White Collar story! (Confused on a Higher Level, part one.)
Not for a prompt this time around - though you might say that this was inspired by a collarcorner prompt, or at least the response to one. Reading Sara Highum’s story here, I got to thinking, what if Neal really was “drunk dialing” Peter? Or at least, Peter thought he was… though there might be something more going on. And at that my brain took off in a direction totally unrelated to her story, and the idea just wouldn’t let go until I did something with it. ^.^
Summary: Neal drunk-dials Peter. Initially, Peter is Not Amused. Then he figures out what’s really going on… and he’s even less amused. Set somewhere mid-season one.
Confused on a Higher Level
It was a low-key, classy kind of place - one of the nicer bars available within his radius. Less of a high-energy party atmosphere, and more the sort of place you could just hang out and talk with someone. If you had someone to talk with, that was.
Neal didn’t at the moment, but that was okay. Maybe he’d meet someone, maybe he wouldn’t. For the moment all he wanted was a place to unwind and get out of his own headspace, no real obligations or expectations from within or without.
The guy a couple of spots down at the counter stepped away, heading toward the restrooms at the back. As he passed behind Neal he stumbled slightly, his shoulder catching Neal in the back before he righted himself with an embarrassed, “Sorry, man.”
Probably more simple clumsiness than intoxication, Neal thought as he looked back to wave off the apology. The man sounded sober enough, anyhow. Neal brushed an arm unobtrusively across the pocket where he kept his wallet. Still safely in place. There weren’t many pickpockets skilled enough to have lifted it without his feeling something anyway - if the guy had managed it, he’d have almost deserved to keep it. Still would’ve been embarrassing. He turned back to pick up his glass.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
Sure enough, now he looked more closely he could see the lipstick marks on it, though it was all but full. The girl looked more startled and confused than angry, fortunately.
“Sorry!” He gave her his nicest apologetic smile - just a touch of sheepishness, plenty of invitation to laugh with him at the situation. “Same thing I was drinking, thought it was mine. Here, I just ordered a fresh one -” which, with perfect timing, the bartender was setting down in front of him even as he spoke “ - why don’t you just take this?”
He nudged the glass toward her. She hesitated only fractionally before taking it with an answering smile, her stance relaxing. She wasn’t bad looking at all, especially with that smile lighting up her eyes. Not exactly the type to stop you in your tracks - medium height, medium build, medium brown hair - but quite pretty. Could be the evening was about to get a bit more interesting.
“My name’s Neal, by the way,”
“Carrie,” she introduced herself. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“No one in particular,” he gave a casually dismissive shrug. “Just looking to relax a bit after a long day. You?”
“I’m actually here with - ”
“Hey! Carrie! I found a spot for us over here!”
Looking up, Carrie waved a quick acknowledgement to the man who’d called out.
“ - my boyfriend,” she finished.
“Ah.” Oh well. Not going anywhere there - even if he thought he had a chance at it here, he wasn’t really the girlfriend-stealing type.
“Carrie?” The call was louder this time.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” She flashed Neal an apologetic look, gathering her purse and drink. “He’s a bit… impatient. Excuse me.”
“Of course.” Neal smiled his understanding. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise.” She nodded, and with a last smile headed off to join her date.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter groaned as he was reluctantly dragged out of sleep by the buzz of his cell phone’s vibrating. Groping on his bedside table, he picked it up, raising it so he could see the caller ID. Neal. He flipped the phone open.
“Yeah, Caffrey, what is it?”
He knew his voice sounded gravelly with sleep, and not a little grouchy, but if Neal wanted chipper then he could call at a more reasonable hour. Anything that had him making a call at this time of the night had to be important enough that he couldn't care less about the recipient’s mood. The thought brought Peter a little more awake.
“Um…” Neal sounded hesitant, as if unsure how to start.
“Spit it out, Neal,” he ordered.
“Peter? Where are you?”
Okay, that didn’t sound good. Peter pushed himself up into a half-sitting position, leaning against the headboard.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he said, a little annoyed, a little concerned, and definitely not in the mood for evasion tactics or guessing games. “I’m in bed. I was asleep, until you called. Why aren’t you?”
“My bed isn’t here.”
There was something odd in Neal’s tone. He seemed… not just hesitant, but confused. And now Peter was getting more confused by the moment.
“Are you saying your bed is missing?”
“No. Don’ think so. M’ whole room’s not here. ‘S pro’bly still there.”
“What?” Peter frowned. Neal’s room was… He shook his head. “Where are you?”
“Out. I went… out.”
And then something clicked. It wasn’t just that Neal’s tone was off. His words were slurring slightly, he was confused …
“Neal, are you drunk?”
“Um…” Neal actually seemed to be giving the question some thought. Finally, he replied. “Don’ think so. No. Can’ be drunk. Doesn’… make sense.”
Peter shut his eyes. “Let me rephrase that. Have you been drinking?”
