The light that seeped through the gap in the doorframe was Peter's first clue; the low hum of the television within the room was his second. Well, that and the room service tray sitting outside the door with neatly stacked dishes and the remains of a burger.

Peter pursed his lips and then looked over at Jones. "Remind me: they have to run before you're allowed to shoot them, right?"

"Yeah, the manual's pretty clear on that." Jones gestured vaguely at the door. "You want me in there?"

Peter waved him off. "No, I've got it. Good night, Jones. Good work today."

Jones grinned and headed into his own – mercifully dark and empty - room leaving Peter to glower at the door.

When the corridor was clear, Peter swiped the lock and pushed the door open. Neal looked up and then reached over with exaggeratedly slow care to mute the television.

Peter stood in the doorway for a moment and then closed the door behind him. Seated in the room's only chair, Neal kept his hands on the armrests and in plain sight.

His eyes were free to roam, though, and he was pleased to see that Peter looked better than he had the last time Neal had seen him: when the agent was pale and still limping from the hairline fracture he'd gotten jumping a roof.

Well, more failing to jump a roof, which had hardly been Neal's fault. He'd sent a get well soon card anyway but, given the glare being leveled at him, he was kind of regretting it. He nodded politely anyway. "Hey, Peter."

"Agent Burke," Peter said pointedly.

"No, that's you." Neal smiled with bright helpfulness. "I'm Neal Caffrey, remember?" He waved a little.

Peter's jaw worked and Neal wasn't sure whether the man was fighting a smile or the impulse to reach for a gun; he also wasn't sure why he found provoking that expression quite as irresistible as he did.

Yeah, that probably wasn't healthy. Neal coughed and spoke quickly, "I hope Eliz – I mean, Mrs. Burke is well?"

"She's good. She says, 'hi and thank you for the name of the florist.'" Peter had spent a couple of years passing messages between his wife and the case file she called "your other woman." Neal's notes were usually left at crime scenes, which was frankly embarrassing.

He slipped off his jacket and draped it over the end of the bed, acutely aware he was being closely watched. It was almost fun to keep Caffrey guessing when the other shoe would drop. "It's been a really long day. You want to tell me why you broke into my hotel room, so we can move right along to the part where I read you your rights?"

Caffrey held up a hand and adopted an expression so guileless that Peter was pretty sure he'd stolen it from a church. "I did not break in. The management here is very sympathetic to –"

"Yeah, I really don't care. What are you doing here?"

And there was the problem: Neal still didn't have a story – not one that would get him and Kate clear, keep the agents alive and maybe even get Torrio off his back. Unfortunately, inspiration hadn't struck and it didn't look like it was planning a last minute appearance.

Now Peter was just standing there smiling a little unnervingly and this was a terrible, terrible idea – Neal wasn't sure what he'd even been thinking.

He stood and began to edge his way towards the door. "I thought someone should welcome you to the neighborhood – there's a great sandwich place around the corner."

"Uh huh." Peter reached out and hooked his collar, then steered him to the wall. Neal let his arms be tapped up and held them there while he was lightly frisked. "I don't like guns."

Peter snorted. "And I don't like doing taxes."

Neal tried to look back. "So why do them?"

"Yeah, we're not even going to have that conversation. Sit." At a light pressure on his shoulder, Neal dropped back into the chair. Burke considered a moment and then added, "Stay."

Neal rolled his eyes and waited patiently while the room was given a fast search – for what, he couldn't begin to imagine. He opened his mouth and then shut it again when a warning finger came up.

When Peter reached for the room phone Neal was momentarily worried a team of people with a vested interested in seeing him behind bars were about to be summoned, but instead Peter reeled off a food order like he did it a lot, in a lot of cheap hotels that all had the same menus.

"I can recommend the cheeseburger and fries," Neal volunteered and then subsided back under the glare sent his way.

When Peter finished ordering, he pulled his tie to half-mast and said, "Where's Moreau, Neal?"

Neal shrugged. "Around?"

"Uh-huh. You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not really." Neal smiled thinly. "How about a charmingly non-incriminating bedtime story?"

"Sure." Peter sat on his bed and made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. "You can start with this pair of con artists working for the mob."

Peter's eyes hardened and, irrationally, Neal wanted to defend himself – to make it clear he didn't know and by the time he did know, it was far too late.

He restricted himself to nodding ruefully. "So, our hero-"

"Uh-uh," Peter rejected. "Our antagonist, maybe."

"Our protagonist takes over a job making … candy … because the previous candy-maker gets allergic to sugar."

"McManus couldn't do it," Peter translated. That explained part of this at least: no way Caffrey could resist the chance to show exactly what he could do. Fish had to swim, birds had to fly, Caffrey had to showboat. Sure, he probably did it to help a friend, but that vanity would have been whispering in one ear while Kate whispered in the other.

Neal stared at him with undisguised admiration. "I would really love to know how you figure out so much."

Peter smirked, despite the full confidence he was being played. "Keep talking."

"Okay, so the problem is, the buyer doesn't like taking candy from strangers and switching out candy-makers is … complicated."

"Suicidal," Peter translated again, this time with a hint of mockery.

Neal ignored him. "So the heroine of our story introduces herself as the first candy-maker's point of contact. She thinks it's the start of better things, but the job runs over time and the intrepid and valiant officers of the law-"

"We're called 'the good guys'. Go on."

"The good guys are pretty close behind. Our protagonist can't stop the work because the buyer will be upset and he tends to illustrate his deep emotional pain with gunfire.

