A/N: Question takes place post-series, and just for reference, Paris is about six hours ahead of New York, so morning in New York is afternoon in Paris.

21. Quiet

"Doesn't it make you nervous when he's being quiet?" Jones asked, amusement in his smile.

Peter glanced out the windows of his office, looking at where Neal was bent over his desk, apparently studiously at work on the stack of financials they had given him on a company they were investigating. Peter would have been fooled, except the folder was sitting open to the last page already and Neal only chewed his lip like that when he was drawing.

Neal was, surprisingly enough, not the sort of person to surround himself with needless noise. When he talked, he had a purpose. He just seemed loud because he had a seemingly endless supply of purposes.

"Na," Peter shook his head and signed off on the forms Jones had handed him. "as long as he's quiet he's still just plotting, and there's a chance of thwarting him. By the time he starts talking we've usually already got a problem."

He watched Jones walk back across the office, pausing to thump Neal on the shoulder with the folder he was carrying. He watched Neal turn to grin at him, left hand subtly covering what he had been working on, surprisingly self-conscious of things he could call his own. Then he pointed to the folder on his desk and started talking, apparently oblivious to Jones' raised eyebrow.

Peter grinned and got back to work.

22. Quirks

Neal took his coffee black.

When people moved items he was working with, he put them back where they had been. Unobtrusively and without a fuss, but they always found their way back to their original spot.

He listened to jazz in the morning when he was getting dressed. Unless the night had been long. Then it was Mozart or Bach, something soothing for the dawn.

If he was focused on a task, no amount of noise could distract him. If he wasn't focused then every sound was like an alarm, and there was no hope of getting work done.

Neal never lied to children, though he always tried to cushion the blows. He liked dogs more than people, because they were always honest. The irony of his reasoning did not escape him.

Peter had spent three years studying all of Neal's idiosyncrasies and habits. He had been reasonably sure he knew them all. But there was nothing in his notes about dogs or coffee or morning routines. He found himself surprised at what he had missed, and unexpectedly pleased to be able to fill in the gaps.

23. Question

Neal picked up the phone on the second ring. He didn't recognize the number, but he was hoping it wasn't business this early in the morning.

"Caffery," he answered, wandering towards the kitchen to start the coffee.

"Hey, it's Peter."

Neal grinned and didn't try to stifle his yawn.

"Hi," he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder so he had both hands free to make coffee. "How's Paris?"

"Beautiful," Peter answered without hesitation. "You should have come."

"Maybe next time," Neal stepped over Satchamo to get the French press. "or Italy. `Lizbeth said she wanted to go."

Neal would have liked to have gone with them, but he had had two art showings and a huge consultation with the Cloisters Museum. Anyway, who else would watch Satchamo while Peter and Elizabeth were gone.

"I might hold you to that," Peter answered. "I have a question for you."

Neal snorted softly and measured coffee grounds into the press. He had figured as much when he had heard Peter on the other end of the line.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Where's a good place to go for dinner?"

Neal shook his head in amusement and reached down to scratch Satchamo's ears. "You want someplace that Elizabeth will like or some place that wont offend your cheapskate sensibilities?"

"I am not cheap," Peter countered.

"Is that Neal?" Elizabeth's voice floated over the line. "I have a question for him."

"Maybe I should have gone with them," Neal told the dog as the phone changed hands.

Satchamo cocked his head to the side, possibly in agreement.

"Hi sweetheart, how are you, how did the showings go?" Elizabeth's voice came over the line, warm and happy sounding.

"I'm almost awake," Neal poured hot water into the press and left it to steep. "The shows went really well. I think I sold two of the big paintings. We're still negotiating final price, but it looks good."

"That's great!" he could see her smile in his head. "So, we were at the Saint Ouen flea market, and I saw these beautiful 16th century wood block prints, and Peter thinks they're fake. They're supposedly Fontainebleau prints. Any advice on how to tell?"

"They're probably not Fontainebeau," Neal yawned again. "How much do they want for them?"

Elizabeth quoted him a ridiculously high price, and if Neal hadn't been shopping at Saint Ouen before, he would have been surprised. As it was, his first thought was to wonder how many tourists the guy had scammed, and if he was actually any good at it, or if he just relied on pretending not to speak English so he appeared incapable of tricking them.

"I wouldn't pay that," Neal poured himself a cup of coffee. "Find out what prints they are, and I'll make you copies of them."

"You're going to make Peter very happy," Elizabeth laughed. "He wants the phone back. Have a good day honey."

"You too `Lizbeth, enjoy Paris," Neal wandered out onto the balcony, coffee in hand and Satchamo on his heels.

"You just saved me a fortune, didn't you?" Peter said as he took the phone back from his wife.

"Probably," Neal plopped down in a chair in the sun. "Try Orenoc Jazz. You'll probably need reservations."

"Is that the Elizabeth answer or the cheapskate answer?" Peter asked cautiously.

"You'll just have to be surprised," Neal sighed contently as he sipped his coffee.

"Lucky me," Peter had to be rolling his eyes with that tone of voice. "Thanks Neal. We'll see you in a week. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Will do," Neal reassured him before hanging up.

Neal closed his eyes and leaned back in the sun, dropping his hand over the side of his chair so Satchamo could lick his fingers.

It was going to be a good day.

24. Quarrel

Peter stocked into the conference room, a stack of files in hand. Jones took one look at the scowl on his face and announced he was going to go get coffee for everyone. Cruz excused herself to pull a file from the archives. Only Neal appeared oblivious to Peter's bad mood, head bent over the open file in front of him, scribbling columns of numbers in the margins.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked without looking up.

"Quiet," Peter warned, dropping the stack of files at Neal's elbow. "Fix those."

Neal raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know what I mean," Peter glared.

Neal, looking far too amused for his own good, flipped open the top file.

Two hours later Peter walked into his office to find a note on his desk in Neal's neat handwriting: Elizabeth says if you go to the black-tie with her you can skip the next wedding.

25. Quitting

Neal had been scarce for the last few days, but Peter was hardly surprised to find him sprawled on his couch when he got home. Peter kicked off his shoes and walked over to the couch, swatting at Neal's bare feet. Neal obliged by pulling his feet up to give Peter a place to sit.

Peter sat with a sigh and looked at Neal quietly.

"That Rembrandt that was stolen last week," Neal peered at Peter from under the arm he had flung over his eyes. "Mozzie told me about it. It wasn't me."

"I know," Peter patted his shin affectionately. "You kicked that habit awhile ago."