“Yes.”
Finally, a straightforward answer. Not that it made him any happier.
“Neal…” he ground out.
“Are you mad, Peter?”
“Well I’m not exactly happy.”
“I di’n’t do anything wrong.” Neal had the gall to sound hurt now, as well as confused. “Gave ‘em my real ID an’ paid an’ everything.”
“Neal - ” Peter cut off the angry tirade that wanted to burst out, glancing quickly at El to make sure she was still asleep. Keeping his voice low, he went on, carefully restrained but making his displeasure clear. “You are a - supposedly - responsible adult. You have every right to drink. You can even get drunk, if that’s what you want to do. But of all the people I would’ve thought might wake me in the middle of the night with a drunken phone call, I never…” He shook his head, at a loss. “I thought better of you than that.”
“Sorry.”
Neal actually sounded quite subdued, and genuinely apologetic. Peter thought the message had gotten through… as well as it could, in Neal’s current condition.
“Yeah, well. We’ll have a talk about this tomorrow, after we’ve both had some sleep. You can tell me whatever’s bothering you then, if you still think it’s important.”
“’m really sorry, Peter.”
He was moving past contrite into downright miserable. Time to end this, before he wound up dealing with a drunk, crying Caffrey. Peter was pretty sure neither of them wanted to deal with the fallout from that.
“Go home, Neal. Go to bed. Now.”
Not giving him a chance to respond, he hung up. He briefly contemplated turning the phone off entirely, but in the end his sense of duty won out and he simply set it back on the bedside table. As he settled himself underneath the covers again, El stirred.
“Who was it?” she asked, sounding more asleep than awake.
“Just Neal.”
“Mm. Something wrong?”
“No. He’s just… being a pain in the neck, as usual.” Only he wasn’t - not as usual. It really wasn’t like Neal to… He shook off the thought, too tired to deal with it now. He’d sort things out tomorrow. “Don’t worry about it, Hon. I’ll tell you in the morning. Just go back to sleep.”
Her only response was an indistinct murmur of assent. In moments her breathing was deep and even once more. A minute later he was well on his way to joining her. He was just on the point of drifting off when… the phone started vibrating, again. A glance confirmed that it was Neal. Again.
Pushing back the covers and sliding out of bed, he grabbed up the cell phone and headed quickly out of the room. If Neal was going to make him deal with this here and now, he was at least going to go somewhere where he could express his displeasure without waking El in the process. He was halfway down the stairs when he answered the phone, on the third ring.
“Neal, I told you - go home,” he growled.
“Think… I need s’m help.”
Peter sighed, dropping tiredly onto the couch. “You won’t hear me say this often, but - seriously, Neal? You couldn’t have just called Mozzie for help and left me out of this?”
“Can’t ‘member his number.”
“But you could remember mine?” He wasn’t sure whether to be vaguely flattered, or even more exasperated.
“F’rst on speed dial. Moz made me promise not t’ put his info on the phone where the snoopy Feds c’d find it.” Neal paused, then added. “Sorry, Peter, but you are.”
Suppressing a groan, Peter let his head fall back to rest on the back of the couch. What had he ever done to deserve this? Some days… life was really not fair.
“So why didn’t you just call a taxi?”
“Cant ‘member th’ address,” Neal informed him mournfully.
“June’s address, or where you are now?” Please, please just let it be the simple answer....
“Me. Don’ r’member where I am. Or the name.”
Of course it couldn’t be as simple as reminding him of where he lived. This was ridiculous. Standing, he walked to the dining room table where his laptop sat. As he waited for it to start up, he asked, “Isn’t there someone there who can tell you? Or better yet, just make the call for you?”
“No… ‘s no one here now.”
No one there…. It was late, but not nearly late enough that everyone at a place that served drinks was likely to have packed up and gone home. Last call was usually closer to three or four a.m.
“Where are you? Are you at a bar?” There was silence for a few moments. With a sigh, Peter said, “Neal, I can’t hear you nod or shake your head.”
There was a quick inhale, as if Neal was trying to wake himself up. “Oh. Yes. Was… at a bar. Not anymore, though. Left.”
“Well, where are you now?”
“Outside. Inna… alley, I think.”
“So go back inside, and get someone to call you a cab.”
There was another brief silence, followed by some odd sounds, rustling and scraping as if maybe Neal was moving around, a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper - and then a loud clattering. Peter moved the phone away from his ear for a moment, wincing. Sounded like Neal had just dropped the phone. Then Neal’s voice came again.
“S’rry, Peter. You ‘kay?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, Neal. I’m still here. Are you okay?”
“Um… don’ think I can go back ‘nside.”
“Why not? Is the door locked?”
“No… can’t get up.”
“You can’t get up?” Peter frowned, more genuine concern starting to displace some of the aggravation. “Neal, are you alright?”
“Don’ feel s’good.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when you drink too much.”
