St. Louis. Monday morning, December 8, 2003

Extremely early in the morning, Peter slammed on the brakes on the way to the airport when the car in front of him abruptly slowed down.

"When we get back to New York, I'm doing the driving," Neal said.

"I didn't know you owned a car."

"I don't."

"Well, I'm not letting someone who landed his own car in a lake drive my car. When you get a car, then we'll talk about who drives."

"You really need to let go of the whole car in the lake thing, especially since you think I'm still traumatized by it. Anyway, I can always get a car. I could steal one."

"No."

"I'll bet you wouldn't want to drive a stolen vehicle. That would probably look bad."

"There will be no car stealing."

"Did you know an Aston Martin used in one of the James Bond films in the mid-60s was stolen in Florida in 1997 and never recovered? I would love to drive a Bond car."

"You know..." Peter stopped himself from revealing that Neal's code name in the FBI case files had been James Bonds, derived from his bond forgeries. He'd be insufferable if he knew about that. "Is that theft something I'm going to hear about when we trade your confession for immunity?"

"No, but I'll help the Bureau solve the case if I get to drive the car after I find it."

"That's not how things work at the FBI. We don't play with the evidence once it's recovered."

"Maybe you should try it. See if it helps increase recovery rates. I'm sure it would improve morale. FBI agents always look depressed."

"We look intimidating."

"Keep telling yourself that."

When Peter checked in at the airport, he found his ticket had mysteriously been upgraded to first class for the Chicago to New York leg of the flight. "Did you do this?" he asked Neal.

The only answer was an attempted angelic look followed by, "Merry Christmas, Peter."

Peter wasn't entirely surprised that he lost track of Neal between the ticketing desk and the security line. As far as Peter could tell, Neal didn't have his real ID with him, and probably didn't want to travel under an assumed identity with an FBI agent. On the one hand, Peter was unhappy that Neal was probably committing a crime, but on the other hand, Peter was the one who had insisted the immunity deal meeting occur Monday afternoon in New York City, which he now realized didn't give Neal much of a window to get there legally.

He'd try to be more mindful of that in the future and avoid putting Neal into a no-win position again.

But the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got that Neal had defaulted to breaking the law. He could have explained the issue and asked for a delay in the meeting, or requested assistance in getting back to New York legally. Peter couldn't let Neal get into the habit of taking the law into his own hands, and especially didn't want to start a precedent of letting Neal get away with it. Minutes before his flight boarded, Peter placed a call to Agent Clinton Jones.

That afternoon, Peter walked into an interrogation room where a sullen, handcuffed Neal had been waiting for nearly an hour. "You put out a warrant for my arrest!" he said the moment he saw Peter. "What happened to immunity?"

"We offered immunity on the condition that you stop committing crimes. And yet, mere days later, you traveled to New York under a false identity. The government takes that very seriously. That's a felony, Neal. Did you think I was simply going to ignore it?"

"But you knew! You knew I was traveling under a false name when you told me to get back here by this afternoon. You put me in that position. What else was I gonna do?"

"You ask for help. That's what we do in the FBI when one of us can't find a workable, legal solution to a problem."

"I'm not in the FBI yet."

"Or ever, after this stunt."

"Peter!" Peter almost winced at the pained shock in Neal's eyes. "You said you'd do whatever you could to make this work. I... I trusted you."

Peter sat down across from Neal. "What I can do has limits. You said you can't imagine me as anything other than an FBI agent. Well, neither can I. I stand for the law, and I can't let you break it. You have to understand the consequences and be willing to face them." He unlocked the cuffs. "I need you to remember this, Neal, the next time you're tempted to circumvent the law, the next time it's easier to cross the line rather than admit you need help. I need it embedded in your mind, how it felt to think the deal was off, and that you were going to prison. Because as soon as you sign that deal with us, there won't be any second chances."

Neal rubbed his wrists. "Did you see The Hunt for Red October? Because there's a line that comes to mind right now: Next time, send a goddamn memo."

"Well, I wanted an FBI arrest on your record anyway, for undercover work in case you need to convince the criminal element that you aren't on good terms with the Bureau. You forced me to turn it into a surprise party. It was a two birds, one stone kind of thing. Now we're going to bring in the immunity paperwork and record your confession."

"Don't I get a break after your little experiment in teaching through trauma?"

"Nope. You already told me you have a flight instinct, and what you've been through this afternoon has to be pushing that button. We're going to get through this, and then it will be all over with no more incentive to run."

