Peter gasped like a dying fish and fumbled for the gun strapped to his chest. With shaking fingers he yanked the weapon out and brandished it at the teenager lying innocently on his sofa.

"Neal." His voice was terrible – low and mournful as the grave. At the sight of the gun, Neal froze and shrank back on the cushions. "I've spent the whole night searching for you - and the entire time I was out there, on the streets, in the office, looking for you, hunting you down like the law-breaking fugitive you are, you were drinking tea in my lounge with my wife." Neal tried to interrupt, but Peter shook his head savagely. "No. I'm talking now. How the hell did you find my house? What gave you the right to mess with my family?" Neal trembled at the harsh torrent of words and made to stand, but found that he couldn't. The pain in his ribs stopped him.

"Peter, please, you don't understand-" He started, desperate to explain – but Peter was having none of it. All the stress of the past few days was pouring out of him and now that he had started shouting, he found that he couldn't stop. He took a step forward, keeping the gun trained on Neal the entire time.
"Shut up Neal! I don't believe this. I'm phoning Hughes. You stay the hell where you are on that sofa and don't you dare move an inch-"

"Peter Burke!" Both Neal and Peter snapped their heads up at the shout. Identical, guilty looks welled up on their faces. In the heat of the moment, they had forgotten about Elizabeth.

"Yes, honey?" Peter asked, after a pregnant pause.
"There will be no guns under my roof, Peter, do you understand?" Her tone was sharp enough to slice rock and halve diamonds. Peter gulped. All the colour drained out of his face and he slowly lowered his firearm, ashamed. He blinked and looked at Neal with a softer countenance, utterly abashed at his behaviour. He realised now that he had gone too far. Neal shivered and hugged his bandaged chest, eyes wide, hair ruffled.

"Peter, Elizabeth wasn't harbouring me; she was… taking care of me." He stuttered, before seeming to pause, take a breath and pull himself together. Peter watched as Neal took a second to mentally compose himself after the shock of the last few minutes. The kid's eyes brightened as he recovered. "I collapsed into the road and she nudged me with her car before stopping and helping me." Recovery complete, Neal's next sentence was smooth as polished glass. Peter marvelled at his ability to lie convincingly regardless of the situation – it was truly remarkable, though incredibly infuriating. He turned to look searchingly at his wife.

"Is this true? You bumped him with your car?" Elizabeth nodded curtly.

"It wasn't a bump, Peter, it was a whack. I hit him with my car – and what else was I supposed to do? Neal loudly expressed that he didn't want to go to hospital, so I took him here and had Dr. Watson look at him. What else could I have done, Peter?" Her voice was filled with pain - both aggressive and defensive at the same time. "He was my responsibility." Peter took deep breaths and tugged on his earlobe, his every move anxious. He looked at the fugitive in his living room, then glanced at El.

"You… hit… him with your… car?" He repeated slowly. The pair of them both nodded. Silence descended on the room like a cloud of noxious gas as they waited for Peter's verdict. Then –

"I'm gonna call Hughes." Feeling as if he had aged a thousand years, Peter turned and slouched off in the direction of the garden to place the call. There was no way he was going to let Neal listen in on the conversation. The kid was crafty – Peter did not for one second believe that he had just 'happened' to get hit by a car and end up at the Burke residence. What were the chances of that? No. This was some sort of master evil plan. The boy was playing some sort of angle, and Peter was damn well going to find out what it was.

Neal released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding when Peter finally left the room. He couldn't believe how unlucky he was. Out of all the cars in all the city, why did he have to be hit by Elizabeth's? He cursed his rotten luck and his own stupidity with a bitterness that surprised him. He had escaped from one Burke only to run straight into the path of another. That was not cool – especially as Peter probably thought that this was all part of some grand scheme of his. It wasn't. It was at times like this when Neal really began to reflect upon the rubbish Mozzie spouted 24/7. His short, bespectacled friend was always banging on about destiny and the fates; maybe there was a speck of truth hidden in his mumblings after all.

