Neal was soon reminded that sleeping during the day was slightly disorienting. This was why he'd never been fond of naps.

While sleep itself came rather quickly, it was restless and plagued with graphic images.

Some of the images were replays of recent events. Others were fabricated by his imagination. All were equally vivid and detailed; they blurred together and overlapped. As the dreams continued, he became concerned at how real some of the fabrications felt. Was he certain they were manufactured by his brain and not real?

A few time the imagery jolted him awake, and he found himself upright, panting and startled. It always took him a moment to realize where he was, as exhaustion was winning over reality.

At one point, he was certain he was physically back in the bunker. He could feel the cold floor beneath him. He could smell that damp air. His hands once again felt bound. He insisted that it felt real, like he was awake and still there.

He readied himself to call out to Peter. If it was real, his handler should be here too. Maybe he would have some answers.

But before he could find his voice, he was back asleep, like a dream within a dream, falling victim to another scenario.

The cycle continued.

Finally, at some point Neal woke up more lucidly. At least, he wasn't between dreams. He knew where he was.

He also realized it was suddenly dark outside. He immediately struggled to 'feel' what time of the day it was, since he'd gone to sleep while the sun was still out. His perception of time was distorted.

He sat up in bed and slid his legs over to the edge, letting them drop to the floor. He stayed like that for a while, just sitting, deep in thought, reflecting that he still ached and felt tired. He wondered for how long his sleep would be plagued with these dreams. They were haunting him, the faces of Dean and Ed. Perhaps sketching them, focusing on their features, hadn't been wise. Now those sketches were etched into his brain and all he saw when he closed his eyes. That, and the crash of the helicopter.

He rubbed his hands over his face as though the motion could somehow wash away all the images in his head. Did Peter have these same images in his mind?

He wished to know what the next day had in store for them. He was used to unknowns but usually had a bit more control over the overall plan…

They had to end this soon. But how? With a phone call? He couldn't believe how much of their plan was resting on a singular phone call….

And what was the outcome if they failed? Neal wasn't even sure. For all of Dean's threats, he wasn't really certain what the end game would be. It went against everything Peter already said – think things through to the end. What end?

Everything Peter was doing was to keep them safe, or so he claimed, but Neal couldn't help but feel uncertain about the so-called plan and its lack of tangible action.

He had to keep questioning it, though the thought of challenging Peter made him nervous. He was pretty sure he knew how the conversation would go. The man, who had only grown more irritable during the day, would likely challenge him right back and ask him to name an alternative plan. And the only one that he could really think of was in line with Elizabeth's: tell Hughes.

And then what?

He didn't know, but they were the FBI. Wouldn't they know what to do? Wasn't that entirely their job? To find Dean and put an end to all this madness? Protect them? Peter couldn't single-handedly protect them after all.

He let these thoughts and worries race in his mind, in circles and circles, until finally forcing himself to his feet.

He walked barefoot to the door and left the room.

Once in the hallway, he could hear voices downstairs. Peter and Elizabeth.

So Peter was still up. Had he rested at all? That wasn't a good sign.

Sure enough, a peek into their bedroom showed an empty room, an untouched bed. He hovered in the doorway for a moment before turning back.

Moving quietly down the hall to the stairs, he strained to hear their conversation. The voices were too low to make out much more than who was speaking, even as he grew closer, descending the stairs.

As he made his way downstairs, he noted with some pride how quietly he could do so. He knew every floorboard in the house.

Silently he reached the first floor. He noted Satchmo by the couch, sprawled out, fast asleep. Even the dog hadn't heard him come downstairs.

He found the Burkes seated at their dining table, a few cartons of Chinese food in front of them. When had that arrived?

He watched Elizabeth twirl her fork into what appeared to be lo mein. Peter's back was to him so he couldn't see his plate.

"I thought you were doing low-carb," Neal commented.

Peter's fork clattered to the table. He cursed. "Jesus, Neal." He turned in his chair, sending him a glare. "You scared the hell out of me."

Neal raised his hands up innocently. "It's just me."

Peter muttered something under his breath about sneaking up on people but returned his focus to his plate.

Neal slowly approached the table. "Any news?" he asked.

Peter sighed and responded, "No," as he picked up his fallen fork.

That wasn't what Neal had been hoping to hear. "Nothing?"

"That's what 'no' means, Neal," Peter replied, a bit of an edge to his voice. He turned his head to view Neal once again, giving him a slightly exasperated look as he gripped the pointed utensil in his hand. "Not sure why you always think there's an alternative definition to that word."

Neal raised his eyebrows and mouthed, "Okay..." As if the untouched bed upstairs wasn't enough of an indication, the demeanor of the man clearly showed that Peter hadn't gotten any sleep yet.

"Are you hungry, Neal?" Elizabeth asked, her voice much more soothing than her husband's. "I didn't realize how long it had been since you both last ate until Peter mentioned something. I would have ordered something much earlier if I'd known."

"It's okay." Neal moved a bit closer and eyed the food on the table. It did smell good. He felt his stomach rumble in agreement. "I could eat."

"Good. Grab a plate," she told him.

Neal nodded and walked towards the kitchen. Then, he decided to gamble and push his luck. Despite all signs indicating that it was not a good idea, he called back towards the table to ask, "What if she doesn't call, Peter?" Once the words were out, he then internally braced himself, grateful for the moment that his back was to them.

"Give it the day," Peter responded.

Neal grabbed a plate from one of the kitchen cabinets as he mentally noted the tone of Peter's response was a bit less miffed than he'd expected. So he pushed a little further, "And then what do we do?"

"Just give it the day, Neal." In repetition the tone was a little more annoyed.

Neal sighed and returned to the table. He took the seat beside Elizabeth and simply gave Peter at the head of the table a skeptical look. The man didn't respond except to jab his fork into his food. Neal said nothing and reached out for the lo mein, noting that Elizabeth's phone was sitting on the table between her and her husband, a central focal point during the meal.

