chapitre de l'enfer. Pardon my French...

Long, mostly introspective chapter. Hope that's okay.

Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing, following and favoriting my story. I appreciate all the support and encouragement I can get. :)

Chapter Eighteen

Friendship. That was what Neal was thinking about as he listened to Peter snoring, stretched out on the sofa that ended about six inches short of his legs. It was just after two thirty in the morning and things were remarkably quiet. Neal could tell he was doing better by the infrequency of the staff visits to his room. He hadn't seen anyone since his medication had been brought to him just after eleven p.m. It had been well before then that Peter had reclined on the sofa, Elizabeth's gift under his head, with the television on. The volume was down so low Neal doubted Peter could hear the dialogue, but his eyes had been fixed on the images until exhaustion finally caught up with him. He had been sleeping peacefully for some time when Neal's night medications had arrived. At his insistence the CNA, a perky blond named Danielle, had retrieved an extra blanket and spread it over Peter's still form. It wasn't long after Neal took his medication that his pain eased and he, too, drifted off to sleep.

He had been awakened by growing discomfort that told him it was still about an hour before his next dose of medication; a look at the clock verified it. Although it didn't relieve his pain completely and wore off before the next dose was due, Neal preferred the new medication over the previous one. It left him a little fuzzy but not as much as the injections had, and the edge of constant pain helped keep his thoughts focused. This had been of vital importance to him earlier in the day as he tried to determine what his best course of action should be.

At the time, the only logical explanation for his current situation was that the Cordero organization was somehow aware of his duplicity. They had either been a leak or he had screwed up; either way, his circumstances had changed. The nurse told him Agent Burke had refused to budge despite hospital policies, and his attitude had stifled any resistance from the staff. Neal had seen Peter's FBI Official Duty stance and could understand why opposition had melted before it. He knew Peter now felt a duty to protect him, but that was a role he couldn't let him resume. Being hunted by the Cordero family he could deal with; being held in protective custody by the FBI was something else altogether. He wanted to be Peter's friend, not his responsibility. He'd just as soon strap another tracking device to his ankle. The problem was that if he were in danger Peter's resolve would not be deterred in spite of any protest Neal made to the contrary.

Neal had hoped the trip to New York might prove the first step toward home, but that was quickly becoming unlikely. The situation had reverted them into roles all too familiar; roles he had taken great steps to escape and would not be trapped in again. He felt growing desperation as he ran though the options in his head. The best and most immediate solution to the problem was for him to disappear, to go to ground until he could assess the extent of the danger. Mozzie was on his way; he'd have some resources, some help. He had to get away from the east coast; away from the Burkes. The desolation he felt as he came to that sad conclusion was almost unbearable; the relief when he learned that he wasn't on a hit list of some kind, and he didn't have to run, had almost brought him to tears.

I'm not here to protect you; I'm here because you're my friend.

His dinner arrived just as Peter finished this proclamation and Neal felt tears of relief spring to his eyes despite Peter's attempt at levity. He looked away quickly but knew Peter had seen them; knew Peter was as embarrassed to witness the emotion as he was to show it. He couldn't help it. It had been a long day and Elizabeth had already brought him to the brink of tears once with her talk of family. It hadn't taken much to get him there again. The arrival of his dinner rescued them from the awkwardness that was bound to follow; Peter stepped out of the way and the tray was placed on the over-bed table.

"Looks pretty good tonight." The young lady lifted the plate cover, looking curiously from one man to the other; she must have known she had interrupted something. "Meatloaf, potatoes, steamed carrots and apple cobbler." There was also a container of tea on the tray and a packet of condiments.

Neal, still blinking hard against the sudden emotion, mumbled some appreciative words and kept his eyes fixed on the peaks of the whipped potatoes.

"I'm going to run down and grab a bite to eat," Peter's voice sounded odd, too, as he headed for the door. "You know, before the cafeteria closes. I'll be back."

