Peter Burke was in a very, very bad mood. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair stuck up at odd angles and he was still dressed in the jeans and t-shirt he had been wearing last night. It was four in the morning – four in the morning! – but he and El hadn't slept a wink. Neal had disappeared off the face of the earth. They had known him to be missing for half an hour now.

The night had started out nicely enough. Peter had dropped a rather dapper looking Neal off at Sara's house: a pretty, terraced cottage with well-tended gardens and a recycling bin sitting serenely out front. He had waited in the car whilst Neal sauntered up to the front door, rang the bell and was admitted into the depths of the Ellis' home.

Sara hadn't been the one to answer the knock. That should have been Peter's first warning that something was off, that something wasn't quite right. But he had overlooked it. When a short, bespectacled man (wearing a hat that concealed his features) had opened the door and ushered Neal inside, Peter assumed that that was Sara's father. After all, Neal had said that it was going to be a family BBQ. In hindsight, that should have been suspicious. In hindsight, Peter should have walked Neal to the door, shaken hands with Sara's parents, maybe even met Sara herself. In hindsight, in hindsight, in hindsight... But at the time, Peter had been oblivious to the warning signals. Smiling softly to himself, he drove back home to where he and El planned to have a nice night in, leaving Neal alone in the pretty cottage with the pretty girl he had been texting and the man without a face.

Later, he would learn that the 'man' was Mozzie, the house wasn't Sara's and that the BBQ had never existed.

The evening passed quickly. Curled up on the sofa with his wife and a Chinese take-away, they didn't notice the hours roll by until the Ten o'clock News crept onto the telly. Peter stood and reached for his coat.

"Where you going, sweetie?" El asked, raising her head from the mound of cushions long enough to glance at her husband.

"To collect Neal. It's getting late." His wife yawned expansively.

"It's only ten, hon. What time did you arrange to go pick him up?" That gave Peter pause for thought. He stretched his mind back to the conversation he had had with Neal about the party. Apart from agreeing to let the teenager go to Sara's house, it struck him that he hadn't actually gone over the finer details with his foster son. He didn't know what time the party started or ended. He didn't know who was invited. He didn't even know the address. Neal had given him directions when they were in the car.

"I don't know… Do you think we should collect him now?" El shrugged and patted the spot next to her on the sofa, where he had been sitting comfortably up until a few minutes ago.

"If you want, hon. But Neal's a smart kid. He's… trustworthy. I think he's probably having a good time with this girl and her family. Best not to interrupt him. It's still early, how about you go get him in an hour or so? Or wait for him to text?" That hadn't occurred to Peter. He hurried to his briefcase and extracted his mobile phone from the pocket, turned it off silent and primed the volume, before setting the thing on the coffee table, right where he could see it.

"Ok. Let's wait for him to call." He smoothed his coat in his hands for a moment, then reluctantly put it back on the peg. Even then, he had the nagging feeling that something was off. But the house was warm. His wife was beckoning. The telly was glowing. Shooting one last glance at his phone – which was utterly devoid of text messages and missed calls – Peter sat back down on the sofa with a swoosh of cushions and a rustle of blankets. He would collect Neal when Neal rang.

Neal never rang. The hours dragged on. At half past twelve, Peter sat up with a start.

"Hon, this is ridiculous. I'm going to go get him."

"Wh-wh-what?" El's head came rocketing forward, her makeup smudged and her hair in disarray. Peter had to smile.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Did I wake you?"

"No. I wasn't asleep." She ran her fingers through her dark curls, trying to tame the tangles. "I was simply… resting my eyes."

"And I'm simply going to get Neal. It's been ages." Peter worried at his phone, pressing buttons and opening apps left right and centre. Neal still hadn't called – and, more disturbing still – when he dialled Neal's number he was directed straight to voicemail. Something was up. With the sinking feeling that his pleasant night was about to get a whole lot less pleasant, Peter kissed his wife goodnight and got into the car. It was time to find Neal.

