NOTE: Long chapter is long, and *very* difficult to write! I'm pleased you guys have been enjoying this story because I kinda feel like I'm just playing around with my characters like a child with some action figures while I avoid having to come up with an actual 'plot', which is lots of fun for me but not really getting the story anywhere. But I'm committed to the idea of a plot and I will be starting one any chapter now...promise.

Chapter Eighteen

"Frost?" Peter asked as he knocked on the apartment door again. "Are you in there?"

"Coming." Frost called back.

"Please tell me you found your pants."

"I did." Frost beamed as he opened the door. "And it only took me two tries to get them on right."

Peter's breath automatically hissed across his teeth when he caught sight of Frost. Without his prosthetic in place Frost's empty eye socket was a startling and unsettling sight, particularly since Peter wasn't expecting it. Despite the fact that Peter recovered quickly Frost had noticed the look of shock that had briefly crossed Peter's face but it took him another second to figure it out. Gasping in horror himself Frost quickly threw his hand up to cover both his eyes. This was also the first time Peter had seen Frost in a short sleeved shirt which revealed several large white scars across his dark forearm as well as a set of scars that encircled his wrists.

"I…I'm sorry." Frost apologized clumsily. "I take my glass out when I'm not expecting company. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, I know it's hard to look at. Bryant complains any time I'm not wearing it." Frost spread his fingers just enough to look at Peter with his intact eye. "I have a patch around here somewhere, come in, please, sit down. I'll get my patch, just don't call me Nick Fury."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Frost chuckled. "Please, make yourself at home. I...uh...I'll be right back."

Peter stepped just inside the apartment and closed the door behind himself as he watched Frost hobbled off unsteadily towards the short hallway that lead to his bedroom. Peter furrowed his brow as Frost nearly lost his balance and had to put his hand out on the wall to steady himself the rest of the way. Frost always had a slight limp but right now he looked as though he could hardly bear any weight through his right foot. If it was an act it was a good one, and it was working as Peter was finding it difficult right now to be as angry at 'Frost the disabled veteran' as he had been at 'Frost the underhanded CIA Agent' while he had been driving over to his apartment.

Left alone Peter looked around Frost's nearly barren apartment. The small front room and open kitchen of Frost's apartment looked like it had been purchased as a package deal from Ikea rather than put together with a personal touch. The kitchen counter only held a coffee maker, which had a half full pot of what smelled like freshly brewed coffee along with a single white mug sitting in the stainless steel sink. There was a standard gray couch against the wall that showed almost no wear. In front of it was a glass and metal coffee table that was completely barren, no mail, books, or even drink coasters. The night stand next to the couch matched the plain coffee table with a small lamp sitting on it. There was no tv, just a small waist high side table with a single drawer up against the far wall across from the couch.

Unlike Neal's apartment that had been carefully designed to be a work of art in its own right, or Peter's townhome that was decorated with a focus on family and memories, Frost's apartment was eerily sterile. There was only a single display that gave any hint about the man who inhabited the space. Peter walked over to the wall across from the couch and looked up at the set of American flags neatly folded into the traditional triangle with only the blue field showing, each placed in a cherry wood and glass shadow box and hung on the wall. There were seven flags on display, each with an engraved name on a silver plaque set in the wood. Four of the names had ranks as well and Peter guessed that they belonged to the men on Frost's team that had been killed in Afghanistan. Of the remaining three names one instantly caught Peter's full attention.

"'FBI Special Agent David Edward Siegel'."

Peter's stomach twisted as he read the plaque memorializing his lost Agent who had been murdered by Frost's rouge operative. Peter didn't recognize the other two names, one belonging to a woman, but he had to assume that Frost held himself at least somewhat responsible for each death that he was honoring on his wall. Bryant had mentioned to Peter before that Frost deeply regretted Siegel's death, as simple as the memorial was it helped Peter believe that at least that much of the convoluted story behind Rebecca had been the truth.

Without really thinking about it Peter reached out and pulled open the drawer on the side table that was under the flags. There were almost a dozen small black velvet boxes tucked away inside the wooden drawer. Opening one at random Peter found a bright Purple Heart medal with a small bronze oak leaf cluster pinned to the purple suspension ribbon. Purple Hearts like all medals were only awarded once, but subsequent qualifying injuries earned the recipient an oak leaf cluster.

