As the story winds down, it gets so much more challenging to write!

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Do you think I should wake him?" Peter asked, looking up from the Times and peering towards the guest room. It was nearly ten a.m., and Neal had yet to stir. "He needs to eat and take his medicine." The pain medicine was negotiable, but the antibiotics were not. The last thing Neal needed was an infection.

"No," Elizabeth answered, twisting the top closed on Neal's cup and sitting it down in front of him. The three of them had just had a late Sunday morning breakfast. Elizabeth was clearing, Peter was reading the paper, and little Neal was playing with his cheerios. "He needs rest; let him sleep. You guys were up until almost five this morning. What woke him up?" Elizabeth asked, "Was he hurting?"

"No, he was just having trouble sleeping," Peter didn't mention that a nightmare had awakened Neal. "I think he just needed," he paused, realizing how strange it was going to sound "to talk some things out."

"I guess so after that homecoming," she responded. "Talking must have helped because he's sleeping good now. I checked on him a little while ago." She paused, "You know, I just stood there looking at him. It still seems like a miracle that he's even alive; even more of one that he's sleeping in our guest room."

"I know it does," Peter had thought the same thing the night before. "It's good to have him here."

"All that talk the first night he was here about opening a gallery in Philadelphia," she sent a curious look at Peter, "Was any of that true?"

"I don't know," Peter replied, "but he is thinking about coming back; he said he has been for awhile."

"Thinking about it?" she repeated, "What's to think about? This is where he belongs. He's already faced Jones, Diana will be tough but will forgive him, and June," Her face lit up, "Oh Peter, June will be thrilled…"

"She already knows, El," Peter told her, "He told her when he told Mozzie."

"That's good," she said, "She'd probably give him back his old apartment if he wanted it, and then…."

"We don't need to get ahead of ourselves," Peter interrupted, "or of him; he hasn't made a decision yet."

"Why ever not?" Elizabeth looked surprised, "His life is here, Peter, the people who care for him are here."

"Neal Caffrey's life was here," Peter corrected, "Nathan Clay's life is in France; we can't just… discount that." Especially given what he'd accomplished there, Peter thought, the decisions he had made. The person he had become. "He's been gone two years, Elizabeth, he has a life and people who care for him there, too."

"You mean that woman?" She looked at him in disbelief. That woman, of course, was Elodie; Elizabeth didn't like her even though she had only met her twice. Descriptive words like haughty, snotty and uptight had been the adjectives she had used to describe her, and he guessed that after last night, she might have a few more to add to the list.

"That woman manages his gallery, and whether you like her or not, she's a part of his life. You said something was going on between the two of them, and she did come all the way to New York to check on him."

"Check on him?" She scoffed, the dishes clanging louder than usual as she placed them in the dishwasher, "I speak French, Peter, and I assure you very little of what she said to him yesterday fit into that category."

"Neal doesn't need protecting or anyone telling him what to do with his life," Peter stated. "He's the only one who knows what is best for him."

Elizabeth's head appeared from around the corner; eyebrows raised. "I never thought I'd hear those words come out of Peter Burke's mouth."

"Well, you've heard them now," he said, "Things change; He's changed, and I don't mean just his name and that whole artsy playboy look he has going." It wasn't the superficial differences that mattered; it was the ones on the inside. "He's made a life for himself in Paris and just because we want him back here-" He stopped and shook his head. "It has to be what's right for him."

"I don't understand; all you've talked about since you came back from Venezuela was how much you wanted Neal to come home. You don't really think he's better off in Paris, do you?"

"It's not about what I think. It's about what he thinks. Paris, the Nathan Clay Gallery, Elodie…that's his life now. He's," he tried to find the word, "comfortable with it."

"Being comfortable isn't the same as being happy, Peter, and I told you; he's not happy. Just because he feels…emotionally safe there doesn't mean it's where he needs to stay." She had abandoned her job in the kitchen and rounded the corner, drying her hands on the dish towel. "As for Elodie, he was barely on his feet, after being shot saving someone's life, and all she could do rant about his double life." So that had been the tirade; Peter had guessed as much. "I have a good mind to -"

"Mind your own business?" Peter interjected, "Well, that's good because that's what you're going to do. Neal is capable of handing his love life without any help from you."

"Something's going on between them but I never said it was love," she said flatly.