###

With a document signed by Peter's boss stating that Neal had immunity for any crimes confessed that afternoon, Neal stepped Peter and an agent called Jones through a litany of crimes. He found it interesting to learn which crimes they didn't know about, and which ones he was suspected of but didn't commit. For some of those he was able to point them toward the actual perpetrator. He didn't name Mozzie, Kate or Shawn, and glossed over a couple of things he'd done with Alex. If they didn't know Alex was a woman, that might give her an edge. He told them about Keller, and his concerns the man was getting more violent.

At the back of his mind, Neal was aware that this session could have gone much differently. It was hard to believe that only this morning he'd been joking with Peter on the way to the St. Louis airport. If the day had gone as he'd expected, this recitation of crimes would have been much different. He'd probably be smug, proud of his accomplishments, and identifying with every vain movie villain who couldn't resist an opportunity to brag. He would probably have emphasized some of his mistakes, to make Peter laugh. He'd be paying more attention to this Jones guy, to see what made him smile or frown disapprovingly.

But maybe this was for the best. Peter probably wouldn't have appreciated making a joke out of his crimes. Peter took this stuff seriously.

In some instances, Neal told them where stolen property was hidden, or who had purchased it. But many things had been fenced, the money spent, and he had no idea who had purchased the items from the fences. The FBI might have pushed him more on that, but things took a turn when Peter said, "There's a gap in this timeline. Are you telling me you didn't commit any crimes this spring?"

"I was trying to. I was working on a long con that involved working for Vincent Adler."

Mention of Adler brought a frenzy of activity. Neal was taken to a conference room, where half a dozen agents pelted him with questions about the missing billionaire's activities and whereabouts. That went on for nearly an hour before they were satisfied that he couldn't provide any more information on the Adler case.

They left him alone for a few minutes, and Peter returned with a file containing the birth certificate and background the U.S. Marshals had provided. Neal smiled for the first time that afternoon when he saw he'd spent his teens at a boarding school in Paris while his widowed mother worked for Interpol. That certainly gave him an excuse for not providing many details about his mom, and a reasonable explanation for being multi-lingual, well-traveled, and a bit of a snob about food and wine. He couldn't have asked for better.

While Neal was reading the background, Jones had pulled Peter out of the conference room. Then Peter returned with a list of Neal's known aliases. Neal added a couple more, and withheld one he considered more of a pseudonym than an alias.

"What about Henry Winslow?" Peter asked.

"Oh, that's not an alias, that's..." Neal blinked. "You know, this is the second time I've been arrested for impersonating him."

"Henry is a real person?"

"Yeah. He got into trouble in Las Vegas, needed to avoid the authorities, and skipped town with my ID, leaving his own behind. I didn't know there was a warrant for his arrest, and I simply assumed his identity in return, thinking it was all a game. I had to convince the cops Henry had lifted my wallet and replaced it with his, and that I was an innocent victim."

"So you stole his identity?"

"Borrowed it. He knows I do that occasionally when I don't have time to create a new alias. He isn't going to press charges. He thinks it's funny." Neal noted Peter's look of surprise. "He has a strange sense of humor."

"But Friday night, when you mentioned being arrested in Vegas, you were talking to someone named Shawn. You said he was the one who owed you. And I can't help noticing that you didn't mention a Shawn in any of your statements today."

"You can assume Shawn is to blame for any trouble Henry got into. He's more a force of chaos than a criminal. Trust me, you don't want to waste your time on Shawn."

"I can let it go for now, but if a force of chaos reenters your life, I want a heads up. And no more impersonating Henry." Peter paused as Jones walked in. "Okay, Jones, you said there's a theory you want to test out? What is it?"

"I've got a few questions for Caffrey."

"Shoot," Peter invited.

"The thing is, if I'm right, it might not look so good for the Bureau. Hughes isn't going to be happy."

Peter sighed. "And yet here you are. It's important enough to you to take that risk, so let's get on with it."

Jones took the chair to Neal's left. "Before I get started, how long since you've eaten anything, Caffrey?"

"Five, no 6am local time."

"That's nearly twelve hours ago," Jones said, pulling a granola bar out of his pocket. "I need you to eat this."

Neal took it in his right hand and studied the packaging. There was no sign of tampering. "It isn't drugged, is it?"

