Archive of Our Own

Peter really, really hates this obsession conmen have about antiques with bad history. They're chasing after a mirror now, rare enough but hardly worth the trouble it's taking to track down. But the suspect went to a lot of effort to steal it, and the owner – who wasn't even displaying the damn thing – is very eager to have it back. Apparently it was once used by a pair of French spies to send messages to each other, before they were discovered, tortured and killed. It seems that this alone makes it worth having, at least to collectors with an interest in that sort of history. This is one of those things that Peter just doesn't get.

Luckily, Peter keeps Neal for that kind of thing, and then Peter can handle the rest of it. They've got very good at that.

Cruz is leading the guy away in cuffs. Jones follows after her, reading him his rights and opening the door of the car.

Peter looks around and can't see Neal. He calls, "We'll follow along in a bit," and hopes that Neal isn't doing something stupid. Hopes, not expects.

He finds Neal, eventually, with his hands on the damn mirror. "Caffrey."

Neal doesn't drop it, but it's a close-run thing, or at least he makes it look that way. "Peter."

"You know you can't smuggle that out under your jacket, right?"

"Peter." Same word, different inflection. Only Neal would think that he gets to reprimand Peter in this situation. Neal sighs. "I'm just admiring the craftsmanship. The carving really is…"

"Neal." Peter tries to take the thing out of Neal's hands, grabbing it from the other side. He's half-convinced Neal is just admiring himself in the glass anyway. Peter covers Neal's hands – it's a double-sided mirror on a swing and if it weren't for the glass he'd be looking right in the man's face.

There is a flash and a bang, then a high-pitched noise like a tuning fork on glass.

That's how it feels to Peter. He's fallen onto the ground on top of Neal and the mirror is clasped tightly in his arms.

"Ow," he says. Rather, he hears himself saying it. Peter didn't open his mouth.

He tries now, experimentally. "Neal?" Peter puts his hand to his throat. That wasn't his voice. "Okay. Try that again." He holds his hand in front of his face. Not his hand either. These are very much Neal's long nimble fingers. Peter lifts the mirror from where it is lying on his chest and looks into the glass. Neal's face. "This isn't happening." Peter turns his head to see himself looking back. "Neal, that better be you in there."

"Oh, thank God," Neal murmurs, "I'm not going mad."

"This feel a lot like sanity to you?" Peter asks. "Neal-."

"I know, I know, I just mean that I'm not an FBI agent who's taken a little break from reality to dream I'm a conman called Neal Caffrey. Or a conman dreaming I'm an FBI agent for that matter."

Peter gets it. "Yeah, well, you're not a butterfly either, so do you want to get off my leg?"

"First off," Neal says with great dignity, rolling out of the way. "It's my leg, I can crush it if I want. Second, it's your body doing the job of crushing it, so that subtle weight jibe was entirely misaimed. I'm in great shape."

"You make it look like we don't feed you," Peter says, absently running one finger up his – Neal's - rib cage and counting the bones. He's been thinking about doing it for a while and it's almost a relief to have an excuse.

Neal is giving him a weird look, weirder for being on Peter's face. All he says is, "I feed myself."

Peter is silent for a long moment. Then: "Neal."

"It wasn't me, Peter, I swear."

"Well it sure as hell wasn't me."

"What do you think I did?" Peter's voice is not meant to go that high and the real Peter, the one wearing Neal's body, can't help but wince.

"I don't know, Neal." Petulant frustration, at least, isn't unknown to this voice and Peter can pretend it's just because of the way Neal talks. "But half your cons ended up with you doing something I would have said was impossible, so who knows with you?"

Neal is looking at him, trying to force Peter's face into a reassuring smile that doesn't fit. "It wasn't me. I don't know what happened but I didn't do it."

Peter isn't completely convinced but as he has no real clue how Neal would have managed it, he lets it go. Peter has a stroke of inspiration. "Take this." He puts the mirror into Neal's- into his hand- and wraps his/Neal's hands over the top. Nothing happens.

"I don't think it's that simple," Neal says quietly.

"So what do you suggest?"

"I think we should go to my place and call Moz."

"Mozzie," Peter says. "Really? That's your solution?"

"That's almost always my solution," Neal says, shrugging. "At least until I've had time to think."

Peter sighs. "Fine. But I need to call in first."

"We can't go to the office like this."

"I realise that," Peter says. "I just need to…" He pulls the cell phone from his pocket and stops.

"Yeah," Neal says. "Exactly." He takes out Peter's cell phone. "What do I say?"

"Just say… say I'm- you're- not well. We're taking you home. Can you manage that?"

"I think I can credibly lie to your team, yes," Neal says. He smiles and Peter can't decipher the expression.

* * * *

Neal does, at least, let Peter drive – pilfering the keys from a pocket and throwing them over. Neal probably knows as well as Peter does which pockets things are kept in. He sends a message to Moz and then begins a running commentary on ways this really, honestly, isn't his fault, all the way to the house. Peter is getting sick of the sound of his own voice.

When they get to Neal's, June isn't there and so at least they don't have to negotiate that pretence. Neal puts gloves on to carry the mirror upstairs and Peter stands well away from him. Peter fumbles at the door to Neal's room and when they walk in, Moz is staring.

"Moz," Neal says.

Now, Peter could have predicted that was a bad idea. It sets the man on the defensive immediately because Peter has never been so familiar with him.

"Suit," Moz answers, taking an automatic step backwards.

"Moz, this going to be… Remember when you said we needed codewords for when the government used their experimental mind-wipe powers on me and…" Neal trails off. "It's me, okay?"

Moz puts his hands up to keep Neal back. "Yeah, because I'm just that gullible. You've probably just fed Neal some kind of control drugs so he won't help when you force me to reveal all my trade secrets and put me in prison for life."

"What have you done that would put you in prison for life?" Peter can't help but ask.

Moz blinks. "Like you don't know."

"Look, Moz," Neal says, stepping forward. "I can prove it, okay. Something only we…" He tries to get another step closer, to whisper in Moz's ear, but he is held back.

"No way," Moz says. "You'll only- well, I don't know what you'll do but I want none of it. Talk from there."

Neal sighs and it sounds heavy in Peter's mouth. "For God's sake, Moz. If anyone should… fine. Our third job together, remember? It went to hell and I got hurt."

"You broke your leg," Moz says. He corrects himself. "Neal- Neal broke his leg."

"And my wrist. And I yelled and I was… okay, pretty much in tears because it really hurt, and you came back and you dragged me out of there- you carried me out, practically. And you said-."

"Stop crying, kid, you're leaving DNA evidence on the scene."

Neal exhales. "Yeah."

"Neal?"

"Yes."

Peter looks between them. "You cried?"

