Thanks everyone for reading, and for posting reviews. I appreciate each and every one. I also thank those of you who are following this story. Fifteen inches of snow here in the south; been homebound for three days. Tough on work but good for story writing :)

Chapter Twenty One

"Jones," Neal's voice was surprisingly calm as he stepped into the Burke's living room in front of Peter. "Dante, Elodie." His tone and eyes softened at her name. Peter could understand why: Elizabeth's description hadn't done her justice. Leave it to Neal to have a tall, blonde French model as his assistant. "What a nice surprise." Neal's tone seemed sincere, but Peter knew it was anything but a nice surprise. Peter reached back and closed the door; everyone began speaking at once.

"What the hell, Peter?" Jones tore his angry eyes from Neal to glare at Peter instead. "Neal Caffrey alive and you didn't think to mention it?"

"One week," Mozzie launched, "one week back with the suit and you're already shot, and I'm in the middle of a suit convention…"

Elodie was rattling off a series of statements in French which Peter, of course, couldn't understand; except for a question ending with the words Neal Caffrey; her flashing eyes demanding an answer.

"I'm sorry, honey," That was Elizabeth, "I tried to get them to…"

"Daddy!" Little Neal's high pitched excitement cut through the chaos of the room.

Not put off by the tension radiating from the adults, he ran to Peter and grabbed him around the knees, his little, upturned face covered with a smile of pure joy. The room went silent; everyone ashamed to have been behaving like two years olds in front of an actual two-year-old, who was, sadly, behaving better than they were.

Peter reached down and picked up his son, who proceeded to hug him around the neck, making the appropriate umm-umm sound as he did so. "I miss you!"

"I missed you too, big guy," Peter answered with a smile of his own. Just feeling the little arms around his neck had brought his blood pressure down ten points. Little Neal pulled away, arms still loosely on Peter's shoulder, big brown eyes falling on Neal. His face grew serious, eyes widening at the sight of the shoulder sling.

"Unk Nay got a boo-boo?" Peter smiled at the look on Neal's face. He'd steeled up to face the angry hoard, but his namesake had brought a touch of color to his pale cheeks. "Yes," Peter replied, "Uncle Nathan got a big boo-boo."

The little hand reached over, touching Neal on the shoulder."Okay, Unk Nay?"

Neal's eyes softened at the concerned look on the little face. "Yeah, Neal," he replied gently, "I'm okay." He was holding himself very straight; shoulders back and head high although Peter knew that posture had to be uncomfortable given his injury and the fact that the pain medicine had to be wearing thin. His eyes and voice remained amazingly steady. Nearly fainting at the door two minutes earlier, Peter had seen him rally for confrontation, and the transformation had been impressive.

But with that said, there was no denying his rumbled appearance, the sickly pallor of his skin or the dark circles under his eyes. His arm in a sling, he was clearly not well. However, only the two-year-old had voiced any concern for his well-being. Peter knew this fact did not escape his attention by the way he looked from Neal's concerned face to the irritated and angry ones across the room. His expression hardened, his jaw clenched and his tone sharpened. "Thank you for asking."

Mozzie picked up on the tone, and properly chastised, began to make his apology. "Sorry, Nathan," he began, "I was just upset, you know how I get…."

"Peter," Neal interrupted, "Give Dante the key the suite at the Waldorf."

Dante and not Mozzie; Peter assumed that was for Elodie's benefit. Here in the Burke's living room, the worlds of Neal Caffrey and Nathan Clay were colliding. Difficult under the best of circumstances, they were especially difficult now.

Neal's outfit had no pockets; Peter had put his things into his own for the trip. He shifted the little boy in his arms to one side and dug in his coat pocket. Extracting the key card, he held it out to Mozzie. He moved forward and accepted it, a questioning look at his friend.

"You can make it up to me by taking Elodie to the Waldorf," Neal announced calmly. "I have the Penthouse A Suite; there's more than enough room for both of you there. I'll call tomorrow and answer all questions." His voice dropped so that Peter and Mozzie were the only ones who could hear. "Please, Mozzie, get her out of here."

Mozzie read his friend instantly, "You got it. I'll call us a cab right now." He took out his phone, but Neal put his hand over it.