"Do you want an egg roll?" Elizabeth asked, offering a greasy paper bag to Neal.

He nodded and reached to take one. "This is the opposite of low carb," he told her.

"Trust me, I know," she replied, chuckling a bit. "Did Peter tell you I was doing low carb?"

"Yes," Neal answered. "Ironically, he told me over a bagel."

She laughed. "Nice. Well, clearly we both failed."

Peter grunted, piercing his fork through a piece of General Tso's chicken. "Low carb isn't worth it," he muttered. "You think our ancestors did low carb?"

Neal looked pensive at the consideration. "They actually probably did," he replied slowly. He added, "Inadvertently."

Peter shot him a look, but then just shook his head and stabbed another piece of chicken with his fork.

Neal watched his handler carefully. He wondered if Peter was wishing he was stabbing something else. "Did you sleep at all yet, Peter?"

"No," Peter pushed his fork through the food on his plate. "Not yet."

Neal frowned. "Aren't you tired? I barely made it upstairs." He looked from Peter to Elizabeth when he didn't get a response at first.

"Exhausted," Elizabeth mouthed the word.

"Yes," Peter answered after swallowing his food. "I'm tired. Of course I am."

"Oh, you're willing to admit it now?" Elizabeth asked. "Well, that's a start."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I never denied it. There's just a lot on my mind. But I'm going to lay down after I eat," he replied. "I need to."

"Good. You need to." Elizabeth looked over at Neal. "How about you? Did you sleep?"

"A bit..." Neal replied. He thought back on the series of dreams that had haunted his sleep, but then tried to clear it from his mind. "I slept enough for now. I thought I'd try to read through those files for a bit." He took a bite of the egg roll.

Suddenly the cell phone on the table rang, screen flashing and ringer on the highest volume.

They all stared at it.

Neal took a deep breath. Maybe this was it.

Elizabeth noted the caller ID. "Susan," she read it out loud. She looked over at Peter. "I think that's my caterer for next week."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Dammit."

"Sorry about that," she replied. She reached over to silence the call. "You know, Peter, it's not like I can filter out any other caller…"

"I know, I know…" Peter replied. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to get agitated. I'm just… We need that call."

Neal frowned, considering how ludicrous it was that Elizabeth would apologize for simply receiving a work related call on her own cell phone. The tension around the goddamn phone was becoming too much.

"Peter," he spoke, dropping his half eaten egg roll onto his plate. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. "Don't you think it's just a little bit crazy that you have so much riding on a phone call."

Peter turned his eyes to him, gaze like daggers. "Are we doing this again, Neal?"

"Well, let's 'do' something," Neal replied. "What you're doing so far isn't really a plan at all. Sitting here and staring at a phone?"

"I told you –"

"To what? Give it the day? When I ask what we do after that, you repeat that same mantra to 'give it a day'," Neal persisted. "How many times can we give it a day, Peter?"

"Neal, don't start with me..." Peter responded.

"Yeah, God forbid we start anything," Neal responded. He leaned back in his chair, giving Peter an equally challenging look as he crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he was taking a risk here. It was already a gamble to start this conversation again, but now he had just upped the ante. Peter had already been on edge, and on a regular day didn't appreciate being challenged. "Is it because he might be listening?" he asked, lowering his voice considerably. Maybe that was the source of Peter's hesitation?

"Neal," Peter spoke. His voice was low as well, but more-so in an admonishing way than due to a concern over volume. "I'm not going to debate with you tonight."

"What's the number?" Neal asked, nearly whispering.

Peter raised his eyebrows in question. "What?" he replied. "What are you talking about?"

"The number," Neal repeated. "The one you called and left the message for. I can have Moz run it – it won't take long – and we can confirm if she—"

"No. Jesus, Neal – you don't listen."

Neal sighed. "I listen," he answered. "You don't."

Peter spoke adamantly, "Don't mention your friend again. I already told you multiple times to keep him out of this."

Neal shook his head. "Peter… All you're doing is running out the clock. Why wouldn't you want some more help?"

"Your friend is trouble."

"He's resourceful."

Peter scoffed. "Synonymous with trouble," he replied stiffly. "With questionable motives."

Neal felt defeated. But he also knew his words weren't getting him anywhere. The more he pushed, the more it was going to be an argument. Especially tonight. 'Give it a day,' Peter continued to repeat. It was a broken record response, and he was no where near close to finding a way to get Peter to give it up. Disappointed, he pushed his seat back, moving to get up.

"Where are you going?" Peter asked suspiciously.

Neal regarded him with a look of frustration as he stood. "To the couch," he said, a bit more insolently than intended. "To read the files. Are you okay with that or does it interfere with your plan to wait for a phone call? You want me to sit here and stare at it with you?"

"Oh, come on, Neal…" Peter sighed. He raised his hands to rub at his eyes. "Don't be childish."

Childish. Neal bristled at that comment but didn't respond. Instead he began to walk away from the table.

"Aren't you hungry, Neal?" Elizabeth asked. She had watched their exchange from her seat between them uncomfortably but had refrained from interjecting.

"No," he replied curtly. He could also use Peter's favorite word. Then, unable to hold his tongue despite half of his brain advising him to, he added, "Maybe your husband will regain his common sense after he sleeps and then we can have a real conversation."

Then he walked away, buzzing with anger. At a far enough distance, he carefully glanced back towards the Burkes as he walked, cautious over the reaction to his poorly conceived comment and overall challenge. At the table he saw Peter clench his fists, Elizabeth's hand moving over to touch his arm as though to appease him.

Neal didn't care. He wasn't going to stay quiet while the clock ran out.