"He was sixteen," Moz says, "and I said – didn't I say? – that you were too young and too green to be on that job. But nobody ever listens to me. Not when it comes to- They would have left you there, you know that?" He's looking at Neal expectantly. "No one listens."

Neal is smiling now, happy to be believed. "I listen. But it was a learning experience. Now I know how to fall from height and not break things."

Peter shakes his head. "That one's not on record."

"That was the point," Neal says. He looks at Moz. "We have a problem."

"I'll say."

Neal holds the mirror out to Moz, thinks about it, and places it on the table instead. "Look at that."

Moz sits at the table and looks. "Is this a-?"

"Yeah."

"From the-?"

"Yep."

"Oh… How did it even…?"

"Some kind of glass house con, I think. As for how it got into a private collection, I don't even…"

"I should call-."

"Yeah."

Peter takes a deep breath. "Neal?"

Neal turns, slowly, the way he does when Peter has interrupted him mid-plot. "Yeah?"

"Can you two stop speaking in tongues and tell me what's going on?"

"Oh. No idea."

Moz concurs. "No clue. I have some friends I can call but until then…"

"Go!" Peter instructs. "Call!"

Moz looks at him, and then at Neal. "This is so weird. He's making you sound rude, man, I wouldn't stand for it. He'll ruin your reputation."

Neal smiles. "We'll be fine, Moz. Go make your calls. Take the mirror with you to the workshop."

Moz wraps the mirror in cloth and tucks it under one arm. He leaves with one last look between the two of them.

After the door closes, Neal looks at Peter. His hands are twisting nervously in the pockets of Peter's jacket. "Now what?"

Peter finds his hands running through hair that is too long and that smells of something Peter would never put in his hair. It's not even his nervous habit, but Neal's bangs got in the way when he tried to rub his forehead. "I need to see my wife."

* * * *

Elizabeth meets them at the door. It's later than Peter thought, and he hadn't called to tell her he was going to miss dinner. "El," Peter says.

She looks at Neal, then at Peter. She looks right at Peter, through Neal's pale eyes. "Peter? Why are you wearing Neal's body?"

Neal laughs, damn him, helpless giggle that sounds ridiculous in Peter's voice. "Elizabeth, I think I love you. Or I should be offended on mine and Moz's behalf, maybe."

El ignores him. "What happened?" She ushers them both to the couch. "Were you…? I don't even know. Is this about the case?"

"Yeah. Something… we don't know. Something happened. There was a mirror."

"Well? Where is it?"

Neal answers, "Moz has it."

"Oh." Elizabeth taps her fingers on her knees. "Okay. That's probably best."

"El," Peter protests.

"Well, honey, do you know a lot about cursed antiques?"

"No one 'knows a lot about cursed antiques'. They shouldn't exist!"

"Well," she says reasonably, "clearly they do. Something did this."

Peter throws his hands up. Elizabeth frowns. "What?" Peter asks.

"Neal doesn't do that."

"I'm not Neal."

"I know that. I just meant - what about the office?"

Peter's answer overlays with Neal's. "We can't tell the office."

She raises her eyebrow and gestures with one hand: explain.

Neal says, "Even if they believed us, which they wouldn't, they'd throw us both in prison."

Peter elaborates. "They wouldn't believe us. They'd think Neal was pulling something and he'd talked me into going along with it. But if they did… honey, do you know what they'd do if they realised that Neal could be running away in…"

"With an FBI agent's face," Elizabeth finishes.

"And his ID and his gun," Neal says. "That doesn't end well for any of us. We just need to figure this out ourselves. And in the meantime…"

Peter leans heavily back onto the couch. "We fake it."

* * * *

It's one of the strangest nights Peter has ever spent in his own home. He can't sleep beside El in Neal's body, and obviously Neal can't sleep beside her, even if he does look like Peter right now. So Peter takes the guest room and relegates Neal to the couch. If they get this sorted out tomorrow, Peter is going to be the one with the sore muscles, but he chooses the immediate comfort right there and then.

In the morning, Neal winces at the sight of the wrinkles in his suit, but the two of them aren't the same size and Neal doesn't have clothes over here.

Apparently having to wear Peter's clothes, even as Peter, is a problem of equal weight for Neal. They were already running late even before he started throwing clothes out of the wardrobe in frustration. For a man with so many aliases, he's really bad at the costuming part.

And so Peter is already on edge even before Neal tries to drive them into the office. "What if someone sees us?" Neal asks. "Won't that look suspicious?"

"No more suspicious than if I kill you and dump your body in the river."

Neal darts a quick nervous look at him. Good to know a little fear still works. Neal gives him the keys.

He does have a point though. They need to be careful in the office. They could do with a while to adjust, but Hughes grabs Neal as soon as they get in through the door. "Burke."

Peter is prepared for this part: not to jump when they say his name and look at Neal; he's prepared to answer to 'Caffrey' for the duration. It's still a surreal experience.

Neal doesn't seem fazed. "Sir?"

"We have a new case. Come with me." He looks behind Neal. "You too, Caffrey."

Yeah. That's not going to stop being weird.

He bumps into Neal trying to walk through the door of the conference room. Neal glares at him for a long moment and sarcastically waves Peter through.

Jones is smirking. Peter tries to ignore him, taking Neal's usual seat at the table, while Neal stands behind the opposite chair.

Peter attempts to give his full attention to Hughes and hopes that Neal is at least concentrating enough to fake it. If they're lucky, they'll be able to go to the office after this and swap notes.

Peter gets the distinct impression that he's being watched. He turns slightly, to find Cruz giving him a strange look. She glances away and raises her eyebrows at Jones across the table.

There's a cough from Hughes's direction.

Neal throws a ball of paper at Peter's head. "Caffrey."

"Sorry," Peter mutters. "What did you say?"

Neal gives him another glare. "Never mind." He turns to Hughes. "I think we should compare it with some of the recent unsolved Renaissance forgeries. We might find a signature, be able to connect him to another case. There was one-."

"The Botticelli last month," Peter says. "The one Casey's team were working on."

Neal stares at him. "Oh, so you were paying attention. Yeah, lets look at that one."

Hughes has his mouth pulled into a tight line. "Get it done." He shoots Peter one more troubled look before leaving.

"You heard the man," Neal says. He grabs Peter's arm over the table. "Come with me." Peter stands quickly, before someone starts wondering when Peter got so handsy with Neal.

They tangle in the door again, before Neal practically shoves him towards the office. Neal closes the door behind them and hisses, "Are you trying to get us caught?"

"Am I trying?"

"You chased me for three years and you can't pretend to be me for five minutes?" Neal's face is red and he probably doesn't know that. He's better at keeping calm in his own skin.

Peter says, "Well, I'm sorry I don't have your experience with lying to people, but I don't think you're doing better. They suspect something."