"No need," he said, "Bring our things in and take my rental; it's at the curb." Neal didn't want their departure delayed; the sooner Elodie was out of the house the better. It was one thing to explain how Neal Caffrey was alive; it was a different thing to explain who Neal Caffrey was. Mozzie understood. He put his phone away and turned to the tall blond behind him.

"Elodie," he said, extending his arm like a gentleman waiting to escort his lady. "Monsieur Clay has requested that we depart. He has graciously offered us his suite at the Waldorf, a five-star hotel in downtown Manhattan."

Elodie made no move to accept his invite, clearly unhappy with being dismissed in such a way, with little attention and less explanation from Nathan Clay. Neal stepped towards her, switching his language to French and his tone to conciliatory. His voice low, his eyes meeting her blue ones, he touched her arm gently, fingers trailing up her bare arm as he spoke. Jones roll his eyes; some things never changed, his expression said. Neal could flirt in any circumstance; even with one arm in a sling and in the middle of World War III. "Le spa est merveilleux, Elodie,"

Peter hadn't understood what Neal was saying, but he had watched the irritation fade from Elodie's face as he spoke, and at the word spa, a small smile played on her perfectly red lips. Apparently now more accepting of her dismissal, she kissed Neal, leaving an imprint of lipstick on his pale face. Reaching up, she wiped it away with her thumb, and leaning close to Neal's ear whispered, "Demain alors, Nathan." Peter felt his face flush; he didn't know if her words were seductive but anything spoken in French by someone looking like Elodie sounded seductive to him. With a cool look at Peter, she slipped her arm through Mozzie's extended one. The two of them swept out the door as if they were stepping out on the red carpet instead of the Burke's sidewalk. Their difference in height, and everything else as well, made them an odd couple indeed.

Jones had remained silent but no more. "Uncle Nathan?" He spat, his eyes flashing in anger. Peter didn't think he'd go as quietly as Elodie had; no flirting or promise of a five-star spa was going to do the trick. Peter met Elizabeth's eyes, and reading his look, she stepped over and took Neal from his arms. What was going to transpire would likely not be suitable for impressionable young ears.

"Let's go get Uncle Nathan's room ready," She said, meeting Neal's eyes. Peter picked up on her look and the inflection. She wanted to make it clear that Neal was, indeed Uncle Nathan and part of the family. She took their son from Peter's arms just as the front door opened; Mozzie had returned with their bags. Doubting the wisdom of keeping Elodie waiting, he set them down on the floor without evening entering the room, speaking quickly to Neal before departing. "Call me tomorrow, mon frère."

"I will," Neal replied, "thanks."

Mozzie closed the door and Elizabeth, with a look of encouragement at both Peter and Neal, crossed the room with Neal in tow exiting down the back hall in the direction of the Burke guestroom.

The minute she was out of sight, Jones continued. "From him," he nodded at Neal, "I could expect something like this, but from you? How could you do it, Peter, how could you go along with something like this?'' His voice was a mix of outrage and betrayal.

"It was pretty easy," Peter purposefully misconstruing his question moved past him through the living room. "Nathan Clay came to me with a plan to help take down the Cordero organization." Peter pulled out a chair from the dining table with a suggestive look in Neal's direction. Neal was taking great pains to appear fine, but Peter agreed with Jones' earlier assessment; he looked like hell. Neal didn't follow Peter into the dining area, but Jones did.

"I'm not talking about this Cordero thing, and you know it," Jones said, his voice lowered in anger. "I want to know how you sat there-" he turned, pointing an angry finger at Neal, still standing near the door, "-at his funeral, looking all shell shocked, with your pregnant wife crying into your shoulder, and lied to us."

Peter had known there would be hell to pay when his team found out; they had mourned for Neal too. He couldn't blame Jones for being pissed; he had been pissed too when he found out what Neal had done. But in all honesty, learning he was alive had trumped his anger. He hoped Jones would get there in time.

"Look, Clinton-" Peter began but Jones interrupted.

"Caffrey's a con. That's what he does; what he is. He conned us and was gone. But you?" His voice was bitter, "You dragged your ass around the office, acting heartbroken for months. You conned us every day …."