After Peter had exited the room, the young lady spoke. "Are you okay, Mr. Clay?" she asked. "Did you get bad news or something?

"No," He said thoughtfully. He might not want to stay forever, but he didn't have to leave now. "Actually, the opposite for a change."

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By the time Peter returned with a cheeseburger and fries, Neal had regained his composure as well as his curiosity. As they settled in to eat their dinner, he asked Peter to fill him in on the missing parts in his memory.

Peter seemed happy to oblige and provided a rundown of the events as he had heard them transpire. Neal hadn't missed a lot of what happened at the gallery, but of course, he had missed an important detail; why he had been shot. When Peter related the incident the anxiety of the moment, although now passed, still came through in the telling.

"Things deteriorated fast," Peter's voice was tense, "I heard the shots, heard you cry out. I didn't hear anything after that; I…I left. I had to get here," his volume dropped, "had to get to you."

His tone of voice and expression reminded Neal of their discussion at the Midtown Gallery. Peter had been afraid something would go wrong during the operation, and Neal had assured him it wouldn't. But it had gone wrong, and Peter had heard his fears realized; over a radio from a hundred miles away. He had felt helpless; Neal could hear it in his voice.

"I'm sorry Peter," Neal murmured, picking at his cobbler. Helplessness was not an emotion Peter handled well. Nor did he, for that matter.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Peter assured him, moving past the memory. "You did a great thing; saved a man's life. It just scared me; that's all." Neal couldn't imagine what it would be like for him to hear Peter shot; to hear him gasp in pain and be unable to help. That would be torture, much worse than taking a bullet himself. "I was fine once I talked to Agent Elliot," Peter continued, "and he told me you were going to be okay; better when I got here and could see for myself."

Neal had been on an emotional roller coaster the past week, but he hadn't been on the ride alone. Peter, too, had experienced emotional ups and downs over the past days and especially over the past several hours.

"You said the operation was a bigger success than anticipated." Neal reminded, pushing the conversation back into less stressful real estate. "Do you mean the information on your kidnappers?"

That was part of it, Peter admitted. He'd been surprised when that had come across the wire; he had come to terms with the fact that he'd never identity the people responsible and suddenly he not only had the names of the men who had taken him but the man who had ordered it.

"El Rey?" If there had been another name mentioned it was part of Neal's obscured memories.

"Thomas Delonte, actually," Peter supplied. "A businessman from Queens. White Collar is digging into his financials, but they already are building a case based on statements from Javier Mendez."

Although somewhat familiar, Neal didn't recognize that name either. Seeing his blank look, Peter continued. "He's the man you saved; the Cordero man who was working for the competition."

That detail stirred a memory. "His family was threatened," Neal commented, shifting in the bed. The edge of pain along his right side was becoming a bit sharper. "He didn't have a choice."

"I know," Peter acknowledged, "That's the rest of the success story; He's agreed to cooperate with the authorities in exchange for leniency and protection for both he and his family. His information, in tandem with the information gathered during the original operation, can take down the organization now, not later."

"You have a witness from the inside." Neal had all of the dinner he could stomach; leaving well more than half behind. He put the trash onto his plate, replaced the brown cover and pushed it aside.

"Want me to call them?" Neal looked up to find Peter's concerned eyes on him. "It's past time. They said every four hours and its been," he checked his watch, "Four hours and twenty minutes."

Apparently he'd done a poor job hiding his discomfort. "It's shift change," he answered, "They'll get here as soon as they can. I'm fine," He lied, and Peter's expression told him he knew it. "So," Neal continued, "someone besides me can testify to what was said in the gallery." He was glad of that. It had entered his mind that, to get the men on kidnapping charges, he'd have to be willing to come forward.

"And he doesn't know we have the incident on tape. We will know exactly what to ask and be able to verify his information. We can see how forthcoming he's really prepared to be." He shrugged. "Elliot thinks it likely that the others will follow suit and cooperate in exchange for lesser charges."