"Because you were staring at Hughes! And then the one moment where I could have used your help, you've stopped listening." Peter pulls his shoulders up, ready to begin a defence, but Neal is still shouting. "Don't shrug."

"I wasn't. You want me to criticise your performance? Stop fiddling with my goddamn wedding ring - it isn't a noose. I don't need my team thinking I'm about to get a divorce. And if you could look less like you've never worn a holster in your life, I would appreciate it. Also…"

"How much more is there?"

"Throwing the paper at my head was a little petty."

"I thought it was perfectly in-character."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was exactly the sort of-" Neal looks through the glass of the office and sees something, "damn irresponsible, dangerous, moronic behaviour I expect from you, Neal! Why can't you ever just listen to me?"

Cruz walks through the door, knocking as she enters. "Sir?"

Neal exhales heavily, Peter does his best to look cowed. Neal says, "Yeah?"

"We pulled those files you asked for. You want to take a look?"

Neal stands up and heads to the conference room. "Yeah."

Cruz catches Peter's arm when Neal is past them. "You okay? I can't remember the last time he…"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Peter says. "How d'you know I didn't deserve it this time?" He aims at Neal's version of coy and is both gratified and alarmed when Cruz smiles and colours a little. Just a touch, nothing Neal would call a victory in his long-running charm-offensive, but Peter isn't used to getting so much reaction from so little effort. He shakes his head and follows Cruz to look at the files. "This must be what it's like for him all the time."

* * * *

If they weren't still fighting, Peter would have mocked Neal about that – how much easier it must be for him. Just another thing he barely even has to work for. Neal, in turn, would probably say something about how he's been working on Cruz for nearly a year and she still only warms to him on alternate Tuesdays. But they are still fighting, and they drive back to Peter's in a silence which ends right when they walk through the door.

Elizabeth asks, "How was your day?" and that's enough. Peter can just about hear Neal's raised voice on 'staring at Hughes' while Peter is yelling 'on a goddamn power trip'.

Elizabeth holds her hands up and shouts, "All right, all right, time out!" She walks very calmly to the couch and sits down. "Show me."

"What?" Peter asks.

She points at the door. "Show me. Pretend you're in the office. Walk in."

They look at each other but El knows how to give orders. They go to the hallway and walk back in. El stops them before Peter is even halfway through the door. "Oh, honey, no."

"What?"

"When was the last time Neal walked into a room ahead of you?"

Neal walks backwards into rooms ahead of Peter all the time, actually, when he's trying to talk Peter into one of his schemes. Peter explains all this and then, "And what does that even…?"

El stares at him. "Body language is important. Neal walks in at your shoulder. Do it again."

He does.

She stops him. "And your eye line's wrong. When you're in the office, especially when you're with Reese, Neal doesn't look right at you unless the two of you are talking. He looks at the floor, or his notes or down to the side. In fact…" She pulls up short and turns to Neal. "Sweetheart, do you feel bullied in the office?"

Peter interrupts, "No, he doesn't. Look, can we get on with this?"

El grabs his wrists. "Hands by your side or in your pockets." To Neal again: "Seriously, baby, I didn't see this properly before. Do you need me to speak to someone?"

Neal is laughing without shame. He manages, "I don't think it's as bad as you say, honestly. But even if it is… I behave in the office." He adds, on Peter's scoff, "Mostly."

Peter wouldn't describe it that way. But he can't deny that something is off with them right now – they don't normally crash into doors. He still says, "You were going too far the other way." Peter looks at El, "He started yelling in the office. When was the last time I did that?"

"Oh, Neal," El sighs. "Okay, you too. Door again. Confidence, remember. But don't be mean. You know Peter doesn't treat you like that."

Neal looks down, quickly across at Peter, and down again. "Yes, I know."

This time, Peter manages to enter the room at Neal's shoulder, head down the way he's only noticed Neal doing when he's trying to cover for something.

"Better," El says. Her mouth quirks as though she wants to say something else or kiss him. Kiss Neal, even, while he wears Peter's body.

Peter wants, so badly, to kiss her back, no matter which body he's in. He grabs her hand instead. She grins at him, and kisses the back of his hand. She has Neal's hand caught in her other one.

Neal laughs, flushing a little again.

El says, "You need to fix this soon."

Neal's expression freezes on his face, furrow on his brow that Peter recognises from the mirror. He composes himself. "We will, Elizabeth. I promise."

* * * *

Neal stays with them again that night, after calling to tell the monitoring centre that Caffrey is still staying with Agent Burke to work on that case. If this goes on much longer, they'll need a better cover story. Moz has, at some point, visited Peter's house to leave off a bag of Neal's stuff. In the morning, Peter looks at it where it's sitting, with the hat ominously perched on top. Maybe treating it like a disguise is worth a try?

Neal smiles broadly when Peter comes into the kitchen. He stands up and straightens the jacket, adjusts the angle of the hat. Peter has just thrown some of Neal's sweet-smelling hair product at the messy waves – Neal pushes his fingers through it until he's satisfied.

Peter, in turn, neatens the knot of Neal's tie and refastens the top button on his shirt. Neal confesses, in a whisper across the little space, "I may be wearing my own tie. Sorry."

Peter grins. "I may have noticed that. It's okay."

Neal steps back to look at his handiwork and frowns. He crouches down and tugs on the hem of Peter's pants. Peter holds his breath – this is really messing with his sense of normal human response. There are no guidelines for what to do when your partner-slash-responsibility gets down on his knees in front of you, only they're really your knees and it's not like you're a narcissist but it's still Neal in there and… Neal says, "These things never sit right over the tracker." Then he goes to sit down at the table like nothing happened.

El slides coffee cups down the table one by one. There's a bubble of almost normality: Neal steals Peter's cutlery and is unrepentant, Peter steals it back and whacks the back of Neal's hand, El laughs at them both and defends neither.

On the way into the office, Peter drives and tosses the keys back to Neal when they get there. They shift into character on the elevator. By the time they reach Peter's office, Neal has his hand on Peter's shoulder, steering him in.

Peter asks, "What happened to not going into the room first?"

"It's okay when you push me there," Neal says with a curl of his nose. Now that's a move that doesn't work on Peter's face.

Hughes calls them into the conference room and this time Peter does follow after Neal. He believes El when she tells him things like that; she's better with close-personal than Peter is.

Cruz looks at him and her eyes move to the hat. "Better mood today, Neal? I guess you two made up then."

Peter tries to picture what Neal would do and ends up shrugging enigmatically and smiling ruefully at the same time. It must translate okay because Cruz just sighs and smiles back at him.

He sits down and this time mostly focuses on Neal, or the table, gaze drifting around the room. He listens, though, and when Neal says, "Neal?" Peter is ready.