"Anyway, our protagonist finishes the job, but the good guys have the place under surveillance and take it upon themselves to make the whole block a no-go area for candy shipments."

Peter beamed. "So far I'm only seeing this story having a happy ending. Thank you for the pizza, by the way."

"You're welcome. So, our her- our protagonist comes up with a plan to get around that."

"Good for him." Peter widened his grin enough to show teeth. "Did the plan involve a mysterious Russian art thief, by any chance?"

"No." Neal smiled brightly. "Absolutely not. Anyway, before the plan can be implemented, the buyer finds out about the switch and now the heroine of our story is being held until the buyer gets his candy. As our protagonist can't get the candy out, the buyer … offers to … come to him."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Skip to the dramatic third act."

Neal looked away and abruptly dropped the fiction. "Tomorrow morning. I'm meant to let you into the warehouse, they'd show up and … they didn't sound that worried about what happened next."

"Goddammit, Neal." Peter thumped the mattress hard and stood.

Neal scrambled to his feet. "Hey, I didn't have to tell you about this."

Peter stared at him incredulously. "Yeah, you did. You don't get brownie points for not letting us get whacked by the Mafia."

"Apparently, technically, it's the mob."

"Shut up, Caffrey." Peter hung a hand behind his neck and tried to think. "Do you know where they are now?"

"No, but they have Kate, and she has her cell if you wanted to track her. Or, you could make a trap for them. That'd be a pretty big arrest, right?"

Peter stared again. "Are you seriously trying to con me into helping you?"

"No. I -" Neal drew back uncertainly at the sudden vehemence. "I was just pointing out that -"

Peter saw the confusion as Caffrey searched blindly for the words he thought Peter wanted to hear. Kid didn't even begin to get it. "You were pointing out I could make an arrest and turn a blind eye while you and Kate ride into the sunset," he filled in almost patiently.

"Well, drive, I was thinking we'd drive. And probably around noon."

Peter shook his head and smiled. "No."

Neal blinked. "No?"

"Moreau can walk and so can the guy helping you, but you don't walk, Caffrey. You're done."

"What if -" Neal started, but stuttered to a stop as Peter shook him by the shoulders.

Once, twice and then Peter let go before he was tempted to add a kick to the ass. "Torrio, Neal! What the hell were you thinking? And what happens next time? At this point, I'm arresting you for your own good. No, you know what? This isn't even an arrest anymore, this is protective custody."

Neal steadied himself and grit his teeth to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, "It wasn't my deal. I would never - I was covering for a friend."

"Some friend, he left you between the mob and a hard place." Peter took in the stubborn glare and changed tack. "Fine, you tried to do a good thing. Kind of. I get it.

"Look, if I take you in now it's a reduced sentence, but if I catch up with you later – and I will – you're not getting a few years, you're coming out of jail an old man. Is that what you want?"

Neal's eyes flickered as he mentally ran through the rapidly shortening list of options. "If I say no, you'll still help Kate. You have to," he tried. "It's your job."

"True," Peter parried, "and then I'll arrest her. That's my job too."

"You've got nothing on her."

Peter shrugged. "I've got enough, and I'm pretty sure Torrio will be more than happy to fill in any blanks. How many years do you think she's looking at?"

Neal stared at him and saw no openings in his expression whatsoever, nothing for him to turn or talk around. "You wouldn't," he tried, but more weakly.

"She's as guilty as you," Peter parried again and pressed back, taking advantage of the uncertainty while he could. "Guiltier: I bet she knew it was the mob right from the beginning. Kate does her homework."

"She didn't want to take the job, this isn't her fault," Neal said automatically, and couldn't read Peter's expression.

"This is the only deal I'm willing to make, Neal," Peter said quietly, but inexorably. "So you think about it. Think hard. Right now."

Peter watched the expressions flicker across Caffrey's face, but he didn't pay much attention to them – the kid was only trying to find one that would provoke a reaction and give him an opening, a fissure to attack.

In response, Peter kept his face calm and clear and gave nothing back at all.

When Caffrey finally hit frustration, Peter figured that was as honest as it was going to get.

"I don't have a choice," Caffrey said at last, bitterly amused and half-disbelieving; his eyes focused somewhere behind Peter as if he were still looking for an out.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to apologize for that?"

Unexpectedly, Caffrey laughed; short and defeated, but a laugh nonetheless. "No, but the winner does traditionally announce the checkmate. Manners."

Peter resisted the compulsion to smile; he'd gone too far to relent now. He scowled instead. "This wasn't a game between us."

"Yeah, it was." The storm passed and Caffrey grinned sunnily; he held up his hand, a gap between the thumb and forefinger. "Little bit."

Peter's mouth twitched; he was supposed to be the honest one. "Little bit," he conceded.

The smile faded, but didn't disappear. "So what now?"

"We'll arrest you all and to make sure Torrio doesn't try any reprisals, we'll pin the tip on a mysterious Russian art thief. I wonder where he could possibly have come from?"

Neal scowled. "I realise it wasn't my best work, everyone has a bad day. Let it go."

"Sure, sure." Peter backed up and opened the door.

"You're just … letting me walk?" Neal asked warily.

Peter shook his head. "I'm letting you out, so I can enjoy my burger in peace. You're going nowhere, not without Kate. Better than a lo-jack. See you in the morning." He grinned. "Comrade."

"Nice," Caffrey glared as he slipped out the door. "And I lied about the burger."