Looking at the medal Peter first assumed that it was connected to the events that cost Frost his team and his eye. However Peter remembered that Frost had been in the CIA at the time as part of a paramilitary operation and the award was strictly a military one, meaning the Heart and oak leaf signified two other times Frost had thrown himself up against an enemy of the US and paid for it in his own blood. With the open box still in hand Peter glanced up at the shadow boxed flags. For all of Frost's bravado and confidence Peter found it very telling that in his home he kept his tragedies on display and his accomplishments tucked away.

"It's been a long time since that's seen any daylight."

Peter jolted at the sound of Frost's voice. Looking over he found Frost had put on his eye patch. He had his hand on the corner of the hallway casually but Peter got a feeling he was actively using the wall to keep himself upright.

"That little leaf ended my career as a Ranger, luckily CIA paramilitary was still interested in some what damaged goods." Frost commented conversationally as he limped closer. "Although considering what happened later I probably should have stayed retired, but not all dogs want to be taught new tricks."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" Peter started as he closed the box and placed it back in the drawer.

"It's okay," Frost interrupted with a warm smile "when you invite a Federal Agent into your home you have to expect them to poke about. Particularly when that Agent doesn't trust you as far as he can throw you."

"You have been lying to me basically every chance you get." Peter pointed out. "Like about last night."

"You found the knife, didn't you?" Frost asked with a guilty wince.

"Agent Aubrey did, yes."

"Damn it," Frost chuckled ruefully "that sucks."

"'Sucks'?" Peter repeated distastefully, irritated by both Frost's word choice and casual response to the serious allegation.

"Bryant wanted to go back and try harder to find it, I told him not to worry about it…long story short I owe him a hundred bucks now."

"Long story short: Neal is going back to prison." Peter snarled bitterly even though he knew there was no real danger of that actually happening.

"Peter, come on," Frost chastised mockingly "you know me better than that. I switched out Neal's DNA file in the database the day he entered the Academy. Your Agent Aubrey is good but he's still never going to connect Neal to any of this."

"So the blood on the knife is Neal's." Peter stated darkly rather than asked.

"Peter…"

Finally seeming to taking the conversation seriously Frost's expression and tone had sobered, but when he'd gone to take a step towards Peter he'd cried out sharply in pain as his right leg buckled. Peter instinctively reached out and caught Frost around the waist to keep him from falling. Frost put his hand up on Peter's shoulder to help support himself as he panted heavily with a slightly unfocused look in his eye. When Frost didn't recover quickly Peter slipped in under his arm and helped him over to the couch. With Frost so close Peter could smell Frost's breath and instantly noticed that it was laced with something other than coffee. Peter sat Frost down on the couch but remained standing himself, moving back to put the coffee table between himself and Frost.

"Thank you." Frost said gratefully.

"Have you been drinking?"

Rather than answer Frost hesitated before he just sighed and reached over to the drawer in the nightstand next to the couch and pulled out a half empty bottle of Glenfiddich 21 whiskey. At nearly two hundred dollars a bottle it wasn't the usual spirit of choice for an alcoholic, but Frost certainly hadn't been slugging it back in celebration of anything or even just recreationally, it was barely five and he was about two sheets to the wind. Frost stared at the bottle in his hands looking like he was contemplating opening it. Shaking his head in an ill advised attempt to clear it Frost put the bottle down on the coffee table.

It had taken a most of Frost's strength to try to appear sober to his guest before, but now that he was caught he dropped the pretense as he leaned his head back and moaned slightly against his spinning head. Taking a deep breath Frost brought his head back up and forced himself to focus on Peter once more.

"I drink the expensive to keep me from drinking it when I don't need it." Frost explained. "I don't drink often, but today just happened to be one of the days that I needed it."

Feeling distinctly like he was being conned by an injured wing act Peter just stared coldly at Frost waiting for an explanation on the bloody knife rather than a rationalization of his drinking habits. Frost took a breath like he was going to speak several times without actually coming up with what he was going to say. Frustrated that he was only going to be lied to Peter turned to leave.

"The knife belonged to Carl Matheson." Frost announced.

Peter froze and turned his attention back to Frost. He didn't know who Matheson was but Frost almost desperate sounding tone suggested that he was telling the truth and was possibly ready to admit to the real story of what had happened.