"Whatever it is, you might have to learn to like her: I saw the way he looked at her yesterday," he teased. "She might someday become Auntie Elodie."

"God forbid," She replied.

"Unk Nay!" Little Neal shouted in delight.

Both Peter and Elizabeth looked up to see the other Neal standing in the hallway. At little Neal's greeting, he flashed a smile, but the blush on his cheek told them he'd at least been there long enough to hear the Auntie Elodie comment.

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Neal awakened stiff and sore; his surroundings were not immediately familiar and for a moment he was confused. The feeling of alarm passed quickly as the smell of bacon whiffed through the air, and he heard the sounds of conversation in the next room. It was Peter and Elizabeth, and the room he was in was their guestroom.

His body hurt, but he felt a strange feeling of contentment. Not ready to interrupt that rare event, he just lay there, listening. He was unable to distinguish the exact words that were being exchanged or to follow any conversation. Occasionally there was a little yelp or squeal from his namesake; Neal Burke. That concept still brought mixed feelings just like so many other things did. A warmth to think they had chosen to remember him in such a way; guilt that deception had led them to such a gesture.

He had slept soundly, and peacefully after Peter left him in the wee hours of the morning to return to his own bed. Other than when he'd been drugged out of his mind at the hospital, it was the best sleep he'd had since his return. Of course, the night hadn't started out that way.

Dreaming about his funeral was a first; brought on, he knew, by the visit from Clinton Jones. He had never given thought to the fact that there would have been a funeral for him; that people would come, sent cards, flowers or those ridiculous dish gardens. A priest, pastor, or shaman had probably said words over his ashes….his ashes? What had happened to them? He hadn't thought about that, either, although he had arranged for there to be some. Did someone, Mozzie or June, maybe the two of them, shed tears as they spread ashes they thought were their friends? The brief moment of contentment gone, he turned his mind from the dream and put it in a more encouraging direction.

He'd been embarrassed when Peter showed up in his room to check on him, but the conversation that followed had been worth the awkwardness. They hadn't had a lot of time to talk about anything except the case, and even when they had talked about more personal things, it had been in brief, borrowed moments. Even the more relevant conversations that had followed at the hospital had felt strained. But sitting in his bed, in the dimly lit guest room, Neal had been able to open up. He'd been able to talk about Nathan Clay; who he was and how he had come to be. And Peter hadn't only listened to him, he was sure he had heard him.

Peter had changed, maybe as much as he had. That was what everything came down to; how much the two of them had changed. Peter had passed every test Neal had given him, and several providence had provided. He had treated him as a friend; not a criminal or even an asset. Any doubts he'd had about Peter's part in that equation had all but disappeared after just over a week.

A part of him had wanted to come back to New York since the moment Peter had asked him when they parted company in South America.

In seven hours you could be sitting at my kitchen table having dinner.

He had missed sitting at the Burke table. He missed when Elizabeth tried a new dish and wanted his expert opinion and the way Peter would roll his eyes when he delivered her dinner invitation. He missed working with Peter, pouring over files and reports and complaining about how boring it was. He missed the look Peter would give him when he found a lead or connection that had escaped everyone else's attention. He missed his early morning runs in Riverside Park and having coffee with June on the rooftop terrace. He had bought the same brand of coffee in Paris, but it never tasted the same.

When Peter had made that impulsive offer-and he knew it had been that-all of those things popped into his mind. In an instant, he realized how lonely it was to be Nathan Clay. How empty his life was and how much he missed New York. It had taken every bit of his self-control to decline, to board the plane and return to Paris.

Then Elizabeth had visited and again extended an invitation to return to New York. He would be welcome, she said. That what he missed most still existed, could possibly be reclaimed in some form, became an enticing thought; more enticing than any heist he'd ever contemplated.

With such an emotional ramification, it needed careful consideration before any action could be taken. The first action had been the call to Peter. After that, he'd starting thinking about step two; a visit. He couldn't just show up at the Burke's front door; he needed a reason to be there. Then, miraculously, the Cordero organization provided him one.

He had come back, put his plans into action, made a considerable amount of money and had a pretty good time doing it. The plan to deal a blow to the Cordero organization had gone better than he could have imagined, the operation even catching Peter's kidnappers in the process. With the unexpected turn of events at the gallery, the pay off would be immediate and not merely pending. His return had been an operational success. The only drawback of it was that he'd been shot and was now stuck in New York for six more weeks.