"Nah. Fresh out of the vending machine," Jones promised. He took it back and tore open the packaging. Pulling off a corner, he ate it himself. "Perfectly safe."

Neal took the bar back and ate it. It tasted like cardboard, but he thought he could use a pick-me-up. Jones seemed sharp, and Neal was feeling slow right now. He drank some water and said, "Thanks." He glanced at Peter, who didn't give any sign of knowing where Jones was going with this, either.

"Have you signed the application to be a consultant yet?" When Neal shook his head, Jones slid over a sheet of paper and pointed to a line at the bottom of the page. "Sign here."

Neal grabbed a pen and started to sign. The paper slid on the slick tabletop, making him pause in his signature. He pulled the sheet back again and finished.

"Neal, what are you hiding?" Peter asked.

"Huh?" Neal really was feeling slow, distracted. He'd been running on adrenalin for a while, but the effects had faded.

"Your left hand. In all the time you've been in this room, you haven't moved it. Not to eat or drink or even to hold that piece of paper still. Jones, did we not search him when he was arrested? Are you trying to demonstrate that the Bureau missed some piece of contraband in his sleeve? I doubt he's carrying a weapon."

"You're getting warmer," said Jones. "Just one more question, Caffrey." He held up a bottle of ibuprofen, opened it and shook out a pill. "Will you roll up your left sleeve if I give you one of these?"

With a grimace, Neal held out his left hand for the pill, swallowed it, and rolled up his black sweater's left sleeve to reveal a reddened and swollen wrist. "I think it's a sprain," he said.

"Neal, why didn't you say something?" Peter asked.

"You wanted me to remember what it felt like to be arrested."

"You thought I knew you'd been hurt?"

"They're your team. You told them what to do."

Peter stood up to pace around the table. "You thought I told them to hurt you?"

"You wanted the memory embedded in my brain."

"I'm going to get some ice," Jones volunteered, making a quick exit.

"We don't hurt people. That's not how we operate here. This is going to be investigated, and if we find that an agent did this intentionally, they'll be disciplined. Don't ever assume I'm okay with anyone being hurt, or working hurt. Promise me, you'll –"

"I promise," Neal interrupted. He remembered this part. "I won't tell. I won't. Don't hurt her, please."

"What?"

"Won't tell anyone, won't show anyone. I'll be good, and you won't hurt my mom. I promise." Neal was panting now, not in pain but in fear. He felt hunted and there was nowhere to hide but inside his own head. He almost made it there, when a shock of cold brought him back. He focused to see a bag of ice on his wrist.

"Neal," said Peter, and Neal had the feeling Peter had been saying his name for a while now.

"Sorry."

"Don't... Don't apologize. I thought you didn't remember what happened to you when you were nine."

"I don't remember the worst part, when I was abducted. The earlier stuff is still there."

"'The worst part'?" Peter repeated. He swore, and then he sat down and said, "Tell me about Henry Winslow. What did he do in Vegas that got him into trouble?"

"But he doesn't have anything to do with... with what I was remembering."

"I know. We need to get your mind going down a different track before I send you home. Tell me about Henry and Vegas."

Neal nodded. "Well, he claims he slipped and crashed into a glass case at an exhibit of guitars played by Jimi Hendrix. And he was only playing it to make sure it hadn't been damaged. And he wasn't actually singing, but yelling for help." Being careful to leave out anything about Shawn, and to keep the story as lighthearted as possible, Neal could feel his mind sharpening, and the dark memories receded. He drew the story out and embellished, aware that Peter was looking for entertainment rather than facts. After wrapping up with an ending that was completely stolen from an Indiana Jones movie, Neal said, "Thanks."

"It takes about a week for the government to process all the paperwork for a new hire. Between now and then I'm going to make sure the team here is clear on how we handle suspects and consultants. I want to see you back here Monday morning, 8am sharp."

"I'll be here."

"You're going to speak up if you're placed under pressure to break the law in order to do your job, even if you believe the pressure is coming from me. And you're going to tell me if you're hurt or injured, accidentally or otherwise. Got that?"

"Yeah, I got it. And next time you need to teach me something, can you just tell me first?"

Author's Note: I envision this younger version of Peter as still inexperienced as a manager of a team, and therefore more apt to make mistakes, especially with Neal. But I also like to think these younger versions will find it easier to learn from each other, to have fun, and to trust each other over time. The aim is to create a gradual increase in trust, rather than the big swings of trust and distrust of canon.