"He sliced Neal's arm when he was trying to get the painting away from him." Frost continued. "He's an American, but he's spent the past fifteen years in Europe and the Middle East selling his services to the highest bidder. Mostly high end theft, but not above being a gun for hire if the price is right or extortion if the opportunity arose."

"What happened?"

"Matheson was in the woods outside the Bashiri home, I doubt he was waiting for someone else to break in, we just got to the job a little earlier than he did. Matheson would not have jumped off the balcony, he would have just killed Mr. Bashiri. Neal did jump even though I ordered him not to, and then for reasons I still don't understand Neal bolted for the woods away from us rather than coming back to the rendezvous point."

"So Bryant didn't save him from the pool?"

"No, but he did save him from Matheson." Frost said before reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was heavily regretting his drinking before he even got to the hangover stage.

"Frost?"

"That coffee did nothing to sober me up." Frost complained. "Bryant is going to kill me for telling you all this."

"Where is Matheson now?"

"Dead." Frost answered flatly. "When we heard the commotion Bryant tore off and when he found them fighting he attacked Matheson."

"And killed him?"

"I know what you're thinking." Frost said defensively. "But Bryant did the right thing. Matheson had slammed Neal into a tree hard enough to knock him unconscious. It was dark, there was blood, Bryant had to neutralize the threat as quickly as he could so that we could give our full attention to Neal. To be fair we got him home in mostly one piece."

"Let's say I believe you…"

"Which you clearly don't." Frost said morosely.

"Why doesn't Neal remember any of this?" Peter demanded.

"Because he has a concussion, that was the truth." Frost assured. "He just didn't get it from jumping off the balcony, Matheson gave it to him. Neal woke fairly quickly, saw the dead body, he did *not* react very well to that. Between the adrenaline, physical exertion, blood loss, the concussion, and the stress he passed out again. When he woke up at Fort Meade his memory stopped at just about the time he took the painting. Not unusual actually, people often blank out traumatic episodes, particularly if they suffer anything even resembling a head inju…"

"So why lie?" Peter interrupted with a snarl.

"You're kidding, right?" Frost looked up at Peter with an incredulous look. "I knew how pissed you were going to be just hearing the parts that Neal remembered let alone the full story. When he didn't recall the near death experience it seemed better for everyone that he didn't know."

"That's where you are wrong." Peter growled. "Neal needs to know what he's dealing with, he needs to know what he's up against when he's working with you if he's going to have half a chance of defending himself."

"I didn't think of it that way." Frost admitted. "I swear I was trying to protect him."

"You were trying to protect yourself."

"That too." Frost smiled sheepishly. "Mistakes were made."

Peter made a noise of disgusted frustration that he'd perfected over the years. He paced a few steps in each direction a few times before settling back down. Putting his hands on his hips Peter glared at Frost who responded with an innocent smile that was far too reminiscent of Neal's vulpine grin for Peter's comfort.

"So…now what?" Frost asked simply.

"I don't know." Peter closed his eyes for a moment. "Neal deserves the truth."

"But he will lose what little trust he has in me and will probably refuse to have anything to do with me ever again. He hates being lied to more than you do." Frost pointed out knowing that Peter was already having the same thought. "I would love to be able to tell you that the higher ups at the CIA would be perfectly happy to just let Neal walk away and just be an FBI Agent for the rest of his career after everything they'd done to get him where he is right now…but I'm tired of lying to you."

"Is that a threat?"

"What?" Frost asked surprised. "No, of course not…actually I guess technically 'yes', but that's not how I meant it to sound…I just…this has all gotten so complicated."

"Why couldn't you have just left him alone from the start?" Peter lamented.

"I never meant for things to go so wrong." Frost said apologetically. "Just please believe that I'm doing my best to make things right for all four of us now. I was just too eager to get out of the starting gate and I tripped, but I learned a *very* important lesson."

"No more lies."

"No more lies." Frost agreed. "However this last one…"

"Needs to stay between us." Peter agreed begrudgingly.

"I know you hate to keep secrets but sometimes its for the best. There is no need for us to fight one another, we are all good work horses here, Peter, we just need to all start pulling the cart in the same direction."

"Horses tend to wear blinders to that they have no choice but to follow orders on where they are going."