Peter says, "I think we could trap him. The guy's greedy. Dangle a big buyer in front of him and I think we can catch him."

Neal nods. "I think you're right. Send someone in undercover as a buyer. Black-market, private collector of stolen Renaissance artwork. Not a museum – we need someone who won't make the guy nervous."

"Good," Hughes says, "Arrange it. Caffrey can pose as the buyer, you'll have a team on standby. You've got two days to get ready."

Two days? Peter tries to think of some reason they can't do this in two days but Neal is already nodding. "Of course."

Hughes leaves and the rest of them start throwing ideas around. Neal is suggesting cover stories and names; Peter is thinking of ways to throttle him without being tossed into prison for trying to kill his supposed supervisor. Peter is the one who will have to pull this off if they don't sort out their problem in the next two days.

He looks meaningfully at Neal. Neal says, "Yeah, okay." His hand settles on Peter's shoulder, sliding to the base of his neck. Peter is waiting for the looks but there's nothing. Neal steers him towards the door.

Jones catches Neal before they reach the office. Neal waves Peter into the office and stops. Peter leaves the door open a crack and listens.

Jones says, "Peter."

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you two sorted things out. Neal's a good guy, I'm sure he didn't mean whatever he…"

"Go back to work," Neal says gently.

When Neal gets into the office he's looking at the floor again. He forces himself to look at Peter; he sits behind the desk. "So," Neal says. "Jones thinks I'm a good guy. Who knew?"

"Jones is still a little naive," Peter says.

Neal glares at him but there's no force to it. For someone who gets all the compliments a man could want, he's easily knocked off his game. Peter makes a note of that for future reference. Right now he's still focussed on their other problem.

"The case, Neal?" Peter says.

"What about it?"

"You volunteered me to be you? There's a reason we keep you around, you know. It's not so I can be the undercover guy for counterfeit art dealers."

Neal looks at him like he's crazy. "And if I had said no? If I can't do what you want then I get thrown back into prison. You've made that very pointedly clear. So we'll work it out."

Peter wonders tangentially how many things Neal has agreed to because he thinks it'll keep him out of trouble. How many times he says 'sure, Peter, of course I can do that' because of the fear in the back of his eyes that he's not hiding right now.

"Is it harder?" Peter asks. "Lying when you're not in your own skin? It must be easier when you look like…" he gestures vaguely at the body he's wearing, "this."

Neal looks at him. "I think you underestimate yourself. I could make this work."

"Well," Peter says, "the badge probably helps."

Neal straightens his tie. "I could do it without the badge, or the suit, or the gun. Just you. Confidence, Peter."

"In all senses of the word?"

"I'll show you."

* * * *

They stay late in the office to practice. It's not enough that he has to playact as Neal, now he has to learn how to be Neal playacting as someone else? Somewhere along the way, Peter's life has become stupidly complicated.

"Okay," Neal says, "It's just us. Jones finally finished that paperwork you left him. Speaking of which, what were you punishing him for?"

"I wasn't."

"Because now he's looking at me like I kicked his puppy and I don't even know what I did. Or what he did."

"No one did anything, Neal. Paperwork is part of the job."

Neal looks at him and laughs. "I'm pretty sure those words have never come out of my mouth before today."

Peter just sits back, in his own chair now, and looks at Neal. If Neal's wrong and someone does into the office right now, they'll think that Neal has finally won the long-running argument over the good chair. It's a lot nicer than the spare one that Neal is currently turning circles on. "You're making me look ridiculous," Peter says.

"You're making me look like I can't dress myself," Neal retorts quickly. "Now, let's get you into character."

The cover's name is Patrick Ball. Everyone thinks Neal is just screwing around with that one, but Peter appreciates the thought. He's usually better at learning an alias than this – everything's more difficult in Neal's body. No gun, just Neal's charm that Peter doesn't quite know how to wield.

Neal says, "Stand up," and he's beside Peter now, though Peter doesn't remember him moving. Speaking quietly and touching Peter's shoulder with a tentative hand.

Peter stands and Neal smoothes his hand over Peter's back. Peter says, "What?"

"Stand up straight."

"I thought I was."

"I'm not that short. Stand up straight. Hands behind your back when you're standing, free them to move. Lean forward to look at the painting, don't sit, don't slouch. Look at it through the glass but don't look too hard. You're supposed to be overconfident but not too bright."

"So I'm playing you, basically."

"Don't," Neal says and continues as though he hadn't stopped. "You know more than enough about Renaissance art to fool this guy. Don't give away all that you do know – you are too smart to be fooled by this con. Drop in bits of trivia, dumb stuff like that, you're showing off, remember?"

Peter fidgets, leaning forward over the desk.

Neal says, "Hold your hands steady." He flattens his currently-broader fingers over Peter's.

"Neal."

"That's a tell, don't give it to him."

"I have done this before, you know."

"I know, I know." Neal leans down and looks Peter in the eye. "Just- Please don't get me thrown back into prison, okay?" There's a line between his eyebrows but Peter has no ability to decipher his own expressions, even with Neal's panic/fear/concern driving them.

Peter leans his head sideways to look at Neal properly. "I promise. Trust me."

"Okay," Neal says. "Okay, Peter."

* * * *

Even after that, Neal is on edge all of the next day. It's the day before the fake-deal, so it could be that, but Neal's not the jittery type. They get through the day but afterwards Neal won't give him the keys. "I need to go home. Moz-."

"You can call Moz, why do you need to see him?"

"Anyway, how do you think it looks to the tracking centre that I go straight to your place every night?"

"Neal."

"Look, you can come with me or go back to yours but you can't actually stop me right now."

"Oh, you think?"

Neal sighs. "Either you can 'take me' in your body, or I can hold you off. You don't get to have it both ways."

Peter takes a moment to detangle that messed-up logic. "I can stop you because I'm better at hand-to-hand than you. Even if I am dressed up in your scrawny body." He smiles to show the tease but Neal's not playing.

Neal says, "I want to go home. You don't get to-."

"Okay, okay," Peter interrupts. "We can go to June's. Call your friend."

Neal climbs into the driver's seat. "Don't pretend you don't know who he is."

Peter has files locked up in his desk that might tell him quite a bit about who Mozzie is, but he doesn't say that to Neal. He just nods and sits in the passenger seat and stays quiet. It's an adequate impersonation of Neal trying to play nice, and Peter is rather proud of it.

Moz looks between them again when they walk into Neal's rooms. "Not getting less weird," he observes. "Okay," and he's obviously forcing himself to look at Peter's body when he says it, "Neal, I've been talking to some… friends… and I have an idea where to start looking for real answers."

"Start looking?"

Moz looks at Neal. "That is still you in there, Neal, right? This is complicated stuff, it takes time."