He abandoned his deliberations when Elizabeth quietly padded over and sat down on the armchair opposite.

"You ok?" She asked softly. Neal was stunned. Now that she knew he really was, he fully expected her to turn him out onto the street. He had lied to her about his circumstances and neglected to mention that he was on the run from the FBI. Still, she had neglected to mention that her husband was FBI, but that was hardly something he could hold against her. Elizabeth Burke was one of the kindest people he had ever met and she was fully justified in kicking him out of her home. But here she was, asking if he was alright after the brief scare with the gun. Not that it was really a scare, though. Neal thought mildly. It's not like Peter was ever going to shoot me.

"Yeah, I'm ok." He replied, avoiding her gaze. She leaned over and took his cold hand in her warm one.

"Look, Neal, I know that Peter is mad at you. But it's all going to be ok, I promise." His eyes flickered up to meet hers.

"How do you know that?"

"Because he's my husband. He talks about you all the time and although he may be angry now, there is no way that he is going to let anyone hurt you." Neal sighed, a great exhalation of breath accompanied by a look of abiding sadness. The heart-wrenching emotion was incongruous on his youthful features.

"He won't let anyone hurt me." Neal repeated dully. "But will he protect me from the law?" Elizabeth looked away. It was all the answer Neal needed.

Peter entered the room after a few minutes and walked straight up to his wife. He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her cheek consolingly.

"Are you ok, hon?" He asked, tone hushed. Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, as though trying to erase the worry lines that creased her skin.

"I'm fine."

"You hit a child with your car, El." Peter said gently. "But you have to remember, it wasn't your fault. Neal is fine now. He stumbled into the road. You didn't do anything wrong."

Elizabeth looked a little bewildered by the speech, but then her face melted into a relieved expression. Peter smiled. He hugged her again, then stepped away. His phone was clasped between his fingers; he glanced at nervously as he pulled on his shoes. "I've got to go to the office. Hughes needs to speak to me." His face crinkled with apology. Elizabeth sighed, but nodded and helped him into his coat.

"What should I do about…" Her voice dropped to a querulous whisper. "You know." She shot a glance back at the teenager lying on her sofa. "Neal?" Peter turned to study Neal as well. The boy was watching the pair of them discuss him with cold amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Keep him here until I get back. Under no circumstances do you allow him to leave. A team are on the way to help you keep an eye on him. They'll be here soon. When I get back we'll figure out what to do." Peter held his wife's eyes for a moment, and a shudder of silent understanding passed between them. "I'll be back before you know it, hon." He said finally. Then his long fingers palmed his keys and he paced out the room, out the door and into the night.

"Where's Peter going?" Neal asked, once the agent had been swallowed up by the slack-jawed, congested city.

"The office." Came the short reply.

The office was unusually busy when Peter arrived after a quick drive through deserted streets. Neal's escape and subsequent capture (if you could call being hit by a car 'capture') had stirred up the FBI like an overturned bee hive. There were people bustling around the room in a crazy assortment of casual clothes, suits, high heels, and, in the case of Hughes, slippers. The elderly man was waiting for Peter on the balcony, wearing flannel pyjamas and a dressing gown the colour of milk. Peter stifled a childish giggle at the ridiculous attire as he followed his boss into the conference room.

"Burke." Hughes said, arranging himself behind the monstrous table. "Talk. Now." Peter's urge to laugh dissipated at Hughes' tone. It was frigid – the older man was obviously not happy to be drawn from his house at 11 o'clock at night.

"We found Neal." He said simply. Hughes sighed, exasperated.

"I had to abandon the latest episode of Downton Abbey half way through in order to be here right now." He growled the warning. "So tell me something I don't know."

"Well…" Peter started, wondering where to begin. "My wife hit Neal with her car. They both claim that it was an unfortunate coincidence, but I believe that Neal got hit on purpose. Whatever the reason, Neal ended up in my house and he's on my couch right now." Hughes looked startled.

"He's not trying to run?"