But after that, what should he do? Was an actual relocation a good idea? That part still caused him some apprehension. While he was no longer an active criminal, and the statute of limitation had run out on all of his questionable activities, things from his past could still come up. Wasn't it better that, if they surfaced, they surfaced in Paris?

And it wasn't only his past he had to consider; it was his future. He had worked on being more self-aware, and part of that was recognizing that he still battled with some of the lesser qualities of his personality. As early as four months ago, thrilled by the events in Venezuela, he'd worried that he might be tempted to stray from the relatively straight and narrow road he'd been traveling. As early as two days ago, in an emotional panic, and to be fair, a drugged state of mind, he'd seriously considered disappearing from the hospital; an action which would effectively have ended any chance of continued friendship with Peter. He hadn't acted on those temptations, but he couldn't deny they had been there. He loved a challenge; the thrill of the game and when he was emotionally involved in a situation he was prone to act impulsively; that was who he was.

He wanted to stay in New York, but just because he wanted something didn't make it the right thing to do. It wasn't just about what he thought would make him happy; it was about the people his decision would effect. It was, in large part, about the three people in the next room. Peter and Elizabeth knew him, knew the worst things about him and yet still wanted him in their lives. Wanted him in the life of their son. It seemed almost too much to believe or accept.

They sounded happy and content as they enjoyed their Sunday morning breakfast and as he lay there, listening to the easy hum of conversation, he knew he never wanted to do anything to change that.

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After assurance from Neal that he didn't need more food, a drink or blanket from the hall closet, Elizabeth bundled Little Neal up in his coat and hat and left, with Satchmo, for their Sunday excursion to the park.

"You look better," Peter said, sitting down on the sofa. Neal had taken his place in Peter's usual Sunday spot, the recliner. "The sleep did you good."

"I feel better," Neal admitted, "I slept better this morning than I have…well, since I came to New York." He paused. "Thanks for not saying anything to Elizabeth last night about, you know, what really woke me up. I don't want her worrying about me more than she already does."

Peter guessed it was more embarrassment than Elizabeth's worrying Neal wanted to avoid. "I've been there, you know," Peter ventured, "I had nightmares after I came back from Venezuela." He met Neal's eyes. "Talking about them might help."

"They're not nightmares," Neal modified, "just…unpleasant dreams."

First unsettling and now just unpleasant; Neal was downgrading his nightmares one adjective at a time. "Whatever you call them," Peter said. "It might help to talk them out at some point."

"I highly doubt it." His tone suggested that was the last thing he wanted to do. Having shared the same opinion himself, Peter well understood the position.

"I felt the same way," He confided, "but as much as I resisted the idea of talking about them, once I did, I felt…better." Eventually, but he didn't add that.

"Did you talk to Elizabeth?" It was a logical assumption, but sadly, it was an incorrect one.

"No, I couldn't talk about it with her," he answered hesitantly. Couldn't wasn't correct; didn't want to was more accurate. "She had her own difficulties with what had happened. I talked about them with a therapist."

"A therapist?" Neal repeated, eyes widening. "You talked to a therapist?" Peter might as well have said he'd traveled to outer space and talked things over with an alien.

"I didn't exactly have a choice," he defended, "the bureau ordered me to. And believe it or not, it helped." Neal still looked skeptical. "It helped me to understand why I was having nightmares," he paused before adding, "and panic attacks."

Neal's expression went from surprise to sympathy. "I had no idea."

"No one did," Peter replied. "Except Elizabeth, of course, I couldn't hide it from her. I had a hard time sleeping, and when I did I'd wake up terrified in a cold sweat." The slight furrowing of Neal's brow told Peter he identified with the experience. "Or worse, yelling and thrashing around. It was humiliating."

"Tell me about it," Neal said quietly. Peter guessed he remembered his own nightly experiences. "Did they stop? The dreams?"

"They come less and less frequently," Peter replied, "but now that those responsible are going to rot in their own 10 x 10 cells, I hope I can put it behind me. Thanks for that, by the way."

"You're welcome." He studied Peter a moment before continuing. "Mine aren't the same one over and over the way it was after…." He hesitated, "after Kate." Peter could imagine what that reoccurring dream had been. "They are different every night."

Every night. That spoke to the frequency.