"That's enough." Neal crossed the room with surprising ease, his tone stopping Jones mid-rant. Moving around the table and placing his hand on the back of a chair, he faced Jones. Peter had hoped he'd sit but wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Peter wasn't conning you," he said evenly, his face impassive, "at the funeral or anywhere else."

Peter wasn't sure if the look on Jones' face was surprise at Neal's words or the authority in which he had spoken; he suspected the latter. Jones hadn't met Nathan Clay, Peter reminded himself, and that was clearly who was now speaking. "He. Didn't. Know."

His words left no room for argument and Jones' bluster diminished in the face of the unexpected iron-jawed opposition. He looked at Peter, then back to Neal doubtfully. "He really didn't know?"

"I'm sitting right here," Peter commented wryly, feeling somehow left out of the conversation, "and am capable of-"

"No, he didn't," Neal responded, ignoring Peter's effort to rejoin. "No one knew, not even Mozzie."

When Neal had crossed the room, he had positioned himself as much between the two men as possible and Peter knew his objective was to divert Jones' anger from Peter to himself. He appreciated the gesture, but it was unnecessary. He was a Federal Agent and married; he'd been on much hotter seats than this.

Jones seemed to contemplate that a second or two. He frowned, "Then how did you even-?" Jones' curiosity at how Neal had accomplished such a feat had now entered the scene.

"Details aren't important," Neal cut in curtly. "Caffrey's a con, remember? That's what he does; what he is," he quoted verbatim Jones' earlier remark, "and the best con of his life was his death. And to sell it, he had to let the only people who ever gave a damn about him think he was dead." His words implied a bitterness that wasn't present in his tone nor detectable in his face.

"Pretty poor way to reward people for caring about you if you ask me," Jones admonished. Peter guessed he had been put off by Neal's apparent lack of remorse for his actions. Peter, too, had been-there-done-that.

"Better than a with a bullet, or a bomb," Neal's retort was sharp, controlled tone slipping momentarily before it was recovered. "Which has historically been the way they're rewarded. My way was better." Peter guessed it was more than Jones' criticism that had set Neal off; there were small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Pain was beginning to be a factor.

"Clinton," Peter said, hoping to defuse the situation before escalation ensued, "You deserve answers, but this isn't the time. Look at him," he glanced reluctantly at Neal, knowing his words would not please him. "He's not up to this right now. Give it a couple of days, okay?"

Jones studied Neal a moment, then sighed at the truthfulness of Peter's statement. A stoic expression didn't disguise the fact that he looked like hell. "Just answer one thing, Peter, how long have you known? When did you find out he was alive?"

"it was over a year after the fact," Peter supplied, "he sent a clue by Mozzie," He glanced at Neal. "He knew I'd figure it out."

"So you've known he's Nathan Clay for almost a year and a half."

"No, I didn't know about Nathan Clay until about ten months ago," Peter clarified, "and I didn't meet Nathan Clay until four months ago."

"Four months ago?" A look of understanding dawned in Jones' eyes. "Nathan Clay, French Art dealer." He looked at Neal. "This whole Cordero thing; it was you in Venezuela, wasn't it? You were the person on the inside Peter kept asking about."

"I went there to get Peter," Neal's voice was still steady but the knuckles of the hand grasping the chair were now white, "and to do that, I had to get close to Alberto Cordero."

Jones tone indicated the was wrapping up his visit. "And that lead to this undercover thing with the DEA." He shook his head, "I've got issues with what you did," he glanced at Peter, "both of you did, but now isn't the time." He looked at Neal. "You should sit down before you fall down, Neal."

Concern had moved him from Caffrey to Neal, which Peter saw as progress.

Neal, of course, had to correct him. "Nathan."

"Nathan, yeah, that's what the notes said too, but the surveillance sounded just like Neal Caffrey to me."

"What surveillance?" Peter asked, moving from behind the table to walk Jones to the door.

"From the warehouse in Hicksville," Jones explained. "There is so much information pouring in its been all hands on deck; I volunteered to help catalog surveillance."

"You recognized my voice."

"At first, I thought my ears were playing tricks on me," he recalled, studying Neal's pale face. "But at the end, when you were talking to Peter, I knew it was you." He proceeded to the front door, followed by Peter. They reached the door, and Peter opened it.

