A/N: She lives! I'm super sorry for not updating in so long, this chapter was a pain to write for some reason. I just wanted to say, if there's another long gap between chapters (which there most probably will, not gonna lie) I promise I won't abandon this story. I hate leaving pieces of work unfinished, so even if it might be a couple of weeks between each segment, it will be finished. Promise. I'll try to keep it to the gap of one month maximum

Also, thank you to everyone who's been reviewing and favouriting so far!

Neal woke to a faint rustling nearby, and he sighed and burrowed further into his couch cushions. He could feel last night's headache returning with a bitter vengeance, and he wondered how long he'd be able to doze in peace.

"Oh God."

Seems the answer was five seconds.

"Nick, what–"

"You came over last night and I let you crash on my bed." he mumbled into the cushion, his eyes still closed.

"I – I can't remember any of that."

"You were drunk."

"Drunk? What? Did I say why?"

Neal considered rolling over and telling Peter that he'd come over to escape Elizabeth and get with him instead.

"Nope."

"Dammit, I'm sorry Nick, I didn't mean to interrupt your evening."

"S'fine. I wasn't doing anything, anyway." Except planning a heist that was going down later today and brooding so much that if Mozzie had been there he would have slapped him.

Peter didn't say anything for a few more moments and all Neal could hear was the rustling of bedsheets as he moved around. The pounding in his head was still there, and Neal could map the distance from the couch to the kitchen cabinets where he kept his painkillers and deemed it too far for him to travel.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, it's the door near the kitchen." He waved vaguely at it and heard the creak of the old bedsprings as Peter got up and padded to the bathroom. Last night Neal had been too weary to do anything once Peter had fallen asleep, and so he had immediately collapsed onto the couch and drifted off. He only hoped the room wasn't in too much of a state that Peter would comment.

When he eventually heard the door close he rolled over with a groan and flung an arm over his eyes. He squeezed one eye open and glanced at his watch to discover that it was past nine in the morning and Moz was due to arrive in a couple of hours. Slowly, Neal pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his face, cursing his tendency to get headaches.

The door opened a few moments later and Peter emerged with a frown on his face and his clothes rumpled.

"I – uh – I've gotta get to work, um…"

"Interviewing some CI, right?" Neal supplied, desperate to escape the awkwardness he knew was going to permeate the air. It seemed as though Peter didn't remember what happened last night, though, which he supposed was a good thing. For Peter, anyway.

"Yeah, right." Peter said, avoiding eye contact and heading towards the door. "Recognised someone at the gallery when it was robbed. Uh, I'll see you later."

He was gone before Neal could reply. He stared at the door for a few moments with his eyebrows raised before he shook his head slightly and got up with a sigh, taking in the state of the room as he did. It wasn't too messy, Neal decided; there were a few paint brushes and pots in the sink and some clothes were piled on a chair near the bed but it had looked worse.

On his way to retrieving his painkillers, Neal paused at the table situated in front of the kitchen cabinets. The blueprints to the art gallery were lying open on it, a few mugs holding the corners down. Neal stared at it for long time, before his gaze slowly slid over to the door where Peter had left in a rush. How likely was it that the agent had seen these? He had probably been too drunk last night to remember, unless the memory loss this morning had been an act. It's what Neal would have done; create a false sense of security until more evidence could be gathered. But Peter was an FBI agent, surely he would have questioned Neal if he'd found something suspicious?

There were too many ifs and buts, and Neal chose not to concentrate on them too much for now. Moz was due later on, and he had to remain focused on the upcoming heist. As soon as this was over, he and Moz would be out of there, and Neal wouldn't be around to find out if Peter had spotted those blueprints or not.

He swallowed a couple of painkillers and headed for the shower. He stayed motionless under the warm spray of water as he went over the plan to steal Kate's painting once again. He was, admittedly, just going to be sitting in the van since there was a chance Elizabeth could spot him, but Neal still preferred to know exactly what was going to happen even if he wasn't involved. The stakes weren't particularly high, though, as the gallery was expecting them and there had been no resistance from any staff members about them taking a few paintings for 'conservation checks'. By the end of the day, the two of them would be on a plane headed away from New York and Neal could leave Peter and everything else behind him, even if he didn't particularly want to.

