moment, Neal seemed to be deliberating in silence. "Fine," he then answered, sounding more sullen than resistant. He knew Peter wasn't going to give up, and persisting otherwise was futile. Peter wasn't simply going to leave as he'd hoped. There was no plausible exit strategy here. And he was tired. He glanced around the room, and then started to walk over the bedroom. "I just need to change and get packed."

"What?" Peter now noticed the way Neal favored his weight to one side as he walked, but it was barely detectable. He couldn't tell if he was still hiding the injury for his benefit, or if that was just being Caffrey. Neal didn't show weakness. "You don't need to change. You don't need to pack." He followed him into the next side of the room. "It's nearly ten o'clock. Put a sweatshirt or jacket on and let's go."

Neal turned and gave him an incredulous look. "Seriously?" he asked.

Peter's look back was skeptical. He didn't understand the reaction. It was as though he'd just asked the younger man to do something unthinkable. "What's the issue?"

"I can't wear this, Peter," Neal told him pointedly while gesturing down at himself. His expression implied that the statement should be obvious to anyone. "Let me change into something that I can go out in public in, and then we can go." His hands dropped to the drawstring of his track pants, pulling them looser and starting to pull them down, revealing the waistband of dark gray boxer briefs.

Before they got much lower, Peter stepped in impatiently. "Oh no. You can, and you will." He grabbed the waistband of the pants and pulled them back up over the slender hips, and not too gently.

Neal grunted at Peter's manhandling. "Peter."

Peter was unapologetic. "I'm taking you to urgent care, not a fashion show, Neal." While he wasn't completely surprised at the lack of modesty in front of him, given modesty wasn't something that defined their growing relationship, he certainly wasn't interested in delaying their departure much longer by entertaining wardrobe considerations at this time of night. He was hopeful for less than an hour at urgent care followed by everyone going to bed. His current attire was suitable for both those things.

Neal shook his head at him, frowning. "El was right about your fashion sense. No wonder she gave up. Some things can't be taught."

Peter ignored the jab, taking him by the elbow to turn him around. "I'm glad you and El can talk fashion. That's nice," he said dryly. He then steered Neal towards his closet with a hand on the small of his back. "Sweatshirt. Sneakers. Nothing else. Let's go. I'm tired."

As Neal unenthusiastically looked for his sneakers, Peter felt the vibration of his phone again. He sighed and reached to withdraw it from his pocket.

It was another text from Diana.

Great, Peter thought in exasperation. He would much prefer to be on the case than Neal duty.

"Neal," Peter said sharply, looking up. He was moreso annoyed at the conflicting priorities than Neal at this point, but his tone didn't distinguish. "Let's go. One more minute, and I'm going to give you a real reason to need urgent care. Come on. I don't have time for dilly-dallying."

Neal turned back around, giving him a skeptical look. "Dilly-dallying?" he repeated, voice laced with sarcasm. "How does that rank compared to shenanigans? Plus, are you allowed to threaten me like that?"

"Yes, I am." Peter took a couple steps towards him. "I'm not kidding, Neal. In a minute it's no longer going to be a threat. Do you want to go barefoot?"

"No." Neal's smirk faded, mouth turning into a thin line.

"Then get your sneakers on and let's go. Now."