Sorry for such a delay and such a short chapter; had some real life complications that put me behind and off schedule.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Chapter Twenty Four

Neal rested a lot during the day, not because anyone insisted on it, but because it simply was necessary. Any activity quickly depleted his energy; just getting out of bed, dressed, and to the kitchen for a late breakfast had left him exhausted. After he'd ate, he had joined Peter in the living room before returning to his room to rest and make some phone calls.

Peter had stretched out on the sofa and was watching a western by the time Neal returned. He took a seat in the recliner, and Peter suggested he let the chair live up to its name and recline for awhile. Elizabeth helped him with the side lever, and once he was in a comfortable position, asked if she could bring him a magazine or a book. He declined, content to watch television; it wasn't long before he was asleep. Elizabeth, not wanting his rest interrupted by a rambunctious two-year-old, took Neal upstairs to play in his room. The movie ended, Peter went to the kitchen for something to drink and to snack on, and still Neal slept. Over two hours later when he awakened, he apologized, embarrassed to have fallen asleep in the middle of the Burke living room. Peter told him someone falling asleep in the recliner on a Sunday afternoon was a frequent occurrence; usually, it was him.

They had talked about the case, what Peter would be dealing with at the office the next day, as well as the need to schedule a meeting with Agent Elliot and Agent Singleton to finish up the paperwork involved in Nathan Clays agreement to work with the DEA and the FBI.

When Elizabeth began dinner preparations, Neal expressed his desire to get a shower. The rest had done him good; he said, and he was certain a shower would yield even greater improvements. Peter tried to discourage it until Monday, the full thirty-six hours the discharge orders had specified, but Neal had stood firm. The night before he'd been too exhausted to eat and had only forced down a few bites so he could take his medications. Tonight was his first official Burke family dinner, and he wasn't going to sit down to it without a shower and shave.

It was after this excursion, that Neal stuck his head out his bedroom door and called for Peter.

"Can you come here for a minute?"

Peter answered his request and proceeded to the guest room. Dressed only in sweat pants, Neal indicated the medical supplies on the bed and asked Peter if he could help him reapply the needed bandages. He seemed embarrassed to ask, but he couldn't have managed it on his own.

Although Peter knew about Neal's injuries and had listened as the doctor explained the damage that had been done, and the step taken to correct it, seeing the visible representation was still somewhat of a shock. There were some lingering swelling and a lot of bruising; Neal's arm was discolored all the way to his forearm. Peter could understand Neal's self-consciousness and knew he didn't help matters when he grimaced at the sight of the injuries.

"Sorry," Peter mumbled at Neal's look, "Sit down."

He did so, sitting down on the edge of the bed while Peter gathered necessary items and began to cover the two wounds.

"You should have gotten Elizabeth to do this," He said after Neal's second sharp intake of breath, an indication of Peter's lack of skill at wound care. "She has a more gentle touch than I do."

"I don't need gentle, Peter," Neal replied curtly, "I just need it done. I can't reach it, or I would have done it myself." His tone, in addition to the tension in his frame, indicated discomfort. Peter guessed it wasn't just physical discomfort that was bothering him. It was the helplessness his situation was making him feel.

"Not a problem," Peter tried to downplay the event, "Almost finished." When he had, he put everything back into the clear plastic bag. "Anything else I can do?"

Neal took a deep breath, glad it was over. "That's good, thanks."

He reached over and picked up a black tee shirt. "I appreciate Elizabeth picking up a few things, but she only got two sets of pajama's, two tee shirts and a pair of sweats." The strained look left his face and was replaced by a smile. "Hardly appropriate dinner attire."

"Well, we don't stand on formality here," Peter chuckled, "but you could call Mozzie, or Elodie, and have them bring some clothes over, or I can pick them up for you tomorrow."

Neal put on the shirt; getting the injured arm through the sleeve looked painful. Peter wanted to lend a hand but refrained.

"Mozzie's bringing me a change tomorrow," he said, "then he's driving me over to the Waldorf; I told Elodie we'd talk in person before she flies back to France."

"I can see not wanting to do that meeting in sweats," Peter mused. "You sure you're up to that? Can't it wait a few days until you're stronger?"

"She's flying out Tuesday morning," Neal was now putting on the sling, adjusting the strap so that his arm hung comfortably. "I'll be okay; I'll keep it short."

Somehow Peter had a hard time thinking that conversation would be a short one.

Peter had assumed he had talked to her earlier in the day but only because he'd heard snatches of French coming from the guest room. Since Nathan Clay lived in France he could have been talking to any number of people; Peter supposed, but Elodie did seem to be the most probable. When Neal had emerged from his room a while later, he hadn't mentioned anything about it, and Peter hadn't asked.

"Tuesday morning?" Peter inquired, "Why so soon?"

"There's gallery business to take care of," Neal stated. "We are going to work things out so I can do some work from here, but right now, she needs to cancel or reschedule everything on my calendar for next week."

Peter doubted it was just gallery business hastening her departure. Apparently all difficult situations were easier to deal with in Paris. "I'd think she'd want to stay at least a couple days to sort things out with you."

"There's nothing to sort out," Neal said frankly. He stepped to the dresser and picked up a comb. "She knows I was Neal Caffrey before I was Nathan Clay, and today I told her who he was."

"It must have been the abridged edition."

"Just the facts," Neal ran the comb through his still wet hair, "Neal Caffrey was a convicted bond forger who served his sentence working White Collar cases for the FBI, and when that service was complete, started a new life as Nathan Clay."

"Wow, that was the simplified version."

"Simple is good, Peter, it is a guiding principle of my life."

"You could have dressed it up a little," he pointed out, "Told her how you went to South America to rescue a kidnapped Federal Agent, came to the States and brought down a drug ring and took a bullet saving someone's life. You'd have sounded positively heroic."

"That wasn't Neal," His eyes sparkled with amusement as he met Peter's in the mirror, "that was me, and I'm saving the good stuff for when I see her in person."

"Don't blame you," Peter mused, nodding toward his arm. "Might as well use that wound to your advantage; she won't stand a chance." Not that many women did. He continued, his tone growing a bit more serious. "You think she's going to be good with all this?"

"I don't know if good is the word I'd use," He replied, "But it is what it is. I've never lied to her about my past; we just haven't discussed it before now."

"Yeah," Peter said, "that whole no questions asked policy."

"That has been one of the rules in our relationship."

"One of them?" No Contact. No Questions Asked. That whole Terms of Service. "For someone who doesn't like rules, you sure impose a lot of them these days."

Satisfied with his image in the mirror, Neal turned and faced Peter. "I told you, I've changed; I not only impose rules, I even play by them most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

"What can I say?" he smiled, "I'm still a work in progress."