A couple of hours passed and by eleven Neal was stood in front of the painting he had promised Peter with his arms crossed, debating what to do with it. He wished he'd given it to him this morning before he left, but tucked away in the corner, it wasn't the first thing someone would spot. He debated dropping it off at the FBI later that day, but he knew he'd never get Moz to agree to it if he did. Or maybe he should just leave it; Peter was bound to catch the thief without this painting; it wasn't like this was the only path he could take.

His mind made up, Neal turned to check his phone, when a knock at the door interrupted him. Moz was early but that didn't matter too much, the sooner they got this over with, the sooner they'd be out of New York.

When he opened the door, though, Moz wasn't there to greet him. Peter was.

"Peter," Neal said, mostly out of surprise. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah, Neal, everything's fine." he replied, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure, yeah." Neal stepped aside and watched Peter brush past. He closed the door slowly and turned around. Thankfully, he'd moved the blueprints earlier, so there was no chance Peter would spot them now.

"So, is this about last night?" he asked, heading over to the kitchen counter and filling the kettle.

"Oh, I don't want anything." Peter said, waving Neal away when he lifted the kettle slightly in his direction. "And, actually… about last night, uh,"

"Mm-hm?" Neal hummed, preparing his own mug of coffee.

"That's not really why I'm here, Neal, but now that you've brought it up, I have started remembering bits and pieces, and…" Neal heard him clear his throat, and when he looked over his shoulder, Peter was frowning down at the floor and his fists were clenched.

"We should forget about it." he announced, and Neal nodded slightly, knowing that that was always going to be his answer. Elizabeth was a much better person, as a whole, than Neal, and he was admittedly glad that Peter didn't want to hurt her.

Neal leaned against the counter and observed Peter's clenched fists and the way his eyes were darting about his small apartment. Was he angry over what had happened?

"Ok, we can forget about it." he said, smiling slightly in the hopes that it might relieve the agent's apparent anger.

"Thank you, Neal, I appreciate that." he replied, though Neal thought he didn't sound appreciative. He was back to frowning at the floor.

"So if you're not here about last night," he asked, pouring the hot water into a mug. "What's going on?"

Peter was silent for a few moments and Neal stirred his coffee silently, waiting for the other to speak. He wondered what Peter was finding so difficult to get out and he glanced at his watch while he waited, hoping Mozzie would arrive after Peter had left.

"You have a small apartment. It looks cheap."

That was not what he'd been expecting, and Neal paused his stirring in surprise.

"Uh, that's because it is." he said slowly, his own frown forming. He turned with his mug in his hand to see Peter watching him with a blank expression. "Living as a university student doesn't come with a fancy apartment. Hence this place." He gestured to the small bed and tiny kitchenette.

"You don't have a lot of stuff either, you know." Peter said, looking around the place.

"What's going on, Peter?" he asked, turning to put his drink down.

"You know, in the past five minutes I've called you 'Neal' three times and you haven't noticed."

He froze. One hand was still clasping the handle of his mug, and he distantly noticed his whitened knuckles. Neal closed his eyes and bowed his head, eventually loosening the grip on his drink.

"You saw the blueprints." he croaked. Where had his voice gone?

"I saw the blueprints." Peter confirmed, and Neal winced at the growl in the agent's tone. "And then I spoke to someone who said they spotted Neal Caffrey at the gallery, and when asked to point him out, he looked a hell of a lot like you."

Shit. He spun, intending to say something but he was caught breathless at the look of pure fury on Peter's face.

"Peter, I–"

"Shut up." Peter spat. "I don't want to listen to a damn thing you've got to say. You lied to me, you lied to El, you played us all. Did you find it satisfying, making an FBI agent look stupid?"

"No, I didn't–"

"Was it just a fun little game?" he continued with a snarl, stalking forwards slowly. "Get close to the dumb agent, make him blush, make him think–" He cut himself off, biting his lip and running his hand through his hair.

"Peter," Neal breathed, "It wasn't a game, I wasn't trying to play with you–"

"I said shut up!" he bellowed, slamming his hand on the small table. Neal jumped and backed away, only to find the kitchen counter blocking his escape.

"You're under arrest." Peter growled. "Turn around. Now."

"Under arrest?" Neal repeated with a frown. "For what?"

"Enough with the damn games, Caffrey–" Neal barely repressed the flinch at the way Peter spat his last name. Any fantasies he'd had of a relationship with Peter had been carelessly smashed to pieces, and he knew nothing would repair them.

"–what the hell do you think I'm arresting you for? I'm taking you in, you're gonna tell me where that painting is, and then you're going to prison."