Though as soon as he reached the couch and sat down, his bravado faded a bit. He glanced again across the room at Peter and Elizabeth, as though waiting for some kind of follow-up or reaction, for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Surely he didn't get the last word. Surely there was a repercussion to speaking his mind. But instead he could only hear the murmur of the two of them speaking to each other at the table.

Satchmo had remained by the couch but grew excited at his approach. He was eager to lick his fingers and hand, but Neal could barely pet him back.

It wasn't lost on him that provoking Peter in his own home was probably not wise and wouldn't bode well for him. What he meant to be a well intended attempt to persuade Peter to see the bigger picture hadn't succeeded in doing much at all except to agitate the man further. Elizabeth's warning from back at the office resonated now: don't poke the bear. Well, the bear had been throughly prodded now.

And so he sat somewhat rigidly, waiting for the fallout. It was kind of dumb, to agitate him, and then just sit here, twenty feet away. But he was making a point, and he would stick to it. So he took the first case file from the pile in front of him on the coffee table and put it on his lap, flipping it open. It was the same page he'd read half of earlier before falling asleep.

He found himself reading that one page, again and again. Distracted. He read it but didn't digest the words. Instead he kept trying to hear the conversation from the table. Maybe with some luck, his pushing on the plan would lead to a better outcome tonight. Maybe Elizabeth was piling on with her own similar views, that they needed to do something more.

Or maybe Peter was inventing new ways to take him to task …

It was impossible to discern the conversation.

When utensils dropped onto plates and chairs began to push back from the table, Neal felt himself start to panic a bit.

He kept his eyes on the papers in front of him but occasionally glanced up through his lashes to keep an eye on the scene ahead of him.

This wasn't his fault, he reminded himself. He wasn't the suspect here.

When in his periphery vision he saw the approaching figure of Peter, he stiffened, pushing himself deeper into the couch. He kept his eyes glued to the piece of paper in front of him, refusing to look up. Reading… He was reading.

The man came closer and closer.

He considered voicing something— maybe a quip to lighten the mood – but didn't trust himself. So instead he continued the ploy of being completely enthralled with this page that was now completely blurry in front of him.

"You're still on the first page," Peter told him gruffly.

Neal lifted his head slightly now, viewing the pant legs that were just inches from him. "True," he allowed.

Peter sighed and took the remaining step forward. He slowly lowered himself down into the seat next to Neal. Neal braced himself.

Satchmo moved at the same time, shifting his position to drop his muzzle onto the couch between the two men.

Peter rested his hand on his dog's head, scratching gently. "Neal," he spoke.

Neal considered and reconsidered his response for a moment. He was ready to go with something honest, something sympathetic, but instead what came out was, "Getting a little far from that phone, Peter, aren't you?" There was the quip…

"That's really what you're going with?" Peter asked him.

Neal chewed the corner of his lower lip. "Apparently…"

Peter reached past Satchmo, dropping his hand to pat Neal's thigh. Hard.

"I'm not going to apologize," Neal began, "even though it's your house. I—"

"I don't expect you to," Peter interjected, delivering another pat to his leg. "Let's talk about the plan… The plan, which you're so critical of, I admit is short-term right now. You read this." He gestured to the case files. "I get a few hours, which you and my wife have reminded me several time already is necessary. Then, first thing in the morning, we'll see where we are."

Neal paused, having expected a different interaction. He waited for there to be something else, but there wasn't. Peter's hand felt heavy on his leg.

"Deal?" Peter persisted.

Neal pursed his lips before stating, "Alright. I guess."

Peter clapped his hand on Neal's leg a last time. "Good," he stated, rising from the couch. "Don't wake me up."

Neal frowned slightly, but didn't respond as his handler headed for the stairs.

A moment later, Elizabeth was also heading towards the stairs after tidying the kitchen. She paused as she passed him. "Neal," she spoke.

"I know," Neal told her, leaning his head back into the couch to tilt his head towards her. "Bear. Poking. Bad. I get it."

She simply smirked. "Good night, Neal."

"Night," he answered.

A few hours after their terse 'dinner' and subsequent 'conversation', Neal had finally read every page in the case files.

A few pages he had read twice. Intentionally.

When finished, he placed the files back into a neat stack on the coffee table.

He sat back, staring at the physical papers. Thinking.

Between two of the folders, he had also found where Peter had tucked away the piece of paper that contained the beginning of his draft sketch of Dean.

He stared at that for a while as well.

The case was more complicated than he'd expected. Peter really hadn't shared even a fraction of the details. His dismissive 'it's complicated' response had actually been quite warranted.

One of the files was specifically focused on Dean and his background before and up to becoming a CI. Neal actually read that one first. He had a lot of intrigue over this man and who he was... what he had done.

Peter had insisted he was nothing like him. The only commonality was their status as CIs; however, as Neal read word for word the contents within this manila folder, he found that wasn't entirely true. They both shared an affinity for certain things, like certain genres of art, and there were a few pages out of Dean's record that could have just as easily been part of Neal's. It also just so happened that Dean was also suspected of forgery, though they had never gotten enough evidence to pursue a case. As he read through these parts of the case file, he found himself frowning.

There were other attributes of Dean's, however, that Neal could say with complete confidence he possessed no traits of. Clearly based on the details in the file, Dean preferred violence and force over the power of persuasion. He was inclined to carry a weapon, and he had used it, even fatally. Neal on the other hand hated weapons of any kind, but particularly hated guns.

Neal wondered while reading over this file what his own version contained… And would Peter let him read it? If he chose to request it on his own, would they give it to him?

Other than making Neal more aware of Dean and what he was capable of, Neal admitted to himself that the information he'd read so far didn't lend itself to much help in the current case, except to fear Dean a bit more. He finally put it down and tried to clear his mind of comparisons to Dean as he picked up the next of the case files that was actually related to the case at hand.

Samantha Hagor. Niall Hagor. Wally, Jacob, and Lilian Hagor.

