A/N: Takes place a few days after "Rent A Sitter". Big thanks to all that continue to follow this series. I deeply appreciate your comments and interest.

CAUGHT LOOKING

"Let's take a break."

Neal stood up, motioning to Peter. Stretching his arms overhead, he effortlessly bent down to touch his toes.

"Why?" asked Peter, moving his chair back from the table. "We're close to breaking the code Cheng placed on his assets. You asked me to help you with this. Couple more hours and victory is ours; my gut is never wrong."

"How can you sit for hours, never moving, peering endlessly at statistics?"

"Beats standing for hours," muttered Peter.

"Have you ever heard 'all work and no play make─'"

"Jack a dull boy. Yes, I have." Peter rolled his eyes. Once involved in a task, he found it hard to stop. Market conditioning wasn't easily discarded. "If you are referring to 'Proverbs in English', written by James Howell, circa 1659."

Neal responded with his trademark smile.

"Neal, I may have been educated by the Market, but I was provided an extensive and diverse curriculum."

"I'm convinced. Hours and hours of tedium. Tell me, Peter, did it ever include an activity called… recreation?"

The older man stiffened, glancing at him with startled gold eyes. Putting down the paper he was doodling on, Peter quickly looked away. Neal instantly regretted his flippant question. Earlier, the two men had been enjoying an atmosphere of casual conversation. Neal had forgotten to be vigilant about the emotional minefield his companion continually navigated.

"No," Peter answered, his voice turning cold, refusing to divulge any further details.

Neal looked at him with an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Peter. That was… harsh. I didn't mean to pry into your childhood."

"Yes, you did," retorted Peter. "Any additional questions you want unanswered?"

A moment of silence followed. Blowing out a short burst of air through his nose, Peter observed Neal looking down on him, concern written across his face.

The conman slowly returned to his seat disheartened. How can I enjoy bantering with someone having zero memories of happiness or even a fleeting sense of safety?

Without really thinking about speaking aloud, Peter next words caught Neal off guard.

"I… ah had a baseball mitt once," said Peter, his halting words breaking into the conman's thoughts. Peter quickly looked at him watching for Neal's reaction.

Neal's eyebrows arched, not daring to interrupt. Nodding his head, he silently encouraged Peter to continue speaking.

"It happened at my first placement. I was eighteen years-old, a financial intern with Chase Banking, trying to decipher how to fit into the human world. In the evenings, they often allowed the few Animula, they owned, to sit in the enclosed basement courtyard next to our living quarters. One of the caretakers of the building, his name was Jensen, used to watch me doing endless crossword puzzles." He paused with the faintest hint of a smile. "I've always liked the mental challenge they provide."

Neal nodded again, a warm smile encouraging Peter to continue the story.

"Master Jensen would see me sitting for hours trying to achieve superior level or solve a metapuzzle. He'd come over, for a few minutes, careful not get too close but always peering over my shoulder." Peter proceeded on, not realizing the extent of discomfort his following words would bring to his new owner.

"Animula children, Neal, have no awareness of play. But by adolescence, I was curious enough about the concept to want to decipher the human attraction to sports."

Neal hid his wince, eager for additional insight into Peter's past. Peter hesitated, wondering if he should go on.

Neal spoke up. "Was Jensen a compassionate man?"

"He was. He never failed to look me in the eyes. One day, I gathered enough courage to ask him about a baseball clue for my puzzle. Sort of testing the waters… you know." Peter began to slowly close out the websites on the computer in front of him.

"One night, he bent down, his back to the courtyard door, and whispered to meet him behind one of the outdoor sheds."

"Weren't you worried or concerned? About what he wanted?"

"At first. I had already had my share of unwarranted cruelty. But what he proposed made me awful curious. I was young; I thought it worth the risk." An uneasy smile. "He couldn't hurt me too badly without permission or my owner would come down on him."

Of course, surmised Neal. A janitor wouldn't be allowed to badly injure someone's property, not if he wanted to keep his position.

"What happened," Neal asked.

"He was standing out of sight of the courtyard, holding a baseball mitt in one hand, broken in and well-used, and a dirty white baseball in the other. I can remember his exact words to this day."

Neal witnessed Peter's glum demeanor melt away; his face becoming animated with… fondness?

"Hey kid? Want to toss a ball around, he asked." Peter sat back in his seat, stretching his shoulders to relieve discomfort. "If you're interested in what baseball's all about, you need to play it." His golden rimmed eyes began to twinkle. "I just stared at him, not making a movement, not saying a word. But he placed the glove on my hand, glanced round, stepped back, showed me the ball and let er rip."

Tossing his head back and simulating the toss, Peter laughed softly, the worry lines in his face softening.

Peter did have a few pleasant memories, thought Neal, returning the laugh. He was surprised to discover how gratifying that made him feel.

"Did you catch the ball?"

"Oh no," Peter grinned. "That's the best part, Neal. I failed to react, even to lift the glove. The ball hit me square in the chest, surprising the hell out of me."

"I don't understand," admitted Neal.

"Jensen didn't care. He came over without a word. Put the glove on his hand, tossed the ball in the air a few times, demonstrating the concept. Then he replaced the glove back on my hand and told me the finest baseball players, the people who survive in this world, don't ever give up... ever." Blinking rapidly several times, Peter paused.

"Anyway, we ended up meeting quite a few times that year. Maybe eight or ten times. Jensen warned me to keep it a secret; as if I had anyone to tell. But he knew it was dangerous for him, I'm sure. No one in their right mind would spend time with an Animula."

"Maybe it was you he was protecting?"

Peter grimaced, reacting to Neal's naiveté.

"Jensen never realized what he set in motion. I began to understand my education had been structured for utter profit. Many of the truths about Animula were based upon misconception and outright lies. My growing interest in baseball and my yearning to play the game taught me to doubt everything the Market had hammered into me…"

Peter's words trailed off.

Neal was afraid to ask the next question.

"What happened to Jensen? Did your owner discover what was going on?" Good God, please don't tell me they tortured a young kid for playing ball?

"I'm not sure." Peter's hands, now folded in his lap, were tightly gripped. "He disappeared from the building one day and I never saw him again. I went back to the area, weeks later and saw a bag peeking out from behind one of the sheds. Inside was his old glove and ball."

"He left them for you."

Peter turned back to look down to his computer. "I don't know. I wanted to think so at the time, but they were worn and worthless. He probably couldn't be bothered to retrieve them."

Neal understood their importance to Peter. He didn't ask him if he still had them; Neal remembered the meager contents Peter's suitcase held when he first arrived. How long he had been able to hide a treasured possession before it had been discarded?

"Do you still like baseball?" asked Neal.

As Peter mulled over his answer, he paused and looked up. He seemed to resolve an internal debate within himself.

"Yeah," he replied. "You know… I really do."