"We don't have time. We have an undercover case tomorrow."

"And?" He looks at Peter. "You've been undercover before, posing as someone not part of a vast government conspiracy to regulate all aspects of our lives, right?"

Peter thinks. "Yeah. I've done that."

"So?" Moz looks back at Neal. "Is this a pride thing? Because I'm sure he won't be as good at it as you, but it's not as though the first thought your FBI bosses are going to have will be swapped-bodies. They're far too pedestrian for that."

"To be fair," Peter says, "it wasn't your first thought either."

Moz sweeps that objection away with his hand.

Neal is still tapping his fingertips in frantic rhythm on the tabletop. Peter doesn't know what the problem is. "Neal, I already promised not to get you into trouble."

"What if I get you into trouble?"

Peter stops. "What?"

Neal's hand falls onto the gun that has been sitting uselessly at his hip. Probably Peter should be worried that Neal's having a breakdown and about to go on a shooting spree. But he knows Neal and so he just raises his eyebrow.

Neal says, "They trust you not to screw this up."

And now Peter remembers when this started. Just after the 'what to do when this all goes to hell' part of the briefing, back in the office that afternoon. Peter had grinned over at Neal afterwards and said, "So, how do you think you'll fare being me? You get to give orders for once, that'll be fun." Peter had laughed, he thinks.

Now, he grabs Neal's arm. "Come with me."

Moz is protesting but Neal is easily steered. Peter gets him all the way into the car and halfway to their destination before Neal asks, "Where are we going?"

"Does it make a difference?"

Neal shrugs. He doesn't deal well with emotional outbursts – not in front of Peter. They reveal too much. But he still doesn't know how to school his expressions on Peter's face - it doesn't matter because Peter can't read them anyway. Peter ignores all that and just thinks about Neal. Neal who doesn't shoot and whose eyes widen when Peter comes in all guns blazing. Who will tell any lie he can get away with right up to the point where someone might get hurt.

Peter parks the car and drags Neal behind him into the firing range. Neal just about remembers to flash Peter's ID and get them a spare gun and ammo. Things are so much easier when Peter just gets to be in charge.

Peter points at his gun in the holster at Neal's side and says, "Try it out."

"Peter…"

"If this goes badly tomorrow, you'll need to. You're right: Jones and Cruz and the agents they'll send out tomorrow – they'll expect you to do my job. That includes firing the gun if you need to."

"I don't want to. I don't like guns, Peter, you know that."

"I do." Peter keeps his voice soft. "But if I have to play your part, you have to play mine. We need to cover each other. At least until Moz comes through on a solution to this. Okay?"

"Okay." Neal takes up some approximation of a shooting stance and, very carefully, loads the gun. He misses the target entirely by a solid number of inches.

"Again," Peter says.

"Peter."

"Again."

He misses again. Peter stands to one side of Neal while he adjusts his stance. It's not right but Peter can't tell exactly where it's failing. He doesn't know how it looks when he shoots, just how it feels to do it. He says, "I think your stance should be wider."

"You think?"

"Just give me the gun."

"If someone sees me with a gun they probably won't be…"

"Gun, Neal."

Peter takes the gun and closes his eyes to shake off the dissonance of Neal's body. He opens them and looks straight at the target, nothing else. He hits about two inches away from where he aimed, close to central but not close enough. Peter frowns.

Neal takes the gun back. He's an excellent mimic. He misses the bullet hole Peter left by a half-inch.

Peter is still a little bitter about his own near-miss, but Neal is smiling again. At Peter, wanting a response. "Good," Peter says. "That's good."

"Not good enough, though, right?"

"Hey, I don't need you to steal my job long-term. We just need to fake it a little longer. Then everything goes back to normal."

* * * *

Neal is wearing a suit that Peter is pretty sure he doesn't own. When he asks, all Neal will say is, "Elizabeth says it's an early birthday present."

"Yeah? For me or for you?"

"I needed more than your lucky tie to make this work."

Cruz whistles when she sees it. "Nice suit, boss. Neal take you shopping?"

Neal, of course, can't resist this line. "I had to bow to his sense of style eventually, right?"

Jones sniggers and looks at Peter over his shoulder. "Did you bet him he wouldn't say that?"

Peter frowns. "Something like that."

Neal looks altogether too pleased with himself. He places the earpiece securely in Peter's ear and then straightens up like all the mischief drained right out of him. He walks to the mic in the van. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, buddy," Peter says, to see if Neal will smile again. He does - a short-lived thing but there.

So maybe Peter's distracted going in, but that's never stopped him before. It's just that he's very good but he's not Neal. Neal can convince a person of just about anything. (It worked on Peter). Peter's main talents are inspiring calm reassurance or fear. Neither of those are helpful right now.

Their suspect was twitchy at the start of the meeting – he must have been tipped off by someone that the Feds have been sniffing around. He waves a gun around and Peter's hand goes to where his holster isn't. That's all it takes, some days.

Neal's voice is in his ear, "We're coming in now."

"Wait." Because there's a gun and Neal won't…

The suspect has the gun pointed at Peter's head when Neal and Jones make it into the room. Neal's hand doesn't automatically go to the gun, but it's a moment of hesitation that probably only Peter notices.

The guy advances and Neal is shouting, "Down, down, down!" There is a flash of white pain in Peter's side and he wonders, that way you do when you're bleeding, what would happen if he died in Neal's body.

Another gunshot: maybe he'll find out. He's dizzy, looking at himself and he's asking, "Peter, Peter, are you okay?"

All that and Peter is still the one to remember first. He shakes his head, Neal freaks out, and he says, "No, no, I'm fine. Peter, I'm fine. It was a scratch, it caught my side. Flesh wound." He props himself up on his elbow. "You shot the guy?"

"He was…" That's why Neal looks like this: pale face, shaking hands.

Jones doesn't notice, he says, "He would have killed you. Peter was just doing what we're supposed to do."

"Is he…?" Neal asks.

Peter looks more carefully. "He's still breathing. Call an ambulance. You need to…"

"The gun," Neal says. "I've got it. Got the painting too. We're done."

"Good," Peter says. "Good. Hey, I think I hit my head when I fell…"

Neal has one hand on the tear in his expensive shirt that Peter is bleeding through. He touches the other to Peter's hairline. Peter is having a harder time with this than he was before. Neal looks like he's having a different kind of problem with it, murmuring nonsense like Peter's the one who needs encouragement.

Peter laughs and whispers, "You just love me for your body."

Neal punches Peter's shoulder. "Now it's okay to joke at a crime scene? I think I'm a bad influence on you."

