Whenever he became aware of his surroundings, of the steady ache that permeated his being, or of Creed's voice, Neal knew all he had to do was to remain still and silent. After a while, the world around him would start to fade, allowing him to again to slip back into his dreams.

He'd lost track of how long Creed had had him chained to the wall or strapped to the chair. He was pretty sure he'd painted two full days before he became too weak to stand. At that point, he'd been put in the chair. Creed still was using him for his paint source, but being in and out of consciousness, Neal didn't know how long that had been going on.

A part of him realized that the ease with which his mind could disengage and transport him to his gallery, the art room in the Children's Home, or even the Burke living room was probably not a good thing. But his daydreams were so much better than reality at the moment. He was at the mercy of a psychopath draining his blood a small bowl at a time. He didn't know how much longer he could last. His was weak, in and out of consciousness, and cold. He remembered muttering that, and after telling him it was because he wasn't up painting, Creed had covered his lap and legs with a soft, dark blue blanket. Unbidden, tears of gratitude had welled up in his eyes, more of an indication of his state of being than the chills that occasionally swept his body or the fog clouding his mind.

"Leaving a part of yourself on the canvas is hard, isn't it, Mr. Clay?" Creed had said, tucking the blanket around him gently. But then he straightened, all sympathy gone. His eyes and voice became hard. "Now you understand."

Whatever momentary warm the blanket had brought had been immediately leeched away by the ice in his captor's tone. Two days ago, he would have tried to placate, console or otherwise manipulate Creed into letting him go. But it hadn't worked so far, and he was too tired to try. Soon he had drifted off, his mind wandering to a warmer, more pleasant place.

The Burke house was warm and comforting. It had always been that way, even before, but now it was more. Now he felt welcome in a way he never had before, welcome and safe just to be himself. The only pressure came from his namesake and Satchmo; Neal needing to show him his latest creation, and Satch wanting a good scratch behind the ears. He could almost see Neal's upturned, beaming face, feel Satchmo soft fur beneath his fingers. The smell of something delicious wafted through the air, and Peter stood before him, his face split with a grin of greeting. Hope you are hungry, Elizabeth would call, sticking her head around the kitchen door with a soft smile of welcome. He looked from one Burke, to the other and to the other. There was no suspicion, anger, or disapproval on their faces. Only welcome, affection and acceptance.

The things he'd been searching for all his life. Mainly in the wrong places, of course. He knew that now. Left to his own devices, he wouldn't likely have strayed from the path he'd set upon at such an early age. He hadn't even known other paths existed for him. Not until Peter Burke. The agent bent on his capture was a good man, maybe the first Neal had ever really encountered. He hadn't believed it at first, thought it was all a con of its own, but he'd watched. Researched. Learned about the man behind the badge. Peter Burke was the genuine article; all doubt of that had been removed the day the agent stepped out of the surveillance van to help a small boy fix the chain on his bicycle. He hadn't known it at the time, but that moment had been when things changed. It was the first time he'd had a standard, a lighthouse in the storm that was his life. Something to aim for. A new course to follow.

It hadn't been an easy course, and it had taken him time to sort through his feelings about those years. He had regrets, and he knew Peter had them as well. But amid the disappointments, betrayals, and hurts, the two of them had formed a bond, a friendship despite their adversarial roles as Criminal and Agent. There were still specters from the past that rose to haunt him on occasion, but Neal knew he wouldn't have the life he had now if his file hadn't been placed on Peter Burke's desk; if all those years later, Peter hadn't accepted his offer to work with him. Peter had seen something good in him, something no one else ever had. And Peter had given him an example of how a good man lived his life. He owed Peter everything; he knew that now. And he wanted Peter to know, too. To understand what Fresh Perspectives were all about.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Having been told the building was deserted, there was no way of knowing where in the three-floor building Branson was holding Neal. Although Tactical had cleared each floor as rapidly as possible, it still seemed like it took hours instead of minutes to reach the third floor. The officers who had been watching the building reported no traffic, no goings or comings, but that didn't mean some of the city's homeless were not utilizing the building. But as they worked through the building as covertly as possible not to alert their suspect to their arrival, they found it empty. Having been abandoned for more than two years, with no efforts at repairs, the paint was peeling, and the halls were full of trash and refuse. Some of the interior doors were open, revealing more trash, broken and abandoned furniture, and sometimes a mattress piled with worn blankets. Peter had no doubt that the building provided shelter to the desperate on cold, wet winter nights. But there were no signs of inhabitants on a spring day with the sun just beginning to sink.

As they moved upward, they became aware of the distant hum of machinery and found the source on the third floor; a small, gas-powered generator. The door to the room was open, but there was no sign of Branson or Neal. The room held a cot, a cooler, some basic furniture, gallons of water, gasoline, and what Peter guessed was urine. A generator solved the electricity problem, but it did not improve the plumbing issues of an abandoned building.

One of the two electrical cords from the generator connected to a multiplug receptacle powering a lamp, a small space heater, and a single burner cooker, none of which were on. The other trailed through the door and down the hall. After checking the adjacent rooms, whose doorways were covered by simple blankets, the group vacated the apartment and followed the second cord. It disappeared through a hole cut into the wall beside an interior door. Standing there, they could hear muffled voices from the other side. The sound of voices, or at least one, brought a wave of relief to Peter. Branson's immobility for two days had worried him a great deal; after reading Branson's history, he was terrified they would find a murder-suicide scene when they arrived. The tactical team leader reached down, giving the knob a quiet, gentle turn. Finding it unlocked, he gave his team a signal, and a moment later, the group stormed into the room beyond.

"Federal Agents!" Elliott shouted as he rushed across the threshold. "Hands up and step away from Mr. Clay!"