Faces and names.

Neal immersed himself into their story. The premise of the original case was similar to other cases that Neal had been involved in and had heard Peter talk about. It started with the passing of Samantha's father. That in itself wasn't an unexpected loss given his age and state of dementia, but it did spark a familial war over the future of his estate. An estate which included an extensive (and impressive, Neal noted) collection of paintings situated across homes located in both Long Island and Miami.

The war over the estate originally started as a legal one, but then became more complex.

The FBI was originally involved to look into some concerning questions that arose on the origin of some of the artwork, with a question over how Samantha's father had come into possession of some of the pieces. Peter was part of the team. Neal noted the dates of the case. It was roughly a decade ago. His partner on the case, from a different department of the Bureau, just so happened to have a CI: Dean.

While the legal battle ensued but was significantly delayed due to the involvement of the FBI, most of the artwork suddenly disappeared with allegedly robberies taking place at both homes. The first robbery took place in Miami. No one was present given the home was secondary and used for vacations. In fact, that robbery, which was timestamped by security cameras, went unknown for a few days. As for the primary home on Long Island, that robbery took place a week later, and Niall, who had been home at the time, was tragically murdered.

Samantha was devastated by the loss of her husband after so recently losing her father and was also overwhelmed to become a single mother to three young children. The investigation evolved and pulled in more resources, now focused on several different angles: the origin of the paintings, the murder of Niall, and finally the current whereabouts of the artwork. It was believed the latter two angles would presumably link back to the same culprit or culprits.

Neal read page by page as the case seemed to drag on for weeks into months. At some point during that time, the unfortunate realization came out that Niall had actually been directly involved in the robberies. The motive was apparently to circumvent the legal estate battle by simply commandeering the art himself behind the scenes with the support of some friends.

Also unbeknownst to the Bureau until later, during this time Dean had developed a close relationship with Samantha. He played upon her vulnerability and her emotions surrounding her deceased husband. While her memories of him became tainted with the realization of what he had done, she was still in love with her late husband. From the outside, it seemed Dean was simply offering a sense of comfort and strength. The FBI didn't learn until later the darker side of the relationship.

The investigation dragged on, and a wider net was cast to analyze every angle possible.

That's when the truth came out.

Niall, Samantha's husband, hadn't acted alone in initiating the plan to retain the art through theft. He'd had help. Significant help. He'd partnered with Dean, after they had built their own relationship early on in the investigation. It was supposed to be simple – a devious but perfect scheme to get the art into their hands and close out the legal battle. Thwart the FBI investigation on origination all together.

It was unclear to this day who had actually murdered Niall. It was unlikely to have been Dean himself; however, the teams that acted in both Miami and Long Island were on his instruction. They were crews he had worked with in the past.

When his truth came out, Dean had held Samantha hostage. Claimed it was a big misunderstanding.

He tried to bargain, and failed.

When finally confronted, and when the FBI closed in, he threatened her life. Said if he couldn't have her, after all of this, after everything he had done to prove he cared for her, then nobody could.

He was apprehended. One agent was injured in exchanged gunfire, though survived.

Upon this discovery, Dean had immediately gone back to prison to serve the rest of his original sentence as well as new conspiracy and accomplice to grand theft charges. In doing so, he had named every threat against Samantha and her children.

He also refused all efforts of the FBI to obtain the identity of the other accomplices, who on security footage were all masked. Even when a potential lesser sentence was waved in front of him, he refused. What he wanted was Samantha.

Samantha and her children were subsequently placed into Witsec.

In the case files were a myriad of photos, data, and other evidence.

Neal went through each page meticulously, absorbing it all..

The last file ended with a reference to a separate, classified document on Samantha. It also documented when Dean was estimated to be released from prison.

That date was only a few months ago…

Neal acknowledged that Peter was right. It was pretty damn complicated. And Dean was pretty damn scary….

It was good timing when he finished going through the files, when an expected phone call came through his cell phone.

He answered it with a whisper. "You're here?"

"Affirmative," came the response. "At the door. His neighbor seems a bit nosy though. Do you mind—"

"One minute."

And from that point on, with no turning back, Mozzie was introduced to the so-called plan.

Now, just a short while after, he found himself in Peter's backyard, feeling conflicted at their actions while still convincing himself they were making a small step to take necessary measures to remedy their situation. Perhaps it was a small step, but it felt like a much, much larger one, and it filled him with trepidation, mostly because he was acting independent of his handler.

He had planned this hours before, preceding the dinner conflict with Peter. Before he had even finally fallen asleep. He was glad he had, or he might have changed his mind after the last few hours, but it made his anxiety peak that much further… Peter's words of 'don't wake me up' repeated in his head.

"You're jittery," Mozzie accused him soon after arriving.

"Sh…" was all Neal could respond.

"You okay? You hurt? You-"

"Let's just do this," Neal whispered back.

He knew another request for permission to include Mozzie would have been blindly denied on principle, and would only have lead to more bickering. Instead he took the age-old policy of planning to ask for forgiveness after the event instead.

He was taking full advantage of Peter's exhaustion, and what he hoped was a very deep slumber in his bedroom upstairs.

The only thing Neal struggled to think of was an excuse in his choice of accomplice. Peter had repeatedly told Neal not to involve Mozzie. And had reiterated to him it was a repeated reminder... And now… Now there Mozzie was, on a tall ladder that was leaning up against the Burke home in the backyard, standing near the top of it by the second story of the building.

Neal stood at the bottom of it, looking up amazed at Mozzie's lack of fear of heights. His own hands were wrapped around the base of the ladder with his weight leaned against it, acting as an anchor.

They were almost done….

'Be quiet,' Neal had urged Mozzie countless times already that last hour. From coming through the front door of Peter's home, which felt like the biggest betrayal and trespass, to doing a search of Peter's home – nearly everywhere but the master bedroom.