Neal saw a look of relief on Peter's face as the nurse entered the room; the usual cart was left outside the door. She was tall, about Peter's age with dark brown hair pulled severely into a low ponytail. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. There was a no-nonsense look about her.

"Hello, Mr. Clay," She began, moving forward and handing him a small white cup containing his evening medication. "Antibiotic and pain medication. My name is Susan, and I am your night nurse."

"It's about time," Peter growled under his breath. Neal shot him a look of warning as he downed the pills. Susan didn't seem like the type to antagonize.

She ignored Peter and checked Neal's dinner plate, raising the cover and then replacing it. "I'll have Danielle bring something else in for you," she said firmly. "Pudding? Jello? Both of your prescriptions are hard on the stomach; you'll need more in your stomach than this or you won't tolerate them well." She stepped over to the whiteboard on the wall, wiped it clean, and filled in the spaces with new names. When she finished, she checked his vitals, making notations in his file. There was silence as she worked; whether she was pleased with the results was unclear. Her expression remained the same.

She was quick and efficient. She removed the oxygen from his nose and clipped the O2 sensor to his finger. "We will see how you do on your own; that will determine whether the doctor will want to send you home with a tank." She finished her tasks, ready to move on to the next patient on the hall. "What's it going to be?" she asked, pausing by the door. "Vanilla pudding or orange jello? We might have lime; I can have them check if you want."

None of the options sounded good, but Neal didn't feel that refusal was an option. "Orange jello?"

She was true to her word; less than five minutes later a young lady arrived, removed his tray and placed two cups of orange jello in front of him. Her name tag, of course, read Danielle. "If you need anything else, just hit the call button," she said, and with a smile at each of them, left.

"Better eat up, or I'll call Susan on you," Peter teased. Neal rolled his eyes but pulled the top off the cup anyway. It wasn't bad; the cool felt good on his not-so-settled stomach. Peter rattled on about White Collar being inundated with dozens of backgrounds to run as Neal dutifully ate the first and then second cup of jello. The pain had eased and Neal, jello finished, found himself zoning out as Peter discussed financial profiles and other boring White Collar tasks.

"Medicine working?" The change in topic got Neal's attention. "You look like you're feeling a little better." Neal's head was beginning to swim, and he guessed Peter could see it in his eyes, thus the timing of the question.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better," Neal replied. "It was not really that bad before; it just started to get on my nerves."

Peter's initial skeptical look changed to one of question. "If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"

That was an unexpected turn. "Given the fact that I've just been drugged I think your timing is a little unfair." Neal admonished playfully. "Anything I say will be unusable due to diminished capacity."

Peter studied him a moment. "It not about anything like that, I just want an honest answer. Can you give me one?"

Neal felt his muscles tense in anticipation in spite of the general relaxed feeling the medicine was now providing. He took a breath, gathered his thoughts, and exhaled slowly. Meeting Peter's eyes, he answered. "I will try."

"Are you thinking about running off? Of just disappearing again?"

His look of disbelief must have come across to Peter as if he hadn't even considered such a thing and was shocked by the question. Of course, the truth was the exact opposite and his disbelief was that Peter had picked up on it. Two years and some things, uncannily, remained the same.

"I'm sorry." Peter shook his head regretfully. "I know that's not fair. I'm just tired and paranoid I guess. You have no reason to run; its just… I've had this feeling all day that you have one foot out the door."

Peter apologizing only made Neal feel worse for his earlier thoughts. "I'm hardly in any condition to do any running," He replied, lifting the oxygen tube up as evidence to the fact and giving Peter a weak smile. "I'd probably pass out after ten yards."

It was not an answer but a deflection, and he knew Peter knew it. "I know you've been playing with the idea of coming back," Peter's gaze remained steady, "and I know you have mixed feelings."

Of course he knew, thought Neal, he's Peter. Neal had promised he would try to be honest so he gave it a shot.

"After I saw you in Venezuela," He began tentatively, "I kept thinking about what you'd said to me at the airport."

