AN: If there was one gaping hole in the White Collar universe, it was the lack of holiday episodes; just doing my part to close the gap a little. Oh, and there's a tiny reference to my earlier fic, Model Employee, but it's inconsequential.

Thank You and Good Night

Cheride

Neal glided around the apartment, quietly finishing the clean-up. After the bulk of the dishes had been washed, Mozzie had collapsed onto the sofa in post-feast lassitude and, following a short diatribe on Corporate America covertly lacing turkeys with secret concoctions to make people more susceptible to advertising, had drifted off to sleep though it was barely after eight. Neal smiled fondly as he thought about Moz's indignation on behalf of consumers everywhere, and if he also rolled his eyes just a little bit, well, no one was around to see it anyway.

When everything was wiped down and put back in place, he poured himself another glass of Beaujolais Nouveau from the fridge and carried it over to the dining table, then seated himself facing the paned-glass doors and marveled at the nighttime cityscape outside. He'd turned off most of the lights inside so that he could fully savor the lights against the blackening sky, the closest thing to stars in Manhattan. Neal had spent at least a few minutes every day of the past five weeks admiring the skyline view, but today it seemed especially important to stop and recognize its blessing.

Scant weeks ago, he'd been locked in a prison cell, trying to find the strength to face life behind bars for another four years—or however long it would take him to escape again. Back then, if he had considered the upcoming holiday at all, it would only have been to hope that maybe they'd be lucky enough to get fresh mashed potatoes this year instead of those damned powdered flakes. But now he sat in his own apartment, after enjoying a full holiday meal with his oldest and dearest friend, enjoying what Peter liked to call (pretty accurately, Neal thought) a ten-million-dollar view of Manhattan. Even for Neal Caffrey, who had made a career out of molding reality to his own whims, the change in circumstances was pretty astonishing, and it certainly warranted an extra minute or two of gratitude, today of all days. He smiled and sipped at his wine.

After a moment, Neal reached for his phone and pulled up the most recent text chain, from Peter. The agent had sent a holiday photo of himself with Elizabeth and Satchmo, out for a walk in the woods surrounding Peter's parents' upstate home where they were spending the holiday weekend. The accompanying text said I showed you mine. . .

He'd read El's handiwork there, keeping it lighter than a more direct instruction to prove his whereabouts, which is almost certainly what Peter had intended to send if left to his own devices. Even so, his immediate reaction had been anger. Surprisingly, it had been Mozzie who'd pragmatically pointed out that it had barely been a week since the Haustenberg debacle and that Neal could easily be cooling his heels back in supermax now, even if only for safekeeping while Peter was away. Of course, Moz's next comment had been that Neal wouldn't always be able to count on the G-man backing down from his threats of incarceration and that maybe they should use this long weekend as a cover for escape.

That was closer to the kind of pragmatism Neal expected from the other man, but Peter had placed his CI on house arrest while he was away, and it had been easy enough to convince Moz that was why he couldn't run yet. It was far too soon to begin trying to explain to Mozzie that this past month working with Peter and his team had been much different—much better—than Neal had ever imagined.

So, he had simply put on his best Caffrey smile and snapped a selfie clearly showing his meal prep in progress in his own kitchen and sent it, along with a message: Happy Thanksgiving. Mozzie's not a fan of posing for the camera, especially when the picture is intended for a fed, but he sends holiday greetings just the same. Moz had scolded him for even using his name in the message, but Neal had only laughed, assuring him no one was monitoring their texts.

Then he had quickly followed that first message with a second. Also, this wasn't your most subtle work, Peter. But June put the paper on hold while she's away, so I hope you aren't going to need date verification in your next proof of life photos.

It had taken almost an hour for Peter's concise reply: Smart-ass.

Scrolling back up through the messages, Neal grinned. Peter had always amused him, even during the chase. But it was the picture he wanted to see again now. They looked so happy, Peter and El, and it made Neal happy to see it. It made him believe happily ever after was possible, made him more determined than ever to find Kate. Of course, he'd never tell Peter that last part, or the agent might banish him from spending time with the Burkes as a couple, and Neal surely didn't want that.

He shook his head and took another drink of his wine. He hadn't planned on spending his holiday thinking about the man who'd caused him to spend the last four Thanksgivings eating powdered mashed potatoes. Still . . .

Neal went to his closet, slipped on a jacket, then quietly carried his wine and phone out to the balcony, taking care not to wake Mozzie as he opened and closed the door. He didn't want to overthink what he was doing, so he leaned casually against the balustrade, placed his glass beside him atop the railing, and quickly pressed the speed dial on his phone. As expected, the call was answered right away.

"Hello, Neal."

Neal had to give the guy credit; Peter hadn't answered with any variation of 'What have you done now?' and had almost managed to keep suspicion out of his tone. He grinned a little as he replied. "Peter. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"You're interrupting my holiday weekend," Peter answered laconically. "Did you need something?"