'Sh….' he had pleaded while they were on the stairs, his own pride at knowing every floorboard in the Burke home worthless now. Mozzie did not know those secrets.

Mozzie acquiesced to remain clandestine to the best of his ability, which was fairly skilled, but there were still a few instances that Neal considered to be close calls.

He wondered who Peter would go after first – him or Mozzie?

As his review of the home progressed, it lead them here, to the backyard. To a need to go 'up.'

Mozzie had been up on that ladder for a while now, and Neal could only feel the tightness in his chest continue to grow. His heart was pounding.

He was nervous for his friend to be at such heights, and at a favor to him really, but also terrified to be found out. And after all this, if there as nothing to show of it…

He was just thinking of this when, almost as a self-fulfilling prophecy, he suddenly felt a cold pressure at the nape of his neck. It felt like metal. Like the barrel of a gun.

His gasp, an almost choked intake of air, was instinctual.

The pressure of the foreign object against his hairline alleviated, but before Neal could even turn or react, he found his arm yanked back roughly. Instinctively, he quickly released his hold on the ladder before the movement could inflict any risk to his friend two stories up. Before he knew it or could resist, he found himself securely pushed against the side of the house face first, arm bent behind him at a painful angle. If he moved at all, his wrist was at risk. His assailant pressed their other hand firmly into the small of his back, and he winced.

"What the hell are you doing?" hissed a familiar voice in his ear.

"Peter," Neal gasped, breathing into the siding of the house. He should have expected this. This was what he'd been dreading since Mozzie arrived.

Peter pushed him harder against the wall, ignoring Neal's grunt of discomfort. He repeated his question, this time more a growl. "What are you doing, Neal?"

Neal briefly squeezed his eyes shut, cheek uncomfortably pressed up against the side of the house. "I can explain." He squirmed a bit under Peter's hold which only resulted in the man pushing him against the wall harder. How was it possible? He hissed in pain. "Peter, that's hurts."

"Good," Peter retorted, none too sympathetic.

"I have to hold the ladder," Neal said, voice strained. "So he doesn't fall."

Peter craned his head upward to squint towards the roof. He then fixated his glare back to Neal. "What the hell are you two doing? Why's he up there?"

"Helping," Neal replied. He winced, as the word caused Peter to push on him harder. "I told you, I can explain." He tried to sound as earnest as possible. "Let go. Please."

"Helping?" Peter echoed. His voice was angry. Angrier than Neal had seen in a while. "I could've shot you, Neal."

Neal tried to shake his head, but struggled with the effort. He had little mobility in the hold Peter had managed to get on him. "You didn't."

Peter let out a frustrated breath. He used his hold on Neal to move him, clamping his hand now on his shoulder to turn him around and then push him back into a similar hold.

Neal grunted as his back hit the wall.

Neal rubbed at his wrist, which felt bruised from the previous hold position. "Mozzie-" he began, but was quickly interrupted.

"Mozzie is the one person I specifically told you not to involve in this, Neal," Peter hissed at him. "More than once!"

Neal frowned. This was the predictably raised offense he could offer not much of an excuse for. "I know," he began. "I know." He wasn't sure why he was repeating the fact, but at least it was the truth.

"And you not only disobey that direct order," Peter hissed, "but you bring him to my house?"

Neal looked upwards, towards the top of the ladder. He could barely see his friend in the darkness of the night. "I thought we'd be done before you woke up." After the words left his mouth, he knew how stupid of a statement it was. Dumb, Neal, he told himself.. Honest, yes. But dumb.

"And that would make it okay?" Peter shot back. The hand on Neal's shoulder tightened. He looked at Neal with a fury in his eyes. "What's the matter with you?"

"We had to do it, Peter," Neal began. Once he explained, he knew he could have Peter redirected on what mattered: Dean.

"I've told you many times, Neal," Peter spoke tersely. "You become a liability and then that's it- you're done. Back to prison. No more chances. You understand me?"

Prison. The threat Peter always defaulted to.

"We just spoke," Peter told him. "Just earlier."

Neal couldn't find it in him to respond.

Peter dropped his hand from Neal's shoulder, but maintained the incensed eye contact. He then pointed towards the back door of the house. "Get inside."

Neal felt a chill the way Peter made the command. He said nothing.

"I'm counting to three," he told Neal, "and you better be inside." He began to walk away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. "One," he verbalized loudly as he himself open the back door and reentered the house.

Neal exhaled, shivering slightly.

"Neal!" came the loud whisper from above.

Mozzie.

He quickly returned to his post at the ladder, squinting up into the darkness. As his heart beat faster, stomach churning, he could see his friend now quickly descending.

He sighed, silently urging him to move faster.

Mozzie hopped off the last rung of the ladder.

"Did you finish?" Neal asked.

"Yes." Mozzie glanced towards the backdoor of the house and then back to his friend. "What happens when he gets to three?"

"What?" Neal asked, scowling slightly.

"He's counting to three. What happens if you're not there?"

Neal felt his cheeks flush. "I don't know," he said honestly. Peter had offered a myriad of threats over the last few months. Many times he was all bark and no bite, calming before he actually followed through despite several scary close calls. This time, Neal truly didn't know and also didn't want to find out.

"One way to find out," Mozzie replied with a shrug.

Neal didn't appreciate his friend's nonchalance. He frowned. "Easy to say when it's not your ass on the line," he replied stiffly. "You're sure you took care of it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Go home."

"You good?"

"I don't know," Neal answered honestly.

"You want to come with me?" Mozzie asked.

"And make it worse?" Neal replied.

Mozzie shrugged. "Fair. You know him. You decide."

"Go," Neal told him. "I'll explain."

Mozzie didn't need to be told twice. He was gone.

With that Neal started to walk towards the door of the house. He acknowledged that he hadn't verbalized his thanks to his friend for helping him out, but also realized counting to three was very likely already up.

