The Harbor View Hotel looked out over a small marina and judging from the well-lit dock, there wasn't a fishing boat among the various vessels moored there. The Beale Street Wharf, where even now Neal purportedly resided, was a mile down the coast. He and Elizabeth had checked in at just past nine, the decision to fly instead of drive not only saving some time but exhaustion. Plus, truth be told, the chaos of trying to get a flight, get boarded, and secure a room and a rental car had kept Peter from hours of worry and doubt. He still could scarcely believe the turn of events over the past hours. Neal was alive. And part of him couldn't believe he'd come here, with Elizabeth, instead of following protocol and alerting the US Marshalls.

Elizabeth's conversation with her father had provided some assistance, but only in a general way. Post Traumatic Amnesia, which was likely what Neal was suffering, was a very complicated condition, and without actually evaluating him, general guidance was all he could offer. The severity and persistence of his memory loss would normally indicate deeper issues, but since Neal had been removed from all familiar surroundings, it was possible seeing familiar faces would trigger rapid improvement. Even if it did, he had warned Neal might behave in a way that seemed bizarre and out of character. He might be confused and emotional, paranoid, or even aggressive. There was no way of knowing how he'd respond to seeing them. And, he'd warned again, it was possible he wouldn't remember them at all. If that was the case, there was probably deep trauma or brain injury involved, and he would need extensive treatment. No matter how it played out, they needed to take things slow, judge how he was responding, and deal with him in as calm, supportive, and patient a way as possible. In the end, he told her to be careful and to call him if she needed him.

But her assistance hadn't stopped there. On the ride from the airport to Jonesport, she'd proposed an undercover operation any field agent would be proud of.

"I can get the lay of the land," she'd insisted. "See what I can get out of Mrs. Devaine about Neal while he is out on the boat. She will be thrilled to have been chosen as a part of my series. I can even record everything," she grinned, "You know, to make it easier when I start writing. I'll tell her I want some photographs of the Fish House and also some of the Lonely Mariner when it docks."

They decide that while Elizabeth kept the proprietor busy, he'd try to gain access to the apartment above. And when the Lonely Mariner returned from the days fishing, Elizabeth would greet the crew and he'd be nearby, watching the exchange and Neal's reactions. It was a solid plan, accomplishing what he'd come early to do. Investigate. Gather intel. And then, he'd decide what to do.

They'd turned by midnight, but Peter had lain awake long after.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It was a dreary morning, the sheets of driving rain spoiling what otherwise would have been a great view of the Jonesport Harbor. Peter could see the Marina below through the large windows of the dining room. It was amazing how steady the vessels appeared to be, even while waves and ripples were visible on the water's surface. No one was venturing out; everyone was keeping to the safety of the harbor. When Peter had asked if fishing boats took a similar tact when faced with such weather, he'd been assured rain was no obstacle to Maine fishermen.

"If they let rain stop them from going out," the girl had said as she poured their coffee. "They'd starve, and so would we."

Something about Neal being out in the weather, on the ocean in the wind and the rain, caused his heart to ache. How could he bear it after what had happened off the coast of New York? But he didn't remember that, did he? At least, that was what he was claiming.

That line of work seemed so unlike something Neal would do. Would ever choose to do. He could see him earning his keep as a pool shark or dealing cards at an off-the-grid gambling hall. Lord knows he had the skills. He could have found something more to his liking, surely. But physical labor in a dirty, smelly job in harsh conditions? It seemed unfathomable that he would have chosen this path. But no one would ever look for Neal Caffrey here, doing this kind of work. Perhaps that had been the point.

He gave his head a small shake. No, he didn't believe that. Neal was the most brilliant man he'd ever known. He had contacts and probably stashes of cash and stolen goods tucked away he could have used to disappear. Nothing about his fit. Neal was an impeccably dressed city boy who could make more in a game of poker in Atlantic City than he would a month on a fishing boat.

"What?" Elizabeth asked.

He pulled his eyes from the dark, turbulent clouds over the water to meet her intent gaze.

"Just thinking about Neal out in this weather," he remarked, eyes flitting back out the rain-streaked window. "Working on a fishing boat, for God's sake, in some sleepy little village," he shook his head. "I just can't see him here. It's so..." he struggled with his thoughts. "unlike him."

"Maybe it's more like him than we know," she offered. "Dad said that when people have no past experiences to draw upon, they revert to who they are at their core. He warned that could be good or bad and that we should be prepared for either, but," her brow puckered. "With Neal, I know it will be good."

Peter studied her. Deep in his soul, he agreed, but the agent in him told him to wait, to reserve judgment until he gathered more information. As unlikely as it was, this could still be some elaborate ruse. "Neal has been playing parts all his life, El, or at least as much of it as I've uncovered. He's had so many aliases..." he shook his head. "I doubt Neal is even his name."

She didn't disagree. "But he has a kind heart, Peter," she said instead. "You know that. We've both seen it. Neal plays parts, true, but with you..." She let it trail off. They had discussed the strange, underlying dynamics of their relationship. "There has always been something more. Something real. Something that has peeked through in his memory when nothing else has."

Him. His phone number.

I feel like I can trust you.

Those words had struck at his heart, much as had a similar statement from a drugged Neal at the Howser Clinic.

You are the only person in my life I trust.

Neal, stripped of all artifice and pretense, had been raw and vulnerable; his confession heartbreakingly truthful. He'd bent the rules for Neal that day, and here he was, doing it again.

"Who knows who he is," Elizabeth was saying, "without his past mistakes and the expectations of others weighing him down."

My expectations, Peter thought, and the two-pound monitor around his anklet. Who, indeed, would he be without those?

"A fisherman, apparently."