A wide-eyed and unkempt Branson was standing in front of Neal, who looked to be strapped to a wheelchair. His head was down, chin resting against his chest. All guns were trained on Branson.

"Branson," Elliott's tone rang with warning as he moved further into the room. "Back away now, and I want to see your hands."

Branson stepped back, waving his arms at the room around them. "We are working on a project!" he yelled as the agents rushed him. "And we aren't done!" he continued, voice rising as they grabbed him and shoved him against the far wall. "You're ruining everything!"

Branson continued to rave, but Peter paid him no attention; holstering his weapon, he went to Neal.

"What the hell?"

A tube ran from Neal's arm into a small bucket on the floor beside the chair, and with horror, Peter realized the source of the heavy, coppery smell permeating the room.

"Get the medics in here!" Peter shouted, reaching down and jerking loose the tape that held the syringe in place.

"Neal," he said, pressing a finger to where the needle entered the arm and using the other hand to pull it out. "Neal, can you hear me?"

There was no response, but Peter could see Neal's chest's rapid rise and fall; he was alive, at least. He glanced again at the bucket, the sight of its contents turning his stomach. Keeping pressure on the vein, he gently raised Neal's chin. The skin beneath his closed eyes was shadowed, but the rest of his face was ashen. His forehead glistened with sweat, and there was an alarmingly blue tint to his pale lips. "Neal," he said again, giving his chin a slight shake. "Come on, open your eyes."

"Medics are on their way up," Elliott appeared at his side and started unfastening the straps holding Neal's arms to the chair. "How's he doing?"

"He's alive," Peter said. "but he's lost a lot of blood."

Elliott's eyes swept Neal's body, probably looking for an injury, but widened at the sight of the discarded tube and the bucket.

"Damn," Elliott breathed."Let's get him down on the floor. We need to elevate his legs and keep him warm."

A moment later, they had him down. Peter adjusted the blanket to cover Neal's body, and Elliot used his jacket to elevate his legs.

"Peter?" Peter's eyes shot to Neal's pale face at the whispered word. "Are you really here?"

Peter felt a wave of relief. Neal regaining consciousness was a good sign. "Yeah, I'm really here," he assured. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Don't think so," Neal mumbled. "Tell Elizabeth dinner smells really good...".

There was nothing about the room, and in all honesty, Neal, that smelled good. He and Elliot exchanged looks. Conscious, maybe, but not exactly lucid.

"I'll be sure to tell her that. Come on, buddy," he urged when Neal's eyes closed again. He gave his cheek a gentle tap. "Stay with us now."

Neal's eyes fluttered open, but they were weak and red-rimmed. "Knew you'd ...find me eventually," he whispered. "You always do."

"Not always, you know," Peter said, trying for a lightheartedness he didn't feel. "Sometimes you find me."

Neal didn't seem to register his response but continued, his voice halting and breathing labored.

"I'd been lost ...my whole life...until you found me," Neal choked out, tears appearing in his eyes. "No one saw ...any good in me... until you."

Peter felt a chill at the familiarity of Neal's words. He'd said something very close before, the last day he was Neal Caffrey. He'd been injured and feeling the effects of the poison he'd taken. Then, like now, he'd been pale, his skin damp with sweat, eyes weak and anguished. Peter hadn't responded that day, but he had later, sitting at the airport in Bogata.

He felt Elliott shift beside him. "I'll see where the medical team is."

Peter appreciated the privacy. He'd been so worried about Neal, and now, finding him in such a state...well, Neal wasn't the only one feeling emotional.

He reached down and found Neal's hand beneath the blanket. Swallowing hard, he tried to give his friend the reassurance he needed.

"Anyone who takes the time to look sees the good in you," Peter said gently. "You are a good man; you've always been a good man."

Neal's head shifted slightly. "No, I haven't," his voice was barely audible. "I don't like to ...think about before...when I was...was Neal." He closed his eyes tightly as if pained. Whether it was physical pain or emotional, Peter didn't know. He suspected some of both. "I want to forget the past." Tears squeezed out beneath the lids. "I regret so much," he opened anguished eyes. "But Peter, I don't regret you." His voice was strained. "I need ...you to know that."

The sense of urgency in Neal's voice reminded Peter again of the day Neal had lain on the stretcher. In what could have been the last moments of his life, in what he thought were to be his last words to Peter, he had told him he was his best friend. It had been important to Neal for him to know that. And this was important, too.

"I do know," he told him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Truth was, sometimes he hadn't been all that sure. But if Elizabeth was right, that might have been part of what Neal's-Nathan's-Gallery Exhibit was supposed to convey. He still hadn't found his likeness in the paintings, but he was sure he was there. Now more than ever. He'd have Neal give him a personal tour and point him out. But he had to get him out of this damn room and to the hospital before that could happen. He glanced up, but there was no sight of Agent Elliott or the medical team.

"Needed...you...to...know," Neal mumbled, the effort of speaking becoming too much for him to manage; he was on the verge of losing consciousness. "You're...the...only...one..." His voice faltered, but Neal's eyes remained fixed almost desperately on Peter's.

The only one who could change my mind. The only one in my life I trust. The only one who's ever seen good in me.

The same one who, in Neal's mind, had saved him all those years ago.

The raw emotion in the weak, blue eyes brought a threatening sting to Peter's own. Neal needed to know he understood, not just what he'd said but what he hadn't been able to say. He reached his free hand down, ruffling the dull, dark locks, just as he had many times before.

"I know, buddy. I know."

Neal's features relaxed, and there was a slight turning up at the corners of his mouth. As if that was what he'd been waiting for, his eyes closed and did not open again.