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Neal would've liked it to be Peter, but in the end it's a stone-faced US Marshal that unceremoniously unlocks the anklet then takes it off Neal's leg.
Neal swivels in his chair, leg falling from the edge of Peter's desk to the floor. He jiggles it experimentally; he's had to cut his anklet a few times before but guilt weighs a ton and nothing feels quite like the freedom of not having to wear it. This feels more real than hearing he's officially served his sentence and is no longer in the custody of the DOJ or one Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI.
Hughes is signing off on some paperwork and soon enough the Marshal takes the useless anklet and just -- leaves. It occurs to Neal, almost belatedly, that so could he.
Peter is eyeing him carefully, hands in his pockets. Neal looks away, away from Peter's terrible tie, from the badge at his hip, away from the half a dozen things he wants to say.
"So... this is it," Peter says.
This has been it for almost twenty-four hours now, since the end of the hearing, but then bureaucracy happened, and there are some goodbyes that are harder to say than others.
"You can do anything you want now," Peter continues, tone unreadable even to a conman. "You can run. Go as far as your legs and your treasure will take you. As long as you keep your nose clean, I have no intention of chasing you. How does it feel?"
"Great," Neal lies, looking away from his shoes only to look at Peter's, their stance wide, solid. Somethings in Neal's chest twinges.
Peter's tone softens. "You know you can stay too, right? Hughes couldn't swing the salaried consultant thing for you, but doesn't mean you can't get a position with NYPD, or an insurance company, or a security one, or do some freelance authenticating? You could have an actual career, Neal. Get a real apartment, a car, maybe follow up on some of those promises you made Sara. El wants to have you over every Sunday for dinner," Peter adds, amusement in his voice. It fades quickly.
They both that know without work keeping them joined at the hip and the Burkes' careers being what they are - not to mention this nebulous career that's supposedly waiting for Neal - those dinners will get few and far between and soon enough they'll only see each other at weddings and funerals. If they're lucky.
Neal is desperately waiting for Peter to move or sit or leave so he can stop holding his breath. When he finally does move, Peter just shuffles closer a fraction, until his hand gently palms the back of Neal's head, making a mess of his hair.
Neal breathes out. His next exhale is shaky, wet.
"You should stay," Peter says quietly, barely loud enough for Neal to hear. His thumb trails over the tripping pulse at Neal's temple. "We'll figure it out."