"I asked you to come back to New York with me." That wasn't all he had said, Neal recalled. He'd said a lot more than that.

A lot of people cared about you, would still care about you given the opportunity. People see the good in you; you are a good man. I am honored that you thought of me as your best friend, but I want you to know that I am more than proud to call you mine.

"Yeah, and then Elizabeth came back to Paris," he continued. "She said if I ever wanted to come to New York, I'd be welcome." He paused. Being honest wasn't an easy thing, especially when it related to his feelings. He struggled on. "I tried to forget about seeing you, tried to go back to my no contact rule, but I couldn't."

Peter just nodded, keeping his eyes on Neal's, encouraging him to continue. He did. "Then, after we talked, I couldn't stop thinking about coming home." Home. He'd said it again. "But I just wasn't sure it would work out, me coming back."

Peter's eyes softened, telling Neal he'd picked up on the reference too. "So when this Cordero thing came up, you thought you'd give it a test run, come back and see how things went?"

"Something like that." Exactly like that.

Peter's brow furrowed. "But you're still not sure, are you? Something about coming back still scares you, doesn't it?"

Neal didn't like Peter's choice of words. He wasn't scared, just apprehensive, and it wasn't one thing it was several. He didn't know how to answer.

"I wasn't being paranoid, was I?" Peter asked softly. Neal looked away, unable to meet his eyes, and he continued, a tone of incredulous disbelief in his voice. "Why?"

Running away had been a theme in Neal's life, a coping mechanism he had used time and time again. When he felt trapped, or scared, or uncertain his first instinct was to retreat and regroup, or if the situation merited it, simply disappear and start over. He had felt that tug more than once since his return to New York, especially when confronted with things that stirred up mixed emotions. He had known that would happen; had planned for it. The only time he'd been blindsided was when he thought Peter had him in protective custody. That had triggered his flight response in full measure, but he hadn't acted in haste. He'd waited to get more information. The old Neal wouldn't have waited; he reminded himself. The minute he had felt that fear, that desperate need to escape, he'd have acted. He'd charmed the pretty intern from physical therapy, been in a set of scrubs and a taxi a half an hour after leaving Peter's sight. She'd probably even paid his fare and given him a key to her apartment. Instead he'd waited to think it through. He had changed. Nathan Clay didn't flee from situations. He might decide, after due consideration, to leave one, but he wouldn't just run away; there was a difference.

"I'm not going to run away," He stated firmly, knowing now that it was true. "I'm not going to disappear, or fake my death or leave without saying goodbye." There was relief on Peter's tired face at his words. "I plan to have dinner just like I promised, with you, Elizabeth and-" he paused slightly "-Neal. But after that," He searched Peter's face, hoping he could understand the complexity of the decision he had to make, "I don't know what I'm going to do, Peter, so don't ask me. I don't know." Neal didn't like the desperate tone that had slipped into his voice but he couldn't help it. He didn't want any more questions. "I just need some time to think."

Peter, picking up on Neal's stress level, relented immediately. "Okay," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "I didn't mean to pressure you." He dropped his hands. "I just want you to know that you don't have to figure it out by yourself. I mean," his face flushed slightly, "unless you want to figure it out by yourself and then, of course, well you can-"

"Peter." Peter stopped when Neal said his name, looking both embarrassed and expectant. "Thanks for being here," Neal finished. "It means more than you know."

Peter let out a breath, probably grateful to have had his awkward rambling halted by Neal's gratuitous statement. "You're welcome," He replied. "Friends go where they're needed, remember?"

"I remember."

"I just want you to know I'm here if you need to talk," Peter said, his expression telling Neal that he meant every word. "I'm not that great at it, but I can listen, give you someone to bounce things off of." He paused before finishing. "At the end of the day, you deserve to be happy Neal, and whatever that means, either staying here or going back to Paris, that is what I want you to do."