Back inside the house, he found Peter pacing, hands on his hips. He'd seen this behavior of Peter before. It didn't mean anything good.

Had he made it to three?

He closed the door behind him, considering whether to lead with apologies and pleading or to offer the outcome of what he and Moz had actually accomplished for them...

As Peter turned from his pacing, and started towards Neal with a wide stride to his step, he quickly chose the latter.

"We can talk now," he said, rushing out the words. His arms, the right still aching, raised up in front of him, palms out, as though in anticipation of a physical response. "Free speech. No one listening. You can talk."

"Talk?" Peter spat out. "Oh you're gonna wish it was talking."

That didn't sound good. Neal kept his hands elevated and took a cautious step back. "He can't hear us."

"What?" Peter spat out. He stopped inches in front of Neal, but continued moving with him as Neal attempted to keep a distance. His face was red. "What are you talking about?"

"Dean," Neal explained. He continued to edge backward. "He can't hear us anymore."

Fuming, Peter stared at him. "How?"

Neal's retreat had led him to the wall. There was no where else to go. The wall felt hard behind him but he leaned into it, as though it would somehow magically envelop him or allow him to disappear. He shifted one of the raised hands to rub at his face, trying to wipe the tiredness away. "Mozzie took care of it," he stated. "I'm sorry. I would have asked you but you wouldn't let me."

Peter's eyes now narrowed.

No verbal response.

The silence was most disturbing to Neal. He shifted his weight, fidgeting. "Peter…"

"You're going back to prison. I'm done with this."

Neal felt a pang in his chest at the comment. At the quick rejection. Peter's level of anger seemed to be rising rather than subsiding. He had to make him understand that what he had done was good and meaningful. "Peter, he fixed it," he repeated.

"What are you talking about, Neal?"

"You can talk in your own house now," Neal persisted. "I asked Moz to scan the house. See if he could find any proof of how Dean's been keeping tabs on you. And he found something."

A look of surprise flashed across Peter's face, briefly replacing the anger. "Where?" he asked.

"The main device was on the roof," Neal replied, "which is why…" He gestured towards outside, utilizing the hand signal rather than words to verbalize their reason for the rooftop visit. "He also found a couple of the pieces inside. Everything's disabled now."

"Inside," Peter repeated. "Inside my house?"

"I had to let him inside, Peter," Neal began, voicing hitching slightly as he tried to defend himself. "I know what you said, and the last thing I wanted to do was go against you, but I had to. I'm sorry."

Peter frowned at the response, anger briefly shifting to a look of confusion for a moment as he tried to connect Neal's response to his comment. Then he shook his head, understanding they were talking about two different things. "No, no. Not Mozzie," he replied irritably. "The devices." He paused before then sticking a finger squarely into Neal's chest. "But I'm not pleased he was in my house either."

"I'm sorry," Neal repeated.

"Dammit…" Peter cursed. He shook his head again, jabbing his finger one last time into Neal's clavicle as though to emphasize an unspoken point and then dropping his hand and walking a few steps away. Hands were back on his hips, pacing resumed.

"It's hard to guess when Dean placed them here," Neal continued, voice slightly tentative but wanting to focus their attention on the relevant part of this – not the fact Mozzie had been here. "But they're deactivated now."

Peter said nothing. As he turned to pace again to the other side of the room, Neal caught the deep frown that continued to form noticeable lines in Peter's forehead.

The lack of response made Neal uneasy, but he started to lower his hands cautiously, realizing suddenly that they'd still been raised. "Are you still going to kill me?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm not sure yet," Peter responded. He turned his head, casting Neal an annoyed look. "I honestly don't have time to consider what to do with you yet, Neal, and half of me wants to just put you in a cell so I don't have to worry about it."

At the mention of in a cell, Neal felt his stomach twist. "Worry about what?" Neal answered, a little bit more defensively than he had intended. He was trying to go for innocuous and failed.

"Worry about you. You not listening to me yet again."

"I do listen." As Peter scoffed at him, Neal grew more defensive. "Peter, this," Neal began, again gesturing to the backyard, a bit more emphatically, "needed to be done. You thought he might be listening to us, and he was!"

Peter glared. "Neal, my wife thought there was an intruder," he said stiffly. "Someone at the window. She was terrified, thinking it might be him."

"Well, maybe instead of yelling at me, you should tell her it isn't him," Neal answered, again answering more quickly than he should and with emotion versus his usual controlled conversation. "And while you're at it, you can also let her know he's no longer listening to your private conversations."

Peter's glare darkened a bit.

"I'm only speaking the truth," Neal insisted. He leaned back again into the wall, placing his palms flat against the surface behind him. He felt the need to vindicate his actions, especially since they had found something. Thank God we found something… Neal thought to himself. Otherwise I'd really be in trouble. It was an ironic sense of relief considering the direness of the situation.

"And when he notices he can no longer hear us, Neal?" Peter asked, his voice suddenly eerily calm. "Then what? Did you think about that?"

Neal didn't know. So instead he again tried to stick with the facts. "He said not to tell anyone about him and to get him what he wants," Neal said. "He never said anything about clearing bugs from your home."

Peter exhaled, yet again shaking his head. "Not quite that black and white, Neal…"

"So you'd rather he be listening to us?"

"I'd rather he think he has the upper hand, and not suspect that we're thwarting him…"

It was Neal's turn to let out a frustrated breath. This was taking an unexpected turn.

"It's classic Neal Caffrey," Peter responded. "Never thinking about the consequences of his actions."

Neal stayed silent, those words sending a jolt of something through him. Had it been naive to think vindication would immediately follow Peter learning what they'd found?

"Cat got your tongue?" Peter persisted.

Neal rubbed his hands against the wall behind him. "No," he said, trying to consider his next best course of action. "I just still think I'm right."