"I'll see you at the office on Monday," Peter said.

Jones nodded, stepping out onto the stoop. "Yes, I'll see you Monday."

Before Peter could close the door, he turned back, looking past Peter to Neal.

"It's good to have you back, Neal."

The sentiment was sincere, and a mild look of surprise crossed Neal's face. Peter expected him to respond with a double correction, but he didn't.

"Thanks," Neal replied instead. "It's good to be back." Also sincere.

Peter took that, too, as progress.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The door had only just closed behind Jones when Elizabeth and little Neal emerged from the back hallway. Little Neal, toddling in front of her, went straight to Peter.

"I didn't think he'd ever leave," she said, looking from Peter to Neal. Jones had only been there fifteen minutes, but Peter had shared the same sentiment. "I have your room ready if you want to lie down. You look like you need to. I'll fix some dinner and call you when its ready."

Neal pulled the chair out from the table and lowered himself gingerly into it with a small grimace. "I think I'll just sit here a minute if you don't mind."

Peter knew it was because he didn't trust himself to make it the few steps into the bedroom. Sheer willpower, and stubbornness, had kept him on his feet.

"That was quite a welcome home party," Peter commented. "Your assistant knows Mozzie as Mr. Haversham, huh? Does she have any idea who you were before you were Nathan Clay?"

"Most people don't assume you were anyone else before you were you," Neal reminded him a bit crossly, reaching up and wiping at the sweat that clung to his forehead.

"I take that as a no," Peter ignored his tone, choosing to attribute it to pain and exhaustion. Peter sat little Neal down at the small toddler table and put a tub of blocks in front of him. "Build me a house," he instructed, "a big one." He took a seat across from Neal, encouraging the conversation to continue.

"She's been a little curious about my past ever since Elizabeth showed up at the gallery," Neal confessed.

"I slipped and called him Neal, only once, though, I think," Elizabeth said from the kitchen. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay," Neal replied, "She occasionally fishes for information," He did a one shoulder shrug, "I ignore it, we move on. For the most part, we have a no-questions-asked relationship."

"Well, it looks like she had questions now," Peter mused. "I'm surprised she hasn't had any before. I've checked out your Gallery's internet presence. The only person ever shown is Elodie, the gallery manager; the owner, Mr. Clay, seems to conveniently be somewhere else whenever a photo is snapped. Doesn't she find that strange?"

"I'm an artist, Peter, I can be eccentric and reclusive; it just adds to my charm."

"But how do you run a successful gallery if you avoid publicity?"

"I don't avoid publicity," he argued, "Elodie handles the in front of camera stuff-the camera loves her-and I give interviews, do a blog. I've been quoted several times in magazines and art columns. I even attend selected functions and events." He gave a small smile, "I do pretty good in person; it's all about mannerisms and giving people what they expect to see. But a photo image is hard to manipulate, so I try to steer clear of photo ops."

He had a complicated life, Peter thought, even when he tried to simplify it. And by coming back to New York he had made it even more complicated; the cat was out of the bag. Jones knew about Nathan Clay and Elodie knew about Neal Caffrey. Jones would come around, Peter was certain, it would just take him some time to come to terms with things. Elodie, Peter didn't know enough about to hazard a guess at how she'd handle learning about Neal Caffrey. Elizabeth had her opinions about Neal and Elodie's relationship, but the woman had flown all the way from France to see him, and his eyes had softened when he saw her standing in the Burke's living room.

"So what are you going to tell her?" At the look on Neal's face, Peter repeated the question. "Nevermind, it's been a long day." He stood up. "If you want to check out your room, I'll bring your things; you probably could use a little time to …rest." He'd almost said regroup but caught himself in time.

Relieved at the reprieve, Neal nodded. "That sounds good, just for a little while." He got to his feet, and unsteady, grabbed the back of the chair. Peter reached over and took his elbow, offering further support if needed. "Can you make it?"

"Yeah," Neal said, a grimace of discomfort on his face. "Just a little dizzy there for a second. Like you said, it's been a long day."

"Well, all things considered, I think it could have gone much worse," Peter said. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm not waiting six hours to take my pain medicine."