"Then my analogy is better than I thought. You think I'm top dog at the CIA?" Frost asked with a rueful chuckle. "Peter, they own my ass too, I just don't mind."

Frost sat up straighter and squared his shoulders as he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, clearly attempting to take on the persona of someone he knew.

"'Frost!'" Frost barked in a deep stereotypical angry Commanding Officer voice. "'America wants to treat India like the prettiest woman we've ever seen so she'll dance with us, go get her that blue diamond you keep yammering on about.'

'Yes, Sir!'" Frost replied enthusiastically in a mockery of his own voice. "'…how exactly do you want me to do that?'

'I don't care, just do it! Any means necessary. Now get the hell out of my office!'

'Right, I'm on it.'."

Frost ended his little one man show with a smile that faded fast as he thought over what he had done in the name of 'any means necessary'. Peter doubted that the conversation with his boss had gone in anyway like the performance he'd been given, but he understood the general idea.

"I did what I felt was best at the time and I got an Agent killed and sent Neal into a death spiral." Frost said more to himself than Peter as he stared at the bottle of whiskey. "However there are always costs to war and everything I've done since I first joined the Army has been working towards making sure we win and I will continue to do so until my dying breath without regrets."

Peter didn't have a good response to the passionate speech that Frost had delivered with a tone that suggested that he was working more to remind himself that he felt like made the right choices in life rather than trying to convince his audience of it. Frost always seemed so casual about everything, but for the first time Peter was seeing that a life of black ops did weigh heavily on Frost's heart when he had the chance to reflect on it. Peter decided that this was the real reason Frost had been so rushed to get things started with Neal. He needed to keep going forward to keep himself from looking back. Frost shifted his weight and grimaced in pain.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked automatically.

"Not really." Frost sighed with a slight slurring to his voice. "I really shouldn't have gone with Neal and Bryant, I don't have what it takes anymore to be running around out in the woods."

As the adrenaline of the confrontation wore off he was feeling the effects of the heavy alcohol content of his blood once more. He bent down to rub at his foot but couldn't seem to bring himself to actually touch the painful limb. It didn't take more than a glance to see that Frost's right foot was noticeably swollen.

"One of the problems with injuries sustained during torture is that when they flare up again you need something that dulls all the senses to cope." Frost continued in a rambling tone. "For the most part I do better than today, I only drink like this once or twice a month…more often I'm too busy making sure that Bryant's PTSD doesn't get out of hand to worry about my own problems, of course I'm sure he says the same thing of me."

"Does Bryant know you deal with your our issues this way?"

"He does." Frost nodded. "We don't ever really talk about what happened, but we are always there for each other. We have a 'Si vales, valeo' thing going on that keeps us both going."

"Si vales, valeo?"

"Latin, 'when you are strong, I am strong'." Frost clarified. "It helps when you can trade off who has to be the initial strong one. You should think about that with Neal, I know you think of yourself as the stabilizing factor in his life, and you are, but now that you're partners you have to accept the idea that he can be there for you too."

"I see you're one of those philosophical drunks."

"I am…not to mention way too talkative." Frost admitted. "It irritates Bryant to no end, but deep down he loves it when I need him. Usually I tell him when I'm struggling and he stays with me to make sure I don't drink or that if I do that I don't drown my demons too completely ...or do anything else stupid."

"Why isn't he here now?"

"If all that work Neal put into stealing that painting is going to amount to anything useful anti-terrorist wise we need to move quickly on the sale. Bryant is taking care of some important details today, I can't divide his attention right now." Frost said heavily. "I'm fine, really. Anyway, I'm glad you came by, I think this was a good talk…hopefully I'll remember it in the morning. If you don't mind showing yourself out…"

Peter looked down on Frost and the half empty bottle of expensive whiskey sitting on the coffee table. Frost had a certain peace about him now that he had explained his actions to Peter, but he also looked like he was eager for Peter to leave so he could get back to what he had been doing. Glancing at the door Peter hesitated while he thought out what he should do next. Resigning himself to a long night Peter pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Elizabeth before sitting down on the couch next to Frost. Frost watched warily as Peter leaned forward and pushed the bottle of whiskey out of Frost's reach before sitting back again.

"Peter? What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't do anything stupid."