"No. Weird, huh?" Hughes shook his white head, drawing Peter's attention to the dried toothpaste on the front of his dressing gown. The milky residue made it look as if Hughes was wearing a white collar. Peter smiled at the irony, then steepled his fingers together, perplexed.

"I've ordered for a team to be sent down to your house." Hughes was saying. "They'll keep Caffrey there, regardless of his motives."
"Good. I reckon El needs the support."

"Can Caffrey stay at yours tonight, if there's backup?" Hughes asked. The comment startled Peter. He thought about it for a moment.
"Yeah, I guess. He's not exactly going to hurt us. Rob us blind, maybe." A cynical smile twisted his lips. "Why? Are there no holding cells available?" Hughes shook his head, clearly irritated.
"No. It's an outrage. They're all full – I'm definitely going to file a complaint. But think about it Burke – this could really work to our advantage here." Peter stifled a cavernous yawn. It was late at night and the day's misadventures were beginning to catch up with him.

"Really? How so?"
"I've gotten the results of Caffrey's psychiatrist test." Hughes said cryptically. "Dr Redford has come to the conclusion that Caffrey is more likely to tell us the location of the microchip Datum 815 if he is exposed to a homely environment." Peter gasped, hands flying to his mouth. He knew what his boss was thinking.

"No. No, Hughes. He is not going to stay in my house."

"Peter…" Hughes went for the placating tone. "You know more than anyone how important that microchip is. We need it back, and Caffrey has it in his possession. Redford told us the most efficient way to extract that vital information is to be nice to the kid: offer him protection, a bit of love, a bit of care, a family. If we expose him to a family environment than it is very likely he will crack and reveal the location of the chip. It's part of his personality – he responds to love. We would be fools not to take this opportunity!"
"So you're saying that if Neal stays with me, in my house, with my wife and dog, he will eventually grow to trust us to the point of telling us his most precious of secrets?" Peter's words were scathing. "It's ludicrous."
"But it just might work." Hughes mused. "Peter, I've seen the way you act around the kid. And the way he acts around you. He will probably never admit it, but he trusts you already. If you treat him nicely, let him stay in your house instead of prison where he belongs, then in time he will tell you the location of the chip. That's what Dr Redford, leading child psychiatrist, said." Peter bit his lip, indecision clouding his features.

"I don't like this. Neal will never tell us where he hid the chip, no matter how good we are to him. He'll keep his mouth shut and laugh at our attempts at glorified bribery. Or he'll escape!" Hughes pointed a chubby finger.

"Ah. That's where – what do the kids call it these days? – technology steps in." The older man tapped something into his laptop and tilted the screen so that Peter could see.

"Tracking anklet. State of the art. Caffrey wears it the entire time he's in your home. He won't be able to leave a two mile radius." Peter stared at the image. The black anklet with the flashing green light looked sturdy enough. It just might work… No. Peter shook his head vigorously. This was a stupid plan.

"Hughes, Neal isn't my son. You're asking me to practically foster a criminal." Hughes cocked an eyebrow.

"I thought you said that you and Elizabeth wanted to foster a teenager?"

"Ah." Peter was stumped.

"That's what I thought." Hughes leaned back in his chair. "Look, Burke – the way I see it? It's simple. All you have to do is treat Caffrey the same way you would treat a foster child and in time, he'll tell you his secrets. Then we'll grab the microchip, save the world, cart him off to prison and that'll be that." Peter creased his eyebrows together. The thought of fostering Neal filled him with a warm, tingly feeling, like a hot-air balloon expanding in his heart. But it also made him want to throw up his dinner. The stress, the pressure, the worry that came with parenthood… Would he and El be able to handle it?

"So let me get this straight." Peter said, looking Hughes directly in the eyes. "You want me to take Neal into my home?"

"Yes." Hughes nodded slowly.

"Treat him like a member of my own family?" Peter continued.
"Yup."

"Raise him as a foster son, in the hope that in a few weeks or possibly months, he will trust us enough to reveal the location of his ultra-secret, ultra-powerful microchip?"