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Neal shifted in his bed, trying to find a position that would ease his discomfort. He looked at the clock again: 2:50. Peter's snoring was intermittent. Sometimes, he slept soundlessly, other times his snoring would reverberate though the small room. At the present moment, he was resting quietly. Neal had been awake for awhile, unable to drift back to sleep, and the events of the day were still playing over in his mind. He had been all over the map emotionally; from fear and despair to relief and gratitude.

Peter had said he should do whatever would make him happy but it wasn't easy to know what that was. Neal had pretty much did what he thought would make him happy all his life. The problem was that he hadn't always thought things through, or counted the costs of his actions, and that had led to a lot of heartaches. He saw what he wanted and took it; decided something would be fun or exciting and did it. Sometimes he had been happy, but more often than not, the cost had outweighed the benefits. Any happiness he'd achieved had been fleeting, short-lived.

He tried to curb his tendency to act without thought of the consequences, yet it continued to get him into trouble; to get everyone into trouble. After he started a life as Nathan Clay, he worked on that character flaw-in addition to several others-with renewed vigor. He learned to discipline himself to approach life the way he had always approached a con: with meticulous planning and attention to detail. The more emotionally involved he was in a situation, the more careful he had to be. He had to detach himself and not allow feelings to cloud his judgment. He didn't rush; he contemplated.

When Peter asked him to return to New York at the airport in Bogota, he had almost said yes. The word had been on his lips, but he hadn't uttered it. It was an emotionally charged moment, and he knew better than to make any snap decisions that could affect both of their lives in an undetermined way.

He'd had a lot to contemplate the past few months.

He had replayed the Burke's invitations to return several times in his mind; had they given their words adequate thought? Had they, like he had so often done, acted on impulse instead of reason? They may be glad he was alive and even happy to have him back in their lives in some capacity, but back in their city, their home? Uncle Nathan in Paris was quite a different thing than Uncle Nathan across town. He wanted to accept their offer, but he had to be sure. Just because he wanted it didn't make it the right thing to do, for him or the Burkes. It wasn't that simple.

His relationship with Peter had been complicated from the beginning; need-based on his side and exploitative on Peter's. It had been set up that way, their arrangement. But Peter reached out to him, showed concern for his well-being. He treated him like a friend and not just a CI; he even welcomed him into his home. To Peter, it was a common courtesy, a kindness shown to someone with no ties, no family of his own. But it stirred in Neal a need he hadn't realized was there; the need to belong, to be a part of a family.

The friendship grew and changed over the years; sometimes good, sometimes strained. Peter could make him feel included in a way he had never felt before and then, at other times, more isolated than he had felt even in prison. They disappointed each other, either by actions or assumptions, words or deeds, with growing frequency. Either Neal really screwed up, or Peter assumed he had when he hadn't. They seemed at odds more often than not. In the end, Neal felt like an obligation; a job Peter been saddled with and had come to regret.

Neal vacillated between despair and resentment. He had struggled for some time before he realized the relationship could never be what he wanted it to be. Kellar had said it: he was con man conning himself. Mozzie, too, saw the futility of his efforts. No matter how much he wanted to belong he never really would; Neal Caffrey would always be a criminal and Peter Burke would always be the FBI. That was the reality of the situation. Since he couldn't change the reality, he decided to change the situation. To change everything.

He became Nathan Clay in name, but it had taken months to discover who that really was. He cut himself off from his old life and didn't allow new emotional entanglements; he had enough old ones to sort through. He took himself apart, piece by piece, scrutinizing his motivations and evaluating his actions. He didn't avoid hard questions or the ugly truths. He profiled himself the way he profiled his marks. But instead of finding ways to exploit the weaknesses he found, he found ways to sure them up.

Why did he learn from some mistakes and yet repeat others time and time again? Why was the concept of trust, of trusting and being trusted, something he strived for and against simultaneously? Why did he sabotage positive relationships and chase after unhealthy ones? Why was his first instinct to a painful situation to run from it? He still didn't know all the answers, but he did better understand his failings. With that knowledge, he developed strategies to help offset them. Only after this time of adjustment had he let Mozzie know he was alive and well and living as Nathan Clay.