He swore when he saw Sara's house. Actually buried his head in his hands and mouthed curses into the night. The place was dark and silent as a tomb; it was obvious that there was no party going on. The first fingers of fear plucked at Peter's heart. If Neal wasn't at Sara's house… then where was he? How was he meant to find him? Neal vanishing like a magician was an all too familiar scenario… he didn't want to think about the last time Neal had disappeared. The kidnapping was still too fresh in his mind. God damn kid. Peter sat in the car with the engine running, wondering what to do and fighting off the advances of panic. Then he made a snap decision. He rummaged in his pocket and started to dial the Marshals, hoping that they could use Neal's tracking data to pinpoint his location. He was just about to press the green button when the phone in his hand started buzzing. It was Elizabeth. Dry-mouthed with relief, he answered.

"Hon, what's up? Do you know where Neal is?"

"Yep." His wife didn't sound happy. He could almost picture her now, standing in the kitchen with her hands in her pockets, phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, her lips pressed together in a razor thin line. "You better come home, Peter. There's somebody here who wants to talk to you."

"I'm Mooozziiieee."

"You're drunk, that's what you are."

"No, nooo, nooo, you're… mishtaken. I'm-"

"Mozzie?" Peter asked, incredulous. "What are you doing in my house?" El rounded on him, anger flashing in her eyes. He pulled off his shoes, watching the two of them carefully. This was the first time the pair had met and he braced himself – judging by the look on El's face, sparks were about to fly.

"Hon, this… this drunken teenager just showed up at the door while you were out! Said he knows where Neal is. Then he got confused and started talking to Satchmo!"

"El, this is Mozzie. He's a… friend of Neal's." Peter gestured curtly for Mozzie to take a seat. The teenager certainly looked the worse for wear. He was smashed, for one. His shirt was crumpled and covered in dust. He was bleary-eyed, swaying on his feet, nearly fainting from alcohol overdose. Peter was suddenly very, very concerned about the safety of his foster son. "Mozzie," he said in a voice that brooked no argument, "where's Neal?"

"He got arrested." Mozzie slurred. "Thought I should… should tell you. I know how worried you were when he... got-" he hiccupped, "got kidnapped. Didn't want you to freak out. He's safe."

"Where?" Peter spat out the single word. He was seething. Trust Neal to pull a stunt like this. As if lying about where he was going wasn't bad enough! Now he was out partying with the likes of Mozzie, getting drunk and causing enough trouble that he had to be arrested… It beggared belief. He had thought that Neal had had some sense. Mozzie shrugged.

"Dunno. Cops took him someplace. Local station, I imagine." Peter nodded grimly and shared a glum look with El. She was yawning, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter, bare-faced and dressed in her pyjamas. One look at his wife and he had made his decision.

"Neal got himself into this mess. Mozzie, thanks for telling us where he is. You're right – you saved us a lot of unnecessary worry, and for that and only that, I'm going to give you a half hour head start before I call the police."

"For what?" Mozzie gasped, staggering slightly as Satchmo raced paced his legs.

"Underage drinking," growled Peter. "Now please, get out of my house."

"Aren't you going to get Neal?" Mozzie asked in that sleepy, slurry voice of his. He wambled shakily towards the door and opened it, allowing an icy wind to enter the house. Peter immediately slammed the door shut.

"Like I said – Neal got himself into this and he can damn well face the consequences. I'm exhausted. Elizabeth is exhausted. It's four in the morning and we haven't been to sleep yet – I have work tomorrow! This whole night has been centred around Neal, either waiting for him or searching for him, but not anymore. I'll go get him tomorrow at a time that's suitable for me." Mozzie listened to this testy speech with a bleary- eyed stare.

"Your choice, Suit." He wrenched the door open (Peter's earlier slamming had caused it to stick in the frame) and disappeared out into the night. The city seemed to swallow him up; he became a blob, then a speck, then nothing. Peter sighed heavily and closed the door, locking it securely before turning to El.

"Come on, hon. Let's go to bed."