"You got it." Hughes swallowed a blossoming yawn.

"And then once he divulges this secret, we'll send him to prison?"

"That's pretty much the sum of it, Burke. Have you got a problem with that?"

"It's ridiculous. Ludicrous. Utterly bonkers! But… I do see your reasoning. It might… just work." Peter said, surprised to have reached this conclusion.

"Good." Hughes smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. It would be foolish to waste an opportunity like this one. We need the microchip, and by agreeing to do this, you are bringing us one step closer to our goal. Peter, you have the gratitude of the bureau. Don't think that this will go unrewarded." Peter smiled uneasily at the praise. "Will your wife mind?" Hughes asked, almost as an afterthought.

"No. She really wants to foster a teenager. She's also quite fond of Neal. Very… protective." Hughes waved a hand dismissively, as if to say good, good, whatever.

"Caffrey must not know the real reason why he is staying with you, Peter." He warned. "It won't work otherwise. He won't trust you if he thinks you're trying to manipulate him."

"But… we are trying to manipulate him." Peter's conscience was starting to protest at the plan. He didn't want to harm Neal or betray his trust, even if the global economy depended on it. Hughes shook his head derisively.

"I know what we're doing isn't the most morally correct of all things, but we have no other choice, Peter. You're a good agent; I trust that you can spin some sort of lie to explain Neal's presence in your home without telling him the truth." He looked down, a clear gesture of dismissal. "Now I really have to get home and finish my programme. Things were just getting good in Downton." Hughes stood, shook Peter's hand, muttered instructions about where to pick up the tracking anklet and made promises to meet and brief tomorrow. Then he left the room, leaving Peter to brood.

Half an hour later. Peter parked his mint green Volvo outside his flat and sat there with the engine dead and the seat warmers still pleasantly heated. He had made his decision. He was going to lie to Neal and arrange for him to stay with him and El. The thought made him feel queasy. He knew it was wrong, but Hughes had a point – the global economy depended on him manipulating Neal.

Trying to quell his rising sense of unease, Peter looked around. Outside his house were El's Fiat, Jones' SUV and the notorious Municipal Utilities van that every criminal in the city now associated with the FBI. Peter took a deep breath and straightened his tie. The tracking anklet Hughes had ordered from the Marshals rested on the passenger seat beside him. He was going to have to explain everything to El. Put the anklet on Neal. And deliver the lie he had concocted. Peter forced himself to stay calm. One hand drifted up to tug on his earlobe. Then he opened the door and marched up to his house.

Neal was sitting on Peter's sofa, squished between Jones and Elizabeth. The three of them were watching a re-run of last year's Apprentice and were quite literally crying with laughter. On the screen, a grouchy, self-opinionated contestant flicked back her hair and snapped something at Lord Sugar, who promptly leaned forward and launched into an angry speech. Jones' chuckle was one of the loudest in the room.

"Oh – oh my God – that'll teach her to be rude to Karen!" Neal and Elizabeth laughed along with him, El wiping tears from her eyes and Neal grinning bright enough to light up the entire room. His hands were cuffed together, but he was still happy.

Peter stepped into the lounge, allowing the front door to slam behind him. The noise made the three of them jump guiltily.

"Peter." El was still laughing. "Hey, hon. Didn't see you there! Would you like to watch the Apprentice with us? It's really good-"

"I can see that." Peter deadpanned. He gestured for El to join him in the kitchen. His wife made a face at Jones and squeezed Neal's shoulders reassuringly before standing up to follow her husband.

"Peter, hon, what's wrong?" She wrapped her arms around his muscular frame once the two of them were alone. "Are you ok?" Peter swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Neal's arrest, the tribunal, the caution… then Neal's escape, coming home to find him in his living room, and Hughes' startling plan – it was all starting to take a toll on him. For the first time, tears pricked his eyes. Elizabeth noticed immediately. "Peter." They stood hand in hand for a few moments, her radiating support and comfort, him trying to pluck up the courage to explain. After several minutes, he finally told her what was wrong. He told her about Hughes' idea and the microchip Datum 815. He told her about how Neal had the chip in his possession, but repeatedly claimed that he didn't. He told her about the fostering. And he told her about the plan to betray the young teenager once the microchip was recovered. When he had finished, El looked up at him silently. He knew that she hated the thought of lying to Neal. He knew that because he hated it too.

