Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA Channel, not to me

When the show finally ended, Neal commented, "I cannot agree with that decision. This season has been a disappointment." He raised the remote and clicked the TV off. He looked at Peter as if he expected Peter's concurrence. "I miss Epperson."

"Who?" Peter poured his second cup of coffee. Might as well get started on the caffeine flow now.

"Never mind." Neal looked around the room. "What do we do now?"

"Hand me that remote. We look for something else to watch." Neal bounced to his feet with a dancer's grace and flipped the remote into Peter's grasp. He went into the bathroom. Despite his promise never to take his eyes off of Neal, Peter watched the TV screen scrupulously while Neal used the bathroom. Movement at the corner of his eye was good enough.

Neal returned to the room but didn't sit down. Peter found a Highlander movie and paused in his channel surfing. He glanced up at Neal who was staring at him like he expected Peter to do a magic trick. "Swordfights?" Peter asked. "A lot more action than double elimination dress designing."

Neal gave a little shake of his head and continued to stare at Peter with those vivid blue eyes. "What?" Peter asked. "What do you wanna watch?"

"I don't care. I've had enough TV. Can't we do something?"

"Like what?"

"Like—" Neal looked around for inspiration. "Let's go down to the lobby." Peter rolled his eyes. "Maybe meet some people, check out the exercise room …" Peter looked at him with less annoyance than pity. Prison must have been hard for a man with so much energy and restless imagination. Neal saw the look and smiled a tired smile. "No?"

Peter finished his current cup of coffee. "Sorry, buddy. TV is it." He thought of Neal's prison cell and all the drawings he'd found taped to the walls. "There's probably a pad of paper and a pen in that desk drawer. Draw something."

Neal raised his hands and dropped them. "What am I, five? You going to give me some crayons, too?"

"Hey, I'm just making suggestions. Most five year olds can watch TV."

"And it's bad for them," Neal said earnestly. "They should be out, running around."

"Stealing art, forging Viking maps."

That drew a genuine grin from Neal. "Having a good time," he said. "Playing."

Peter found himself sympathetic. At work he was able to channel Neal's energy into cases, keeping boredom from getting the man into trouble. Too late, he realized he should have brought some casework with them.

"Look, you can pick the channel, okay?"

"No, you watch it," Neal said. "I'll get out my crayons." With that, he pulled open the desk drawer and came up with hotel stationery and a pen. He sat down at the desk, furrowed his brow and began sketching intently.

Cautiously satisfied, Peter watched Connor MacLeod triumph over evil, one eye always on Neal. Neal sketched with enthusiasm for a while, then stood and walked across the room, passing between Peter and the television. He approached the door. Peter watched warily, but Neal seemed enthralled by reading the checkout times and instructions, or perhaps the fire escape routes.

The fire escape route map . . .

"Neal, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." He pivoted on one heel, smiled at Peter and walked back to the desk. Heads rolled and lightning struck on the TV. Neal took out a new piece of paper and sketched some more. Then he stood and walked across the room again.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I'm just walking."

"Well, stop walking to the door. It makes me nervous."

"There's nowhere else to walk."

"Walk down between the beds or something."

"Oh right." Neal chuckled. "How about I walk in and out of the bathroom?"

"Fine."

So Neal sketched and walked and Peter's brief feeling of ease evaporated. This was more than Neal's usual restless energy, this was nervous energy. Every time he walked into the bathroom Peter caught his breath, but he only looked around, fidgeted with things and then walked back to his sketching.

The movie ended and Peter realized he'd lost the thread of the plot somewhere. He stood and stretched and decided to call Elle before it got any later. His phone was in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the chair Neal was perched on. He reached over to fish it out, and saw Neal's sketch.

Kate.

Neal glanced up and a guilty expression flashed across his face before he replaced it with a proud smile. "Good, isn't it?"

Peter pressed his lips together. He set the phone down and shuffled through the stationery on the desk. "I am not going to give you a pat on the back for drawing a picture of Kate." He saw the other sheets. "Pictures of Kate," he amended. The coffee in Peter's stomach soured. "Neal," he said.

Neal looked away from him and stood. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Neal gathered up his drawings and put them neatly in the drawer. His expression was hard to read. Somewhere between apologetic and determined. "Neal," Peter almost whispered. "Stop."