Neal sat on a metal bunk in a white walled cell. He was alone and he was cold. The arresting officers had bundled him into the police station, where he had been fingerprinted and photographed before being pushed into a cell with ten other people, all drunk and all angry. He had stood there awkwardly in the middle of the room for about thirty seconds… then the door had crashed open and a stony faced policeman had yanked him out again. His fingerprints had been processed. He wasn't sure what the officers had found on his records, but whatever they had seen it was enough for them to stick him in a solitary room. That was fine by him, but right now he was dastardly bored. It had been hours since he had been arrested.

It was late (or was it early?) and he tried to sleep, but with alcohol still coursing through his veins closing his eyes made him feel sick. He would have to sober up before he could rest. He kept himself entertained by dismantling the security camera in the corner – which took him a great deal longer than it should have due to his drunken state, before moving onto the door. As he worked, his mind spun back to the night before. He had kissed Sara. Kissed her! What in the name of Jekyll and Hyde had he been thinking? Or, more accurately, what had he been drinking…? His head felt like it was splitting in two and his eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. The one other time he had felt this bad was when he and Mozzie had been counterfeiting whisky for a job. The whisky forging process had involved a lot of sampling and he had guzzled more than two bottles of the spirit that night. It had taken him days to recover. But this – this was worse. And he had school tomorrow.

Neal shuddered at the thought. He would have to face his classmates and Sara again. This was the second time they had seen him arrested. That had to be some sort of perverted record. He wondered abstractly what he was going to say to Sara when he saw her next, and thoughts of the future occupied his mind as he continued to pick the lock on the door.

The sun was starting to rise behind him, filling the cell with golden light. He fiddled with the lock for hours, using various metal parts stripped from the camera, and after an impressive amount of cursing was finally rewarded with that pulchritudinous click every locksmith and breaker dreams of. Grinning, Neal pushed at the door experimentally. It shifted under his fingertips, unlocked and full of possibility. Not bothering to figure out the rest of his escape plan (in his current state, he was more in the mood for an improvisation based break-out rather than a planned one) he slowly opened the door…

And reeled back with a cry, eyes wide with shock.

Peter and a Detective Inspector were standing right outside the entrance. The DI's hand was raised, a key glimmering in his fist, obviously on the brink of unlocking the door and entering the room. Both of them looked startled to see Neal, but as the shock wore off their expressions turned from surprised to angry.

"Ah ha!" crowed the Detective Inspector. "Caught in the act!"

"What act? I wasn't escaping. You must be mad." Neal realised he was babbling. He was tired, he was trapped in the fuzzy world between drunk and hung over, his head was pounding and now that he found himself confronted by Peter's disappointed face, all he could think was deny, deny, deny! "I was simply checking that the door worked. It does. The lock's fine, first rate in fact, and-"

"Neal," said Peter, "be quiet." Neal fell silent immediately. The DI looked rather amused. He glanced between the federal agent and the boy in front of him, then said,

"You're free to go home now. Please report to the youth court on the date specified." He handed Neal a sad looking envelope, then guided them back to the front office where Peter signed a few forms whilst Neal stood next to him, looking sheepish. He had no idea what was going to happen now, but he knew that it wasn't going to be good. Peter's expression was downright murderous.

"There you go, sir. Have a nice day." The DI stamped the sheet that was covered in Peter's chicken scratch handwriting, then pinned Neal with a stern gaze. "And as for you, young man, try to stay out of trouble." Neal mustered up a smile as best he could.

"I'll keep that in mind. Enjoy your weekend." With Peter close behind, he walked out of the police station and crossed the car park, loving the breath of fresh air on his flushed face. They climbed into the car and buckled up their seatbelts. Then Peter exploded.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He demanded, twisting in his seat to face Neal. "You lied to me. Looked me in the eyes and lied to me! Why did you say you were going to Sara's 'family barbeque' when really you were at a wild party getting hammered?"

"I wasn't at a wild party." Neal felt the urge to clarify the point. "I was hosting a wild party. It was at my old place at June's."