"Honey." She murmured. "I did say I would love to foster a teenager. But you can't lie to him. You have to do what is right."

Neal lay on the sofa, his hands in chains, his limbs aching from the escape and the unfortunate encounter with a car. He was alone in the living room. Jones had retreated to the van outside, still chuckling, with the promise that he would be keeping an eye on the residence, and Peter and Elizabeth were discussing something in earnest on the other side of the wall. He knew that that 'something' was him. Peter had been at the office for two hours, and now he was no doubt filling his wife in on all that had occurred. Anger swelled up within his soul and Neal ran his fingers through his hair wearily. Peter and the feds were obsessed with the microchip that Keller stole. They thought that the chip was in his possession because they found some DNA evidence at the scene of the crime, but he consistently claimed that he was innocent. Despite his protests, the FBI were probably plotting a way to get him to reveal the location. That's what Peter and El were discussing now. He knew it as surely as he knew that Peter wasn't going to shoot him earlier.

Minutes passed. Neal pawed at the frayed edges of the top Agent Wesley had given him, admiring the way the slogan was written in silver so that the words Every fairytale needs a good, old-fashioned villain shimmered when they caught the light. The minutes stretched into 10 until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Peter walked into the room followed by a smiling Elizabeth. They both looked haggard and worn under the yellow lighting. Peter went and sat at the end of the sofa Neal was sprawled upon, and asked calmly for Neal to raise his leg. Puzzled, Neal complied. He lifted his leg so that it balanced on the arm-rest and watched, eyes wide, as Peter fixed a black plastic circle around his uninjured ankle. A tracking anklet. Neal had heard about them before. This had to be a good thing. If they were tracking his movements, that meant that they weren't going to send him to prison any time soon. For some reason, they wanted him free. Neal knew that that reason was the microchip. It made total sense. They were going to offer him some sort of deal in exchange for the location of the microchip – hence the tracking anklet.

Once the anklet was locked into place, Peter stood and linked hands with Elizabeth. They both turned to Neal.

"There's no holding cells available, so you're going to stay here tonight." Peter said solemnly. Elizabeth smiled warmly and shot a meaningful glance at her husband. Then she announced,

"I'll go get you some supper," and disappeared back into the kitchen. Neal and Peter were left alone: a gangly teenage criminal and a stocky federal agent. The silence was pained. Peter tried to go for a smile, but the expression fell flat – more of a grimace than a grin. "Neal…" He took a breath. "I…" He seemed to be struggling with something inside. When the words came, they came haltingly, like a stream blocked by leaves. "Hughes – he doesn't want me to tell you. But I don't…want to lie to you." Neal waited quietly, not wanting to rush the older man who cared so much for him. "You're going to be staying with us for a few months. As our foster son. Hughes reckons that if we do that, you'll eventually tell us the location of the microchip." Neal accepted the statement calmly. He wasn't surprised. And the deal was definitely slanted in his favour. A foster home and no prison in exchange for one piece of information he couldn't give? It was perfect. "Do…" Peter swallowed. "Do you have the microchip?"

Neal looked Peter straight in the eye, blue connecting with grey, a gentle explosion of watercolour paint.

"No, Peter. No." His voice was perfectly steady. His hands were perfectly still. "I swear to you Peter, I don't have the microchip." Peter smiled, patted Neal on the shoulder, and left to help El with the soup. Neal was left alone in the dark, the unaccustomed weight of the tracking anklet burning cold against his skin. I don't have the microchip.

It was the seventh time he had told that lie.

Hey people :) Sorry I didn't update last Saturday, my life was slightly hectic, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Would love to hear your comments! :D