His grin spread as he heard a hissed admonition in the background and then a bit of scratchy rustling. Then Peter obviously lost the battle for the phone.

"Hi, Neal, happy Thanksgiving. How was your day?"

"Hi, Elizabeth. My day was good, thank you, very relaxing. Just had a friend over for dinner, nothing fancy."

"You cooked a Thanksgiving meal in your kitchen?" El made it sound like that would've been nothing short of a miracle.

With a laugh, Neal told her, "June let me use her oven for the turkey, but otherwise, yeah, but it was just the two of us, so no problem. How's the holiday at the in-laws?"

"Oh, it's great; they're great. And it's so peaceful up here. The city's home, of course, but sometimes it's nice to get away from the craziness."

"I bet." Neal managed not to let any wistfulness or bitterness into his voice, though he couldn't help but realize it would be another four years before he could leave the city again. He focused on the glistening cityscape to remind himself there were definitely worse prisons. But he heard a small, sharp intake of breath and thought El had realized her slight misstep anyway, so he hurried on. "Thanks for sending the picture. I'm lucky Peter has you to smooth his rough edges a little bit."

She laughed. "Oh, he's not that rough, even without me." Then there was more rustling, and Elizabeth obviously moved the phone away to say, "Okay, okay, just a minute," and then she was back. "He might not be too rough, but he is getting impatient, so I better let you get back to whatever you needed to talk to him about. Maybe you can come over for dinner one day next week?"

"I'd like that."

"Okay, good. Here's Peter, then; goodnight."

"Goodnight, Elizabeth."

"You talking to my wife about me behind my back, Caffrey?" Peter groused.

"Nothing I wouldn't say to your face," Neal assured him lightly. He could hear movement, like Peter was walking, and then he heard a door open and close quietly before the agent spoke again.

"Neal, seriously, is everything okay?" There was no trace of the mock irritation now, or even a hint of suspicion, just genuine concern.

"Everything's fine, Peter. Mozzie's asleep, and it was quiet here, and I was just looking at the view, thinking." He took another sip of the wine, waiting for the inevitable question. Peter didn't disappoint.

"Thinking about what?"

Neal let out a puff of breath. "How quickly things can change, how the city's beautiful at night, how I much prefer actual mashed potatoes to the ones from a box."

"So, nothing big then." Neal could hear the fond smile in Peter's voice.

"Existentialism 101, Thanksgiving edition." He let a moment pass, still staring at the lights. When he spoke again, his voice had gone soft and serious. "Can you see stars there, Peter?"

"Yeah. It's nice."

"I miss the stars. But these lights are a pretty decent substitute. I don't take them for granted." He breathed in the brisk night air, reveling in the feel of it working its way to his lungs, making him feel more alive, seeming to make the sparkling lights a little sharper, the lingering wine on his lips a little sweeter.

"I haven't thanked you."

"Neal, you don't—"

"Peter. I could've been spending another four years without seeing the night sky; you don't know what that's like. People always think it's the sunshine you miss inside, but there's yard time and work details, maybe a transport to the courthouse once in a while. I mean, it's not like a day at the beach or anything, but there's daylight almost every day.

"But the nighttime . . . Things are locked down tight before sundown. There are no stars, no moon, no city lights twinkling in the darkness. The night sky . . . that's something that you lose, and until you do, you don't know how special it is. I didn't see it for four years." He took a breath. "Thank you for not letting it be eight."

There were a few seconds of silence before Peter said, "You're welcome." His voice was thick and raspy, but he forced out a few more words. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you back the stars."

"No, Peter, you did more than that. You gave me a chance. I don't take that for granted, either."

Neal's hand trembled ever so slightly as he raised his glass and took another long drink of wine. He hadn't planned to share quite that much, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Peter deserved to know he was grateful. But now that he did . . . He lightened his tone. "I should let you get back to Elizabeth; I am interrupting your holiday weekend, after all."

Peter followed his lead back to banter, as Neal had known he would. "Still a smart-ass, I see. And, listen, I better not get back to town and hear the MoMA is suddenly missing a certain van Gogh."

Neal laughed. "I promise, the Chrysler gives me the only starry night I need for now."

Peter laughed, too. "Glad to hear it." But his voice was filled with warmth when he added, "I'm glad you called. Happy Thanksgiving, Neal."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Peter."

Neal was still enjoying the view and his wine when his phone vibrated with a new text message from Peter. Best I can do for now.

Before he even had time to ponder the meaning, the phone buzzed again, and Neal opened a single photo—the night sky filled with stars.

~END~

To my American friends who are celebrating today, Happy Thanksgiving. And no matter where you are, I'm wishing you a day of blessings and gratitude.