"So were mine," Peter encouraged, "Dr. Myers told me it's not always the subject of the dreams that's significant; it's the feelings it provokes." Neal didn't respond, and Peter continued. "In my dreams, I felt helpless, afraid and humiliated." Again, Peter saw Neal's eyes soften in sympathy.

"Well, I usually feel trapped, desperate and confused in mine," Neal confessed, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. "I feel like Neal Caffrey."

"I hate to point it out," Peter began tentatively, "but you are Neal Caffrey."

"Not anymore," Neal replied impatiently, "and I don't appreciate waking up feeling like him, either."

It was always strange when he talked about Neal Caffrey as if he were a separate entity. The way he did so now, with clear irritation in his voice, brought a small smile to Peter's lips. Neal being annoyed with Neal was comical.

"I'm sure you don't," Peter acknowledged, "but your past is a part of who you are. This is where you lived as Neal Caffrey, now that you're back, it makes sense that you'd, well, feel like him."

"I don't feel like him all the time," Neal said hastily, "Most of the time, especially when I was busy with the Cordero thing, I feel like me." Nathan Clay, Peter assumed. "But at night, the dreams I have," he shook his head, "they are all Neal Caffrey."

Unsettling, unpleasant, trapped, desperate and confused. Poor Neal; poor Nathan.

"Is it harder than you thought it would be, being back here?"

Neal didn't answer immediately. "I knew it would stir up a lot of feelings," he admitted, "and that they wouldn't all be pleasant. I figured I'd have some initial adjustment problems, bad dreams, a lot of mixed feelings. I anticipated all of that and knew I'd have to work through it." His voice grew tense, "I just didn't anticipate having to work through it here."

Peter now better understood Neal's distress during his discharge. The nightmares began when he arrived in New York, and Peter knew from experience the toll they could take on a person. But in spite of that Neal had sailed through the first week without any outward signs of difficulty. He had been the picture of calm confidence. Even though he had started most mornings feeling trapped, desperate and confused, during the day he had been focused, decisive and self-assured. Having anticipated the difficulties, he had managed them well. When the two weeks were up, he'd have gone back to Paris. It was from there, what Elizabeth referred to as his emotionally safe place, he would have reached his decision about a more permanent return to the city.

But the trip had been postponed and Nathan Clay, prepared for two weeks in New York, was not prepared for seven. To make matters worse, he no longer had a penthouse suite in which to weather his nightmares in privacy; he was now tucked into the Burke guest bedroom with it's paper thin walls. Elodie was in town, awaiting an explanation, and Jones had learned that Neal Caffrey was alive. So many emotionally charged situations were converging on him at once and there was no place to go to escape them.

No wonder he was tense. "New York is your parking garage." The statement popped out of Peter's mouth the moment it occurred to him.

The look on Neal's face was of total confusion. "My what?"

Peter leaned forward and tried to explain. "The first day I was cleared to go back to the office I made it half way across the parking garage before it hit me." He paused, remembering the event. " A panic attack. I ran to the elevator, then realized there was no way in hell I was going into that small space, so I took the stairs. I got inside the building and went straight to the bathroom. It was half an hour before I was able to go upstairs."

"You were flashing back to the kidnapping?"

"It wasn't even a flashback, it was just an onslaught of emotions," Peter said, "unsettling ones. I tried to just get over it, but at the end of the day-" he shook his head. "I had one of the agents bring the car around to the front for me. Made some excuse about being tired but the fact was I couldn't bring myself to go back out into that garage."

"New York is my parking garage," Neal repeated. "Let me guess, the next morning, you parked there anyway, right?"

Peter studied Neal thoughtfully. Neal was expecting a variation on the Cowboy Up speech, but that wasn't the message he was trying to deliver.

"No, the next day, I looked around for somewhere else to park," Peter confessed. "I wasn't about to go into that garage again until I was sure I wouldn't freak out; I found a space in a lot three blocks from the office." He met Neal's eyes with understanding. "I can't imagine what it would have felt like not to have had that option, to have been forced to park there before I was ready."

"Then New York is definitely my parking garage," Neal agreed. "Add a group of curious onlookers and you have my situation exactly. So, do you still walk three blocks to the office every day?"

"Of course not," Peter smiled. "It took four and a half weeks, but I park in the garage."

"Well, then six should be more than enough for me."