* * * *

El meets them at the hospital. Peter has finally convinced everyone that he's not about to die from a glancing bullet-wound and a mild headache. He's had far worse injuries than these. Maybe they just like Neal better? Half the guys in the office check their pockets when Peter walks past in Neal's body, though not even Neal Caffrey would be reckless enough to risk his freedom pick pocketing FBI agents. The other half are like this, thinking he's lying to reassure them. Either way, they don't believe what he's saying.

El seems to be in the 'not reassured' camp. She takes a long deep breath and Peter knows she's composing herself, trying to remember how she should be reacting, if she didn't know what she does. She's trying to work out what won't look out of place

In the end she walks quickly to the bed Peter is sitting on. She says, "Neal," and reaches out her hand. Neal has followed her to Peter. She wraps one arm around each of them and Peter can feel her shivers against his chest. They're wound tight enough together that she can kiss both of their cheeks, one at a time. "Home," she says, "Let's go home."

In the car, she changes her mind. "Neal's place, I think."

Neal is still shaky but he reacts to that. "What?"

"Didn't you say it would look suspicious that you keep sleeping at our place?"

"I said that to Peter, yes."

"You already know that comes to the same thing," she says. "Anyway, let's go there. I have a bag in the car."

"You planned for this?"

"Hospital trip. I'm prepared."

Peter squeezes her shoulder over the back of the seat. Neal looks at them in the rear-view mirror and starts driving.

Neal's place is even quieter than usual – June and her granddaughter are out of town and Moz is (hopefully) out investigating their problem. Neal is quiet too. He forces a smile and says, "If you want to kiss, I won't look."

"Neal," Peter says with as much warning as he can inject into Neal's voice.

But Elizabeth is saying, "I want a kiss."

"El…"

"You could have died today. I want a kiss."

"Even when…" Peter nods down at the body he doesn't belong to.

"Yes," she says, and takes the two steps to cover the distance between them. It's clumsy, for a moment – of all the things he's practiced in this body, kissing isn't one of them. But there's some kind of muscle memory or maybe El just knows what she wants. They shift a little and now he's kissing his wife. The height makes a difference, and her hands slide up to catch in dark hair. She touches the lump of bandage and dressing beneath the shirt and her breath catches.

Peter breaks away from her and looks behind them. Neal – and Peter hadn't even considered that he would keep to it – Neal has his eyes closed.

"I can't believe you meant that," Peter says.

"I try not to give myself temptation I can't afford," Neal says. It's a ridiculous lie and Peter wants to call him on it but Neal is talking again. "You two can have the bed, make yourself at home."

"Neal…"

He's disappeared into the bathroom, probably to passive-aggressively punish Peter by inflicting Neal's skincare routine on his face.

El is looking around the room. "It's a little bare."

"The furniture in here may cost more than our house." Peter isn't one hundred percent sure about that, but June and Neal have the same taste in expensive items.

"Yes, but…" She goes poking around the bookcase and comes back with a notebook.

"Put that back," Peter says.

"Because you would never snoop around in Neal's personal belongings?" she asks. "It's a sketchbook, I'm curious, okay?"

"Fine, but if there's anything that looks like a forged Botticelli in there, I'll have to arrest him again and your pout will not save him."

"Noted," she says happily, and starts flicking through pages. "Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, El, oh what? There's not actually some mocked-up forgery in there is there? I can pass it off as research, don't panic. I'll have to kill him later, of course."

"It's nothing, really," she says. "Nothing like that."

Peter isn't comforted. He grabs the notebook out of her hand. For a moment he doesn't know what he's looking at. He's expecting handwriting samples or the specs to counterfeit currency. This is just a sketch. Clever, he thinks, and well-drawn. He doesn't see Neal's own work very often. "This is me," he says.

"Honey."

"No, it's me and him."

"At least you're not naked?"

"I'd be happier if I…" It's tilting towards caricature, really. Peter is not so much taller than Neal. Not enough to be standing over him, dangling the key to his freedom over his head and out of his reach. Neal, even if he were like this, with his hands cuffed together, reaching up, would not be so easily dissuaded. The Peter in the drawing is smiling; the Neal on the page beside him is not. "This is how he sees me?"

"Peter," El says, "the date at the bottom? It's from months ago, you two were fighting a lot then. For all you know it's from back when he thought you were… It's just a drawing."

Peter sighs. "Nothing's ever 'just' with him. He lies right to my face. His face, whichever."

"Honey…"

But Peter's not listening to Elizabeth any more. He's noticed the other silence. The door to the bathroom is open and Neal is not there. "I'm going to kill him."

"Peter?"

"Neal?" He knows, he already knows but walks from room to room anyway. "Neal!"

"He must have heard us," El says. "I need to apologise to him, that was obviously private and we…"

"He's run away. Maybe he just realised that he could actually do it, I don't know. But we have to treat this like he's… he knows he can't just disappear. But I can't-." Peter runs his hands over his head, cursing when they get tangled in long hair. It'd serve Neal right if Peter cut it all off, just ran down to the nearest barbers and told them to give him a crew-cut. He can't think. He calls Moz and listens to an incomprehensible voicemail message. He calls the office and hangs up when someone answers. He pulls books from the shelves and tries not to figure out how long ago he should have closed the airports.

El is looking at the sketchbook again. She skims through the other pages and stops.

"So help me, El, if you say 'oh' again…" Peter warns.

She looks at him and very deliberately says, "Ah," instead.

"Oh God, what now? Am I tying him to a train track or something?"

"Continuing the bondage theme? Interesting, honey, but no."

This one is more detailed, but Peter's still not sure what he's supposed to see. It's still just them: Neal and Peter, and Elizabeth this time. From Neal's perspective – the back of his dark head at the bottom of the page – across what must be their dining table. El is turned towards Peter, who is looking slant across the page at Neal. "What?" Peter asks.

"I'm just saying…" Peter doesn't know when El calmed down enough to be teasing him. She says, "There's a lot of pictures of us in here. And fewer of Kate, fewer as you go through it. He's been preoccupied."

Peter gets preoccupied too. Mostly with things like thinking about what to do if Neal runs. He hadn't made any plans for it happening like this. He paces from one side of Neal's room to the other.

El says, "Go after him."

"I can't." He points at his ankle. "This'll go off. Neal knows that, he'll have planned it that way."

"Peter!" El has the luxury of just being worried. Peter is mad as hell at Neal, and worried and frustrated and something else that tastes uncomfortably like guilt. Neal shot someone today and he hasn't done that before. He wasn't in the state of mind for Peter to push this conversation. Of course, Peter was shot today, and no one seems to be worrying about his feelings. He counts to five. He doesn't know why he's obsessing on the stupid drawing anyway, he knows Neal resents the tracker and sometimes resents him. Focus on the part you didn't know. Focus on finding him first.

Peter hands her the phone. "Call the monitoring people. Tell them you're Cruz."