"That's ten times worse! You're despicable. You hosted a party without my consent, distributed alcohol to minors and nearly killed yourself in the process-"

"Now that's a bit of an exaggeration." Neal struggled to keep his temper in check. "Am I lying in a hospital bed right now? No. I admit that last night I had some alcohol but I didn't do anything dangerous or drink too much."

"Some alcohol?" Peter spluttered, "I can smell it seeping out of your skin even now! And you were in that cell for hours!"
"Don't you think I know that?" hissed Neal, "I'm hungry. Why didn't you collect me sooner? It's nine o clock in the morning."

"You think that our life runs around you? I didn't want to go get you in the middle of the night. I'm already late for work right now because you decided to get arrested and I have to collect you." Neal eyed their surroundings with distaste.

"So why aren't we driving, then? We're just sitting here. Drive to work and drop me off at your house." It was a stupid thing to say – it sounded so arrogant and self-absorbed, but in all fairness, he wasn't feeling his brightest. Peter puffed up like a blowfish.

"Drop you off at home? Are you having a laugh? You're coming to work with me. You can help Jones with the filing."
"Aw Peter." Neal slammed his head back against the headrest. "I've been up all night. I've got a splitting headache. All I want is to sleep. And look what I'm wearing!" He gestured at the clothes he had been wearing last night: dark trousers, white shirt and bow tie, everything except the jacket he had given to Sara. "Can't you just drop me off somewhere so I can rest?"

"No." Peter rested his hands on the steering wheel. "What you don't seem to understand, Neal, is that what you did was wrong. Plain wrong. Serving alcohol to minors is dangerous! How many times do you log onto Facebook or look at a newspaper and see children choking on their own vomit or getting their stomachs pumped by paramedics? You acted irresponsibly and I'm quite frankly appalled." Neal tried to interrupt, but Peter had shifted into full lecture mode. There was no stopping him now. "But that isn't the part that gets under my skin, Neal. It's the fact that you lied to me. You know, if you'd actually asked me if you could have a party, I would have said yes."

"Really?" Neal swallowed hard. Guilt was starting to fill his soul.

"Yes, really. If you had had the maturity to ask me, then I probably would have allowed it. But you didn't! You didn't even ask." Neal nodded, realising with a jolt that it had never even crossed his mind to ask Peter for permission. His first instinct had been to go behind the agent's back. What sort of person did that make him?

"Neal, why did you lie to me? Why did you betray my trust like that?" The way he said it made shivers run up and down Neal's spine. Peter sounded so disappointed, so wounded. He had never thought that a small party would have caused this a big a splash. He shook his head, annoyed at his thoughts, annoyed at the sense of guilt that weighed on his shoulders and made sweat break out on his palms. He wiped them on his trousers and went on the attack.

"Have you forgotten, Peter? I'm a criminal. I lied to you because that's what people like me do. We lie. We hurt people. We destroy lives."

"But… you're a white collar criminal." Peter said through gritted teeth. "You haven't actually, physically, hurt anyone." Neal smiled bitterly.

"Perhaps not. But I break the law. My line of work isn't all gosh darn it, I stole a priceless painting. It's not that simple! I go out of my way to break the law. I've done terrible things, Peter. I'm the one who has to sneak past a security guard during a heist in the middle of a recession, knowing full well that that guard won't have a job come the morning! How will he support himself? How will he support his family? I don't know. I don't stick around to ask! Every robbery I've ever done, I leave behind a trail of ruined lives and unemployment. You think that a guard hired to look after a painting will ever find work again if the art is stolen from under his nose? Do you think that a renowned art expert will be respected if it's revealed that the work he examined is a forgery? I'm the one who swaps the paintings, forges the art, steals the masterpieces. I'm a criminal, Peter. A bad person. A liar and a disrespectful thief."

Peter sat stoically after the outburst, fingers steepled, eyebrows knitted together. After a significant pause had rolled by, he finally spoke.
"But is that who you want to be?" He asked quietly, and silence fell in the car.

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Please drop a review, I love hearing your comments and opinions! :D