Neal took two deep breaths. "Can I go to bed now?"

Peter licked dry lips. "In this bed," he said, pointing.

"You going to get off of it or do we share?" Neal asked. Somewhere he found a small teasing grin.

Peter growled something, scooping pizza boxes into the tiny garbage can, where they formed an upright diamond balanced on the top.

Neal smiled as he stripped off his jacket and hung it in the closet , removed his silk tie and stuffed it in a pants pocket, and unbuttoned his linen shirt. "We should do this again sometime, under better circumstances."

"Right. Like I'd rather spend the night with you than in my own home with my wife." Peter moved a chair to sit right beside Neal's bed, and moved the coffee pot to the nightstand beside him.

"Peter, you hurt my feelings," Neal said with no rancor. He pulled the bedspread back neatly and slid into the queen bed wearing an undershirt, his trousers and his socks. "You going to keep the TV on while I try to sleep?"

"Yep," said Peter. "It's more important that I stay awake than that you get your beauty rest. Sorry," he added when Neal didn't even give him a put-upon expression, just nodded and closed his eyes. "I'll turn it down."

"It's okay," Neal said. "I like it loud."

Peter shrugged minutely and started channel surfing. Who knew with Neal Caffrey? Some geniuses were eccentric, or so he'd heard.

Peter found a rebroadcast of a basketball game and settled in, drinking coffee and watching Neal pretend to sleep in the bed six inches from his knees.

A half a football game and another movie later, and Peter started to worry that he wasn't going to stay awake. He was sorely tempted to bring the guard in to watch Neal so he could stretch his legs and get some air, but he was reluctant to trust anyone else to guard him properly for very long. He realized with chagrin that he had let it get too late to call Elle. He'd drunk most of the coffee – Neal had drunk water – and what remained tasted overbrewed and burnt. Neal had lain still for hours now, breathing the slow deep inhalations of sleep.

Peter stood, stretched, clicked the TV into startling quiet and visited the bathroom to rid himself of the coffee, one eye on the motionless form on the bed. He paused in the doorway on his return, considering.

In sleep, Neal looked even younger than usual, his longish hair pushed into an unfashionable tousle on the pillow. What fevered thoughts had Neal wrestled with all evening, he wondered, and which ones had won out? Had he decided to stay and trust to Peter's supervision? It was certainly too early for Peter to make assumptions, but his captive had given him no trouble for hours now. The room seemed suffused with the miasma of sleep – quiet and lethargic; Peter wanted nothing more than to give in to it himself. He decided on a way.

He turned on the bedside lamp, turned out the overhead light and unplugged the coffee pot. He moved to the closet where his overcoat hung, extracted his handcuffs from the coat pocket, and returned to the side of the bed where he'd been sitting. He thought about removing his gun and holster, but found himself more uneasy at the thought of his gun somewhere in the room beyond his control than he was at having it near Neal. He checked the safety and snapped the holster strap over the grip. After also rejecting the idea of removing his shoes – no point in being too comfortable – he sat on the side of the bed beside Neal. "Neal, wake up," he said, grasping the man's near arm at the shoulder and pulling to get it free from the covers. Neal stiffened and turned, blue eyes wide and awake.

"What?" he asked.

"It's nothing," Peter said, as if to a startled child. "I just need your wrist." Neal watched with an incredulous expression as Peter took one of the pillows to pad himself in the chair and handcuffed the two of them together again. He let his own arm drape over the edge of the chair nestled close to the mattress. Neal's arm had to be bent up toward his head. "Now go back to sleep." If you were asleep, he added mentally.

"Peter . . ." Neal sat halfway up, looking from the handcuffs to Peter's face. Once again he found Neal's expression difficult to read – wistful or something. Then a slow grin grew on his lips and he raised his eyebrows.

"Don't say it," Peter said. "Just don't."

"You're killing me, Peter. There are so many things I could say."

"Shut up and go to sleep."

Still grinning, Neal lay back down. He shifted to lie on his side, facing Peter. "Have you and Elizabeth ever –"

"Shut up," Peter said.

Neal snickered, amusement in his eyes until he obediently shut them. They sat and lay together like that for a long time. Peter wasn't comfortable enough to sleep, but that was just as well. He drowsed as much as circumstances allowed, feeling about as secure with Neal as he was likely to get.