"You're not," Peter said rigidly. "And I'd tell you to listen to me next time," he added, "but there might not be a next time."

Neal just stared back at him. So this was it. The final straw. Over something he thought was helping and giving them the advantage. After everything else he'd done that had been stupid and greedy, this act that he thought was being good was now going to be his downfall.

With these thoughts, the feeling of anxiety tightened in his chest. After the last few days, this was the last thing he needed. And he couldn't tell whether this was one of Peter's empty threats or a real one. Maybe after he slept, Peter would realize Neal was right… While these thoughts raced in his head, Neal made a deliberate attempt at masking his expression.

Peter was studying him. "What are you thinking, Neal?" he asked carefully. The anger in his voice seemed to have alleviated only slightly.

Neal shifted his weight against the wall, again wishing he could disappear through it. He was thinking too many things concurrently to even begin to articulate them adequately. Nor was he about to start to let Peter into any of those thoughts.

"Nothing," he replied. It was a lie.

"Is there something else?" Peter asked.

The question caught Neal off-guard and his nonchalant facade faltered. "What?"

"What else did you ask Mozzie to do?"

Neal's jaw dropped slightly before he frowned in a purely natural reaction. "Peter, nothing," he said.

"Honest?"

"Honest," Neal stressed the word earnestly.

"This was it…"

"Yes!"

"Because if there's anything else that goon is planning-"

"Then what?" Neal interjected, frustrated. "Prison?" Both hands lifted to his face, briefly pressing the heels of his palm into his eyes. He hated the way that came out and tried to calm himself. He dropped his hands to his side. "You already said prison already."

"And you already said you would listen to me, yet you haven't."

"And you told me to never lie, but you're lying to Hughes, and Diana, and everyone," Neal shot back. "You don't even listen to yourself!"

Peter eyed him quietly. The pacing had stopped. The akimbo arms were now folded across his chest. It was another favorite position of Agent Burke. He must be feeling better now that his ribs allowed that stance.

At least he was keeping his distance.

Neal took a deep breath. Say something, Peter, he thought to himself. Meanwhile, he considered apologizing, bowing his head, and admitting fault. Playing the guilty role. But he really didn't think he should be considered guilty.

He realized suddenly how tired he was. How his head and body ached. How he kind of felt lost. Up until now, for once the situation they were in wasn't driven by him and his own agenda. But now he had just added his own twist. A good deed that was now seemingly going awry.

Before Peter could say anything, Elizabeth was in the room, wearing a robe and an irritated look on her face. She eyed her husband and then Neal. "What's going on? The whole neighborhood can hear you."

Neal waited for Peter to answer, afraid of yet again saying the wrong thing.

Peter eyed him for a second longer before turning to his wife. "Nothing's going on."

"Well, who was outside?" she asked with slight exasperation, looking concerned.

"Neal," Peter said dryly.

She raised her eyebrows, turning to look towards Neal. "What? Really? Why?"

"You wanna explain, Neal?" Peter asked with a somewhat condescending tone.

Neal sighed, again raising his hands to rub them over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want to get into this again.

Peter cleared his throat, watching Neal's mannerisms. "We're going back to bed," he stated, not waiting for a response. "Go upstairs, Neal."

Neal dropped his arms. He looked as though he may object for a moment, but then simply exhaled. He pushed himself away from the wall and without a word nor eye contact walked past both the Burkes to head towards the stairs.

Elizabeth watched his movement until he disappeared from sight and then gave her husband an incredulous look. "What is going on?" she demanded, repeating her earlier question.

"Neal and his bonehead ideas," Peter muttered.

"He didn't try to run, did he?"

Now it was Peter's turn to look incredulous. "No," he answered. "Run? What gave you that idea?"

"Then why are you mad?"

Peter let out an exasperated breath. "Honey, the last thing on my mind right now is him running."

"Well, he's got nothing stopping him from running," Elizabeth responded with a shrug. "He's not on the anklet."

Peter sighed. "Thanks for reminding me… But no, that's not what he was doing. If that's what he was doing, I'd already have him in cuffs." He knew the statement wasn't true. It that was what Neal had been doing, he already would have been gone and a missing person/ fugitive case.

"Then what the heck was he doing out there?" she persisted.

In as few words as possible, Peter explained. He watched her eyes widen at the recognition that their suspicion of being listened to was correct… As he finished explaining, including the last few minutes of conversation, she frowned.

"You're mad at him for that?"

He frowned back. "Hon, it's actually exactly what I told him not to do. He-"

"No, you told him not to involve Mozzie. And I get that, Peter, but he had a suspicion and followed through and he was right."

Peter closed his eyes and sighed. "So you're on his side."

"It's not about sides," she answered. "He could be anywhere right now if he wanted to be. Instead here's here, and he's trying to protect you."

Peter raised his eyebrows and gave his wife a look. "Really. Protecting me."

"Really," she affirmed. "And in return, you're threatening him."

"He behaves better when I threaten him."

She rolled her eyes. "After the ordeal you guys have just been through, and are still going through, do you really think fighting with each other is going to help anyone?" she replied. She paused and then said, "You're not always right, Peter. And don't forget what you've always said about Neal."

"That he's a sneaky con artist who loves to push my buttons?"

"That he's smart," she corrected.

Peter didn't immediately respond.

"And that you like smart," she continued.

He sighed in return. "El, it's kind of you to defend him, but he's not really in a position to undermine my authority and –"

"Don't be so shortsighted," she interjected. "Especially when you're so exhausted. You don't like his buddy. Fine. I get it. We don't all like each other's friends. He—"

"He gets him into trouble."

"And out of trouble," she reminded. "But tonight, he could have been helping him get on a jet to God knows where, and instead he was helping him to help you. Is that really trouble?"

"It might be," Peter replied.