Nathan Clay, although technically an alias, wasn't someone he pretended to be. He was who he had grown to be and was still becoming. He had reset his life and was determined not to repeat past mistakes, in life or love. He'd done well. Working in the art business offered enough temptations to help build his resistance, but not so much that he'd slipped into old habits. After the trip to Venezuela, he'd been a little worried. The con was Neal Caffrey's drug of choice and as Nathan Clay, he had quit cold turkey. His work on Alberto Cordero had been glorious; he had forgotten the rush, the pure exhilaration. It had been so much fun that he worried that the next time Mozzie presented an opportunity too good to pass up, as he called them, he wouldn't be able to. But when it happened, and it always did at least once a month, he hadn't been tempted. Conning for the good guys was one thing; becoming a criminal again was not an option.

The other temptation the trip created was to reach out to Peter Burke; that temptation he had not been able to withstand. After the first call, there had been a second. Before he had made the third, Cordero's man offered him a short-term job in the States. That, he decided, was an opportunity too good to pass up. The third time he talked to Peter after leaving South America was on his doorstep. The look on his face had been priceless.

Peter didn't stir when the CNA arrived with his medication, and a cup of vanilla pudding, just after three a.m. He swallowed the pill and gulped down a sip of water. Before she could leave, he reached over and gripped her arm, speaking quietly.

"The nurse from before said that there were notations about Agent Burke in my folder; is that true?"

She glanced in Peter's direction; eyebrows raised, then back to Neal. "We often make notes of things about patient care-likes and dislikes, family requests."

"Overbearing visitors?"

She smiled, "I don't think Agent Burke is overbearing, just concerned."

"Can I see the notes?"

"Of course," She said, "You have the right to look at any of your records. Do you want them now or can it wait until morning?"

"Now, if you don't mind."

She returned a few minutes later with a file and handed it over. He thanked her and with a glance at Peter to confirm his unconscious status, opened it.

A card with Peter's cell phone number was attached to the top of the folder with a clip. He removed it and flipped it over. It was Peter's bureau card. Mostly medical information, Neal skimmed through the notes for personal notations. Peter had been listed as the primary contact and had given medical information via telephone before Neal even arrived at the hospital. References to the patient's agitated state upon arrival made his face burn with embarrassment. Disoriented and paranoid, desperate to leave were the words used. He had no memory of the events, but apparently efforts to calm him failed; staff had to sedate him before assessing his injuries. Further down the page, references to Peter's demand to stay in the ICU was noted, followed by the statement from the attending ICU nurse:

Even though the policy does not allow overnight visitors, the presence of Agent Burke keeps the patient calm. It is in the best interest of the patient to waive the rules in this instance.

Peter's relationship to the patient was listed as close friend.

Peter had followed every rule Nathan Clay had set before him. He had abided by the no contact rule after he'd contact him in Paris. He'd accepted, albeit, after the instinctive pushback, the support only role his terms of service had demanded. He had come when Neal needed him and had refused to leave him. He had been away from his job, and family, for two days. He had been the very definition of a friend, no matter what dictionary you chose to use.

Whatever makes you happy is what I want you to do.

There had been no except, but or other caveat. They were the words of a friend and not a handler; motivated by concern and not a sense of responsibility.

Friendship. That was what his decision came down to. Not how people would respond to his reappearance, what they might whisper or think about him. It was about his friendship with the man across the room from him and the best way to keep that friendship intact. Was coming back the right thing to do or was phone calls and bi-annual visits the best way to keep their friendship secure?

Peter had changed and so had he, but had they changed enough? Would closer, extended contact cause them to revert to old form? Neal closed the folder, placing it on the bedside table for staff to retrieve on their next visit. He had a lot to think about, but he had time to do it. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Peter's snoring.