Jones scowled at the young mobster.

"Look I can't testify against my uncle."

"You rather do the 30 years the DA's going to hit you with?"

"I'd rather live." the kid shrugged "but if I give you... something...less visible you'll cut me a deal... and make sure I don't go the same place as uncle Adrian?"

"Well, a final deal would be up to the Da's office but" Jones nodded glancing back at the observation window where he knew Peter and Diana watched. "But yeah we would recommend that."

"Right "Antoni scowled at the table for a long moment. "Uncle Adrian had a program that automatically deleted the security footage in the room... when he was in there. Facial recognition or something."

"Ok how does that help us?"

"Dr Marcus is paranoid." the boy sighed "He thought my uncle would use him as the fall guy."

"And Dr Marcus is?"

"He's one of my uncle's regular doctors... we used him to make sure Caffrey didn't die for real."

"Right so this doctor kept back up evidence?" Jones nodded looking vaguely ill "Mutually assured destruction."

"Yeah, he put a bug in the system to send the original footage to somewhere... if you could find that..."

"We'd have Adrian." Jones glanced a t the window again. He could almost feel Peter's fury through it. "This Dr Marcus have a last name?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Neal knew he wasn't dead. He knew it with certainty. He had even mostly convinced himself this was real... that this dream of rescue wasn't going to fade back into that hopeless room. So why did he feel like a ghost haunting his own home.

He was surrounded by things that made this home. Beautiful things to add a touch of elegance, books he enjoyed reading on the shelves, sentimental pictures on the mantel even silly things he had collected in his years here... they should have grounded him... made this more real, but he wandered through the room not quite able to touch any of it.

He hated the lingering doubt that if he reached out... if he tried to connect with this place, this room... it would all fade away. He hated that touch was the only sense he could still trust to know for certain what was and wasn't real.

Neal rubbed his hands over his face and looked out at the balcony. The first hint of dawn was still hours away, but the city lights pushed back the shadows just enough to draw him out. Their shimmer tugged away the remnants of his dream.

He stood on the balcony and looked up trying not to focus on the half-remembered feeling of hands on his body... of voices speaking of him but not too him... of being unable to move or respond as those hands moved him, manipulated him and hurt him. The memories were vague and disjointed... they always had been. Just part of the torture of the pseudo h***scape of that room.

He wasn't supposed to remember them at all... the anesthetic drugs had become less effective the more they were used. He knew that but...

Neal turned back into his apartment. and strode purposely to the corner where Peter had placed his easel, hidden half out of sight when his first glimpse of it last week had constricted his chest to the point of torture.

For long minutes he stood there staring at the simple frame. Adrian Martinelli had already stolen the better part of a year and half his sanity... Neal would not let him steal painting from him. No... art... creating and enjoying it had always brought him more peace than anything else and he absolutely would not be giving that up. Could not afford to give that up.

Slowly... Carefully ... breath catching painfully...he reached out and grasped the easel.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Peter stood quietly in the doorway, watching. He didn't want to interrupt the moment. Neal hadn't noticed him yet, so he watched. His throat constricted as he did. He never thought he would see this again... even after they found him Peter had doubted Neal would ever touch paint again. Yet here he was, Neal, dressed in his undershirt and sleep pants, covered in paint to elbows was quietly smearing paint onto the canvas. The colors swirled and bled blending violently. It wasn't an attempt to copy anyone's style just a desperate expression of ... something inside the kid.

When Neal finally pulled away and stood examining what he had created and wiping his hands on a towel Peter cleared his throat and approached. He gently lay his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Interesting style." he said quietly.

"Not sure if it qualifies as a style" Neal shrugged "more a finger painting."

Peter tilted his head and studied the canvas "I could get used to it."

Neal chuckled briefly.

"Get dressed." Peter said after a moment.

"Do I have an appointment?"

"No, but it's a nice day and I have some things to discuss with you."

"Well, that isn't concerning at all." Neal gave him a smile "Let me wash up."

When they stepped out into the sunshine 20 minutes later it felt so much like heading to work a year ago it hurt.

"Antoni Martinelli fingered the doctor who..."

"He gave you a name?" Neal's voice was carefully controlled, and he didn't quite meet Peter's eyes.

"He did." Peter smiled carefully "and we have reason to hope once we track him down, he has evidence against Adrian."

"That's good." he finally met Peter's eyes "I know you'll get him. It's what you do, and I trust you. Do you think we could get coffee?"

Peter grinned broadly.