"Thanks, Mitchell," Roberts said. "I couldn't have done this job without you." He stuck out his hand for Neal to shake.

Neal grinned. "See, that's the thing, Roberts. You didn't."

"FBI! Freeze! Put your hands in the air!"

Roberts cursed as FBI agents flooded the warehouse. Peter stopped to clap Neal on the shoulder.

"Good job."

Neal smiled at him. "Got any plans for the weekend?"

"El and I are taking Neal to the zoo," Peter said.

"I hope Mozzie doesn't know," Neal said. "He'll try to talk Neal Jr. into helping him stage a 'prison break' for the otters."

"Just the otters?" Peter asked.

"Just the otters," Neal confirmed. "He feels some sort of affinity with them."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but why?" Peter asked as they strolled back to the cordon of vehicles.

"I actually don't know why," Neal said. "When I asked, he said something about aliens and Area 51 and I started to glaze over."

"Can't blame you." Peter threaded his way through the gaggle of agents, talked with Jones about something official for a few minutes, then led Neal on through the cars. "How about you? Got any elaborate romantic plans to celebrate wedded life with Sara?"

Neal flattened his lips. He knew he had been an especially obnoxious newlywed, but did Peter have to continuously remind him of that fact? "Not really. I sold another painting, so we'll be dropping that off tomorrow, then going to the open house for that place next to yours. Sara has been feeling run down lately, so we'll probably just relax at home after that. Maybe watch the Cardinals game with Mom." He didn't remember Mom ever being into baseball when he was a kid, but either Peter had infected her with baseball love along with responsible parenting when they bonded during the-year-that-would-not-be-spoken-of, or she had found a new love for the sport after Neal ran away, because one of her favorite pastimes now was to knit Neal ugly hats while watching Cardinals games (hats that he had to wear because he didn't want to hurt her feelings but that made everyone in White Collar laugh at him).

"It promises to be a real good game," Peter said. "I'd like to watch it myself. Come on, I'll drive you home. Reports can wait until Monday."

Neal had been back and free several years by now, but it still gave him a happy surprise sometimes that he didn't have to snap an anklet back on after the undercover stings. He just had to slide into Peter's passenger seat, fiddle with the radio before getting his hand smacked away, then make fun of Peter's driving until they made it to June's.

Just like always.

"All right, all right, get out before I spin out of control and hit a building," Peter said.

Neal grinned as he got out, then flipped his hat just because he knew it would draw another come-on-Neal headshake from Peter. "See you later."

"Not if I see you first," Peter said. "Be good."

"Aren't I always?" Neal watched as Peter zoomed off, not taking nearly as much care as he should have while merging into traffic, then went inside.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called as he walked into the apartment.

Sara stood in the kitchen, stirring several pots and looking far more stressed than she should have been, considering she had graduated from "can burn water" to "can cook myself multiple meals if stranded alone or held at gunpoint." Given that simply the smell of food had sent her into the bathroom puking and calling in sick this morning, cooking was a vast improvement.

She smiled. "Neal! Taste this." She shoved a wooden spoon coated in a red sauce in his face. "I think it needs more salt or something."

Neal obligingly tasted the spoon. "No, I think it's good!" And he wasn't trying to con her. She may actually be getting a handle on cooking. Several months ago, she had determined that nothing, absolutely nothing would stand in her way, not even being naturally bad in the kitchen. He had been pleased to concoct (yes, Peter) elaborate romantic dates to teach her to cook, and their efforts were finally paying off.

Sara squinted at him as if trying to determine if he was lying, but must have decided she believed him, because she deposited the spoon in the sink without trying to talk him out of his opinion. "I also tried some bread for the first time. Can you check on it?"

Something was off about the way she said it, but…she was probably just nauseous again. Neal opened the oven and frowned. It was stone cold. One lone hamburger bun sat innocently on the oven rack.

"That isn't exactly the best way to cook bread," Neal said. "You don't even have a pan, and it isn't even big enough to be considered a loaf. All you basically have is a bun in the…" The words he was saying suddenly sank in. "Oven," he finished weakly, standing up. For some reason, his eyes started to prickle. "Sara, are you…" For one of the first times in his life, he found himself grasping at words. "Are you pregnant?"

"Yes!" Sara cried, her smile wide enough to split her whole face open. "We're pregnant!"

Neal laughed in pure joy. He wrapped her in a hug and spun her around. "We're pregnant!" He set her on her feet and kissed her deeply. When they pulled back, they were both crying happy tears.

"We're going to have a baby," Sara whispered.

Mozzie liked to say, "If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story," quoting Orson Welles. Neal had agreed with him, once upon a time, young and torn up about the treasure and choosing between his criminal life and his life with the FBI.

Now, Neal suspected that it didn't matter where he stopped his story, because wherever he did, he would find his happy ending.

A/N: "Who was in that coffin?" Peter asks one day. "If it wasn't you."

"Oh, some CIA agent that needed to be buried in an unmarked grave, since he'd fake died a few times already or something like that," Neal said. "Encountered them at the morgue and, well, I had a coffin and they needed a coffin so they agreed to look the other way on what I was doing if I helped them out and let them stick their dead agent in there in place of me." He pauses, staring into space for a few seconds. "You know, it's funny? Because I could swear that agent looked just like me. Never believed in doppelgängers before." He shrugs. "It was probably just the pufferfish poison messing with me."

Peter doesn't say anything else, but he is thoughtful the rest of the day, as if trying to remember something.