El doesn't even blink. She's far too good at this. She keeps her voice light as she identifies herself and gives the code for Neal's tracker. Later, Peter is going to worry at how easy it was for her to do that. El tells them, "You can stop monitoring the tracker, Caffrey's with us on a case." She pauses. "Really? No, no, it's fine. I didn't think Agent Burke had remembered to… Thank you."

She hangs up the phone and looks at Peter. "He didn't change the tracker status. He didn't want to keep you here."

Peter suddenly knows exactly where Neal is. "He's in our house."

"Honey?"

"I know where he is. It's Neal, I don't know why I was… I know where he is."

Neal wants to be caught. He knows that Peter will always chase him and he left the doors wide open. He left Peter's car there, with the keys on the table, and he's waiting for Peter to find him. He's not at June's or with Mozzie and he's not with Peter or El. He's hurting and panicked and so he's either run for real or gone to ground. There's only so many ways this could go.

There is a moment, just one, where Peter thinks that he was wrong. The house is dark when they pull up in the car. There's not a sound. Peter flicks the lights on and sees his gun and badge lying on the coffee table.

Neal's tie – the one he paired with Peter's untailored shirt this morning – hangs over their stair railing.

El is the one to find Neal, lying in their bed. "Peter."

Neal is asleep, or is pretending to be. Lying beside him on the bed is a photograph: Neal-as-Peter, smiling in the departures lounge at JFK. There's a ticket to Paris and Peter's passport. Peter turns the photograph over. Neal's block printing: I could have run.

El doesn't see any of this - all of the ways Neal could have ruined Peter and made a new life for himself. Or perhaps it is just that she trusts Neal not to have done it. She touches Neal's shoulder. "You came back here?"

Neal stirs. He looks at Peter over El's shoulder; he touches El's cheek. "Where else would I go?"

* * * *

Peter dreams about prison. He's cold and there's no light coming from the bare bulb. Little strike marks on the wall and a low thick feeling of despair. Fear, too, hiding in shadows.

He wakes up on the couch to find that his foot is sticking out from under the blanket into the chilled air. He's been rubbing his ankle on the rough edge of the seat. The light on the tracker blinks green.

Neal is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, shadowed in the glow from the open refrigerator. "Bad dreams?" he asks lightly.

"Your dreams, I think. A psychiatrist would have a field day with us."

"For more reasons than just that," Neal points out.

"Yeah."

Neal comes to sit beside him on the couch. "I wouldn't have gone."

"I know."

"Because you would be the one in prison, Peter, and I know I've done some bad things in my time but I wouldn't do… you know?"

"I know. You're a lot of things, Neal, but I don't think you've ever been the guy to screw your friend over. If I don't trust every… at least I trust that. Okay?"

"Okay."

Neal leans into his side, forgetting the height difference, ending up with his head pressed against Peter's. And it's weird, but the only part Peter really minds right now is that they're the wrong way round.

* * * *

Peter wakes up the next morning to noise in his kitchen. Neal is making breakfast and singing along to the CD player. He hears the sounds of Peter waking and calls, "Peter, I didn't know you could sing!"

"I can't." Peter goes to see if Neal has got the coffeemaker running yet.

"You really can. Lower range than me, of course, but I'm kind of enjoying that right now." Neal dances from one side of the kitchen to the other, singing 'Don't Fence Me In'. Typical.

El meets Neal at the end of the table and he spins her into a turn. "See, honey," she says, "and you can dance, too."

"I never said I couldn't dance," Peter says. "I just don't like all those events with everyone dressed up like peacocks, watching each other to see who spent the most money on the dumbest thing."

Neal shakes his head but it looks fond in a way that Peter can almost read again. Neal turns Elizabeth around one more time and steps with her back to the counter-top. Peter supposes that there could be some benefits to their problem: if Neal could escort El to her events without anyone suspecting anything…

Neal puts a cup of coffee in front of him and says, "You're plotting."

"What?"

"You don't think I know how I look when I'm working on a scheme?"

Peter shrugs. "I don't know how I look." And then Neal leans across the table and kisses him. Once, right on the lips. Peter says, "Neal, what?"

"You're always saying I'm a narcissist. Maybe I just wanted to know what it would feel like."

There's something more to it than that. Peter wants to push but he won't risk the morning's peace. Sometimes he just has to let Neal come to him first. Instead Peter says, "You are a narcissist. Now, we've got a whole day free to look at this stuff. Call Moz and tell him to bring his notes over."

"Oh, it's Moz now, is it?" Neal teases, voice too light. But he grabs the cell phone from where Peter dropped it last night, and goes to call his friend.

* * * *

Moz drops his notes and the mirror on the table and leaves again. He's muttering some nonsense about not wanting to go the whole way to South Dakota to find an expert. Peter chooses not to think about that one too much. He might have to listen to the parts that sounded suspiciously like, "why don't clandestine FBI departments talk to each other?"

They spend all day looking through the scraps of hearsay and rumour that Moz has accumulated. There are notes on all sorts of weird crap that Peter's pretty sure has never crossed his desk before, but nothing that seems like their problem.

El has been sitting with them since lunch, when she finished her own work, and leaves again to get them something to eat. Thai, Peter thinks she said, but he's immersed in these files. Moz takes notes like Neal, like he might need to burn them or make them indecipherable at a moment's notice. Half the time Peter needs to ask Neal to translate.

"Intent, I think he means," Neal says, and goes back to his own page.

Peter stares at his page for a while. "Tell me it's not-." He shuffles through Moz's notes again. "Tell me it's not that simple. It can't be-."

"Peter!" Neal interrupts, having caught the sudden noise. "What?"

Peter passes him the mirror. "Hold this, and want to be in your own body."

"What? Peter, I already did that. I want to be me again, trust me, I…"

Neal says 'trust me' a lot, Peter thinks, and the part of him that never stops tracking these things marks it down in a column. The rest of him says, "Mean it. The whole thing. Your body, with the face on the no-fly list and the tracker around your ankle. Want that. Your job and the limits and having to jump on my say-so when every inch of you wants to run away and never come back. You need to want all of it."

"You too," Neal says. He takes Peter's wrist and presses his hand to the mirror.

"I'm not the problem," Peter says. He ignores Neal's expression.

Neal's fingers spread out over the frame of the thing, rubbing circles. He closes his eyes and there is a wrenching shift and when Peter opens his own eyes he's the one tracing circles on the carvings.

Neal stares at him with his blue, blue eyes and whispers, "How high?" before he grabs Peter's jacket and pulls him across the table. Their lips collide awkwardly, overcompensating for adjustments they don't need to make anymore, but then Neal slips his head to the side and moans, sweet in a way that undoes Peter.