"Maybe they shouldn't have done it," she acknowledged. "But you've got to think about the intention behind it. Admit that first. And then if he really shouldn't have done it, teach him why. Don't just threaten to end the partnership."

Peter felt conflicted. He was still angry with Neal. About defying his request to not involve Mozzie. For sneaking around his home right under his nose. For doing something without telling him that could have huge implications on the outcome with Dean. The list went on.

But his wife's points were also seemingly logical.

"Think about what you've been through the last couple of days with him," Elizabeth continued. "And tell me you don't care enough to realize that what he did was with good intentions. And didn't you tell me it's all about intentions?"

Peter did care. He wouldn't deny how protective he felt over Neal during this ordeal. And vividly remembered the moments that he felt that way.

"This is a lot to go through," Elizabeth reminded. "And you're asking him to talk to no one. That's a lot, Peter."

"He can talk to me," Peter replied.

"Oh? Can he?" she challenged. "Seems like he's tried a few times."

Peter didn't respond at first. Then he simply said, "Hon, come on..."

"You're exhausted," she told him. "I see it in your face. Let's go upstairs. But I really think you should rethink whether or not you're being fair to him."

"I am fair," Peter answered.

She just shrugged. "You say so. We're not going to get past that tonight. Let's go upstairs."

He nodded, feeling a yawn build up within him as if on queue. He let it out with a widely opened mouth as he headed towards the stairs.

His own mind was churning with thoughts as he climbed each stair. The fact that one day was up, and he still had no leads to close out the open challenge with Dean; everything with Neal; the fact he was still exhausted with bruised ribs and an overall ache and exhaustion.

He reached the landing upstairs, hearing his wife just behind him, and then paused.

He looked towards his guestroom, sighing. The door was closed.

Elizabeth caught his look. She sent him a warning one of her own. "Peter…"

"Give me a minute."

"Let him rest."

"I'll be in in just a minute," he persisted.

She sighed and then continued the rest of the way to their own master bedroom.

Peter walked over the handful of feet to the guestroom and then stared down at the knob. After a consideration, he slowly lifted his hand to the door and knocked.

He didn't wait for an answer before opening the door.

Inside, Neal sat on the bed, hunched forward a bit with his head leaning down in his hands, elbows balanced on his knees.

When the door opened, he abruptly looked up, and then made a face that implied he was not thrilled by Peter's entrance.

"Neal," Peter began.

"No," Neal responded. He scowled and then turned himself in towards the bed, moving from seated to rolling onto his side and drawing his legs up onto the bed. "Not tonight, Peter. Please."

Peter sighed. He slowly took a few small steps towards the bed, going slow as to give him time to try to channel his wife's sentiment as he did so. He wanted to call out Neal's reaction to turn away from him as childish, but he held back. Instead he sat down on the edge of the bed. Neal shifted further from him.

He thought back to their time in captivity with Dean, sitting on that cold floor side by side. In hindsight, they weren't held that long. At the time, however, it felt like ages. Having no end in sight, not knowing what Dean was planning, had all made it seem like it was or could be eternity. During that time, Peter had felt this surge of protectiveness over Neal.

He thought about that now, as he reached for his shoulder.

"Neal," he spoke. As he made contact, Neal visibly stiffened. "I'm going to let you sleep," he continued, "and I need to sleep too, but I don't want you having more to worry about when it comes to you and me."

He waited for a response. None came.

"What you did tonight…" He felt Neal stiffen even further beneath his hand, and slipped his hand lower to squeeze his arm. "I'm not happy about it, but El is right..."

"She's always right," came Neal's response, slightly muffled. His head was turned against a pillow.

Peter couldn't help but chuckle, despite his residual annoyance. "True… True…" he replied. "But you had good intentions. What you did was wrong, but you did it for the right reasons…" In his mind he was thinking 'wrong is wrong' but decided to reschedule that moral dilemma for another night. "I'm not going to send you back to prison for trying to do the right thing..."

Neal mumbled something.

"What?" Peter asked, nudging him.

"I thought you'd be happy," Neal admitted more clearly, though still speaking into the pillow.

Peter paused, using his free hand to rub at his face. "No…" he answered slowly. "I'm not… But I understand… And as long as there's nothing else I don't know about… Then we're good."

Neal was silent.

"Nothing else, right?" Peter persisted. "Look at me for a second." He tugged at his arm.

Neal didn't move.

"Hey. Come on," Peter requested.

Neal begrudgingly rolled over very slowly. "I already told you," he said, blue eyes looking slightly frustrated. "There's nothing. I have no idea what's happening next. You have no plan and won't let anyone else help make one."

Brown eyes stared back at blue. "Well, whatever plan you think of…Or your cohort thinks of… Run it by me first please."

Neal said nothing but then nodded.

"Then we're good," Peter told him.

"Okay."

Peter studied him. He looked at the bruising which seemed even more prominent than before. Maybe it was the lighting. He reached out to place his hand on Neal's head, palm fitting over his temple. Neal made a face but didn't pull away. "Your head's okay?"

"Physically or mentally?" Neal responded, adding his typical playful smirk.

Peter realized he hadn't seen that smirk from Neal in a while. Despite it usually being the source of a headache, this time he felt it helped to alleviate some of that residual annoyance. "Both," he replied.

"I've been better..." Neal admitted. "But I'm good, Peter. How about you?"

Peter slipped his hand off of Neal's head and squeezed his shoulder a final time as he started to get up from the bed. "Well, I'm tired. I think I underestimated how tired I am. And annoyed."

"Yeah, tell me about it. You're a bit of an asshole when you're tired, Peter," Neal noted.

Peter laughed at the admission. "Duly noted," he replied.

He was just turning to leave the room when Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, a startled look on her face.

"El. What is it?" Peter asked. Behind him, Neal also sat up in bed.

El lifted her phone in her hand, raising her eyebrows. "It's for you."