A cough from the doorway. "Hey, El," Peter tests.

She's smiling. "There's my husband," El says. She walks towards Peter, and he steps to her and then they're halfway running across his small sitting room. He catches her around the waist and swings her into the kiss. It's right, kissing El this time, the way it wasn't from Neal's smaller frame. The angles are borne of long, dedicated practice and when she shifts towards him just a little more he groans. "El."

There's a small sound from behind them. Peter breaks away from his wife to turn around. Neal has no problem with watching them this time – eyes wide open and tongue running once along his lips.

El grins. "And there's my Neal."

"Your Neal?" Peter asks, even as he smiles and lets her walk back across the room. "I caught him, I keep him."

"Yeah, honey, but I think I'm gonna take him into protective custody."

"Why's that?"

"Cause you're going to start freaking out in about ten seconds from now." She walks towards Neal, counting seconds. "Ten, nine, eight…"

Neal meets her on 'seven' when she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls him down to kiss her. There are three more seconds – six, five, four – where Neal freezes, stands totally still in Elizabeth's hold. Then his hands skim up to her waist – three – and he leans his head into the kiss – two, one.

Peter counts backwards all the way to negative forty before Neal exhales shakily and steps back. He looks at Peter.

"God," Peter murmurs.

"What?" Neal asks.

"I'll tell you later." Peter steps towards Neal. They're all closer now - it's the work of a moment to grab Neal by the waist and pull. Peter is more careful of the bandaged side now that it's not his injury; he spreads one hand carefully below it and with his other hand covers Neal's shoulder and pulls him in tighter.

It's electric, kissing Neal. He knows this face better than his own, knows just what it means when Neal tips his head back and gasps. He knows everything about Neal when he's not hiding behind Peter's face. Peter breaks the kiss and strokes his thumb over Neal's cheek and his unsteady smile.

He catches sight of his wedding ring, back where it should be, and kisses El again. She hums into his mouth and then gasps. Peter would stop and ask her but he can feel Neal's hand between them now. Neal's mouth settles on the juncture of Peter's neck, worrying teeth marks into it. He goes for Peter's fly and Peter laughs because Neal bought these jeans. They're fastened with some complicated button thing and Neal's fingers are flying in just the way that Peter's wouldn't be. Another advantage, right there.

"Wait, wait, wait," Peter manages. Neal stops, El just moves to tongue at the shell of Peter's ear. "Bedroom?" Peter asks, when he can speak again.

They start moving, still not quite able to detangle long enough to get up the stairs without breaking contact. Peter thinks, 'we're pretty lucky no one's ever going to ask us how we got together' and then puts all of his concentration into getting the three of them onto the bed.

Neal and El fall side-by-side, half-undressed and panting. Peter kisses El's palm. "I love you, you know that?"

"I do," she says, laughing at him. "I love you too."

Neal looks he doesn't know what Peter will say to him. Peter says what he almost said earlier. "God, Neal. You… you in your own body."

"What?"

He'll regret this later. He shakes his head. "You're so fucking beautiful I can't think."

Neal smiles at him lopsidedly. "You in your body's pretty good too." He doesn't believe Peter. He'll believe it of everyone else but Peter.

Peter holds Neal's hand against the bed and kisses him again. He hears El whispering in Neal's ear and doesn't ask what she said, although he wonders if Neal believes her. Peter just says, "If we do this, promise you won't run tomorrow?"

Neal rubs his leg against Peter's back. "Anklet, remember?" The plastic is cool against Peter's skin.

"Promise anyway."

"Will you believe me?"

"Yeah."

Neal's eyes open wide. El kisses his shoulder and Peter keeps a grip on his hand. Neal looks down at his chest, away from Peter. Then back again. "Promise. I promise. Hand on your heart." He smiles and splays his hand wide on Peter's ribcage. "It's a safer bet than mine."

Peter looks down at Neal with his wild dark hair and his pale skin flushed pink. He thinks about 'beautiful' again but doesn't say it. He reaches out instead. They've had a week of tangled-up body language and too many of the wrong words – time to see if they've learned anything.

* * * *

When Peter wakes up he knows that someone else is in the house. El is on his left-hand side, asleep on top of his arm. He looks to the other side: Neal is sprawled on his stomach with one hand on Peter's chest.

Peter pulls himself from between them with a great deal of reluctance. El frowns and turns over, shifting herself closer to Neal's warmth. Peter smiles, pulls on a shirt, and goes to get his gun from the bedside cabinet.

In the sitting room, Moz is putting the mirror into a black bag which bursts with light when he drops it inside. He sees Peter and yelps. "God, man, what are you trying to do to me?"

"It's Peter."

"I know it's Peter, Neal would never pull a gun on me!"

"Moz…"

Moz blinks at him. "Anyway. You two are back to normal, and this is going a long way away. I have a friend who knows a guy who once stayed near the place in South Dakota. It'll never be seen again, trust me. Well, there's this guy – British guy – who steals things like this sometimes but I'm sure… Anyway. Don't worry. Go back to your debauchery, I'll take care of the details. Just like old times. Tell Neal I dropped by."

Neal appears at the top of the stairs. "Peter?"

"Oh, God."

"What's with the gun? Oh, hey, Moz."

"Mozzie?" Elizabeth calls down the stairs. "Are you staying for breakfast? I was trying something out last week and there's a variation I'd like an opinion on."

Moz pauses, thinks about it, and decides, "Yes. Yes, that would be great, thank you, Elizabeth." He says to Peter, "One more hour won't hurt this thing, right? It's neutralised. And your wife's cooking…" Moz walks towards the kitchen and Peter really wants to know how everyone knows their way around his house so easily.

Neal gets to the bottom of the stairs and Peter starts laughing.

"What?" Neal asks. He looks a little offended.

Peter kisses him and pulls back enough to whisper, "Everything that happened this week and now you're wearing my clothes without complaint?"

Neal flushes. "Couldn't find my shirt."

Peter retrieves it from one of the bookshelves. "Here you go."

"You're feeling very pleased with yourself, aren't you?"

Elizabeth drops her arms over Neal's shoulders and hugs him from behind. "He's just congratulating himself on his excellent taste. Now come and help me make breakfast before Moz comes back in here and finds us doing bad things on the couch."

Neal mutters something that sounds like, "what if they were really good things?" but follows her to the kitchen, still wearing Peter's shirt.

Peter thinks about wearing Neal's shirt just to really throw him, but those things look better on Neal. He walks to the breakfast table, recovers the hat from where it ended up last night, and drops it onto Neal's head. Neal leans his head backwards, holding the hat with one hand, and kisses Peter's wrist. "You're welcome," Peter says, meeting El's smiling eyes across the table, and ignoring Moz's choking. It's good to be back to normal.