“Didn’t, drink t’ much. I know.”
“I think the fact that I’m having this conversation with you right now says otherwise,” Peter countered dryly.
“Didn’t,” Neal insisted, almost petulantly, sounding hurt at not being believed. “It was… Dunno th’ name now, but w’s not that strong. An’ only had… one an’ half of ‘em. Not t’ much at all.”
Peter rubbed at his forehead. Granted, he would’ve thought that Neal had a pretty good idea of his limitations. He was a casual drinker, never a heavy one, and for all Peter had seen him have a glass of wine or the occasional beer often enough, he couldn’t remember having seen him drink to the point of noticeably losing inhibitions, much less actually get falling down drunk. Probably as much habit as personal preference - a man in his (former) line of work could little afford that kind of loss of control.
If there’d been something wrong, anything going on to upset Neal, he might’ve suspected that as some kind of impetus for his actions, out of character though it might be on a normal basis. But there hadn’t been anything lately to especially throw him off balance. Not as far as he knew. And Neal had been acting absolutely normal. Or what passed for it, in Neal’s world. Which was, you know, a bit odd sometimes, but cheerful, outgoing, talking about things, not the kind of person to go off and drown his sorrows in a bottle. And he hadn’t seen any of the usual subtle warning signs that something might be up. Overall, he was fairly sure he could discount the idea of Neal drinking himself into oblivion - whether he’d set out to do it or not - because he was upset.
So what was this? It just… didn’t make sense. What he’d said earlier was true: he wouldn’t have expected this of Neal. Not from anything he knew of the man.
The computer was ready. He started bringing up Neal’s tracking information.
“Peter?” The question was quiet, hesitant.
“Yeah?” He responded wearily.
“R’lly don’ feel s’ good. Hurts…”
Peter’s brows drew together. “Hurts? What hurts, Neal?”
“Head… st’mach… kinda all over. Think he hit me r’lly hard.”
“Hit you?” Peter tensed. “Who hit you? Did you get in a fight?”
That would be about as unlike Neal as getting drunk out of his mind would be. Though considering the foreign ground they seemed to be treading on already… But seriously? Neal getting drunk and brawling? It didn’t add up.
“No!” The denial was wobbly, but adamant. “Wasn’ fightin’. Just… had t’ help her. ‘Cause he was hurting her… jus’ told ‘im to let her go.”
Of… course there was a girl involved here, somewhere. There would be.
“So you played knight in shining armor, and got beat up for your trouble. How badly are you hurt?”
“I dunno. I…” Neal pulled in a shuddering breath. “Peter? Can you come get me?”
Neal sounded so lost, even scared. There really wasn’t much of a choice to make.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “Yeah, I’m gonna come. Stay on the phone, okay?”
“’Kay.” Neal mumbled. “Than’s, Peter. ‘M sorry.”
The tracking information was up now. Peter checked the location - less than a mile from June’s place. He scribbled down the address of the closest building to enter into the car’s GPS.
“Yeah, well. We’ll figure out how much you have to be sorry for when I get there. Just stay with me for now.”
He considered waking El, to let her know that he was going, but decided there was no sense in both of them losing sleep at this point. Instead, tearing off the sheet with the address, he wrote her a brief note, outlining what had happened. He left the pad of paper sitting on the table - she’d see it if she noticed he was gone and came down, or if he didn’t get back until after she woke in the morning.
It was a cool night. He’d been sleeping in sweatpants and an old t-shirt - not exactly classy, but decent enough to be seen in public, if needs be. Thankful now that he’d left his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter where he’d dropped them earlier that evening, he grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door, heading out to the car.
Buckling himself in, he switched the phone onto speaker, setting it on the passenger seat.
“You still with me?” He asked.
There was a worryingly long pause before Neal spoke.
“Yeah. M’here.”
Was it his imagination, or was Neal’s voice getting quieter? Whatever was going on, he needed to keep Neal alert. If he had a concussion or something, it could be important for his health - and even if it turned out he was just drunk, Peter had no intention of worrying the whole way over because the man had passed out or fallen asleep on him.
“Keep talking, Neal.”
“Nothin’ t’ say.”
“Hey, you called me, remember? I’ve gotta drive, it’s your responsibility to do the talking.”
“Thought I had… right t’ r’main silent.”
“Not right now you don’t. Talk.”
“M’tired. Gonna lay down first.”
Peter muttered a curse. If he did that, the likelihood of his staying awake lessened considerably. He grabbed on to the first thing he thought might make sense to Neal in his current state, since the whole “dangerous to your health and my sanity” thing wasn’t likely to pull much weight.
“Don’t do that, Neal. You’ll ruin your clothes.”
“Too late f’r that. Already got… blood n’stuff on ‘em.”
“Then just… stay sitting up because I said so. It’s not a good idea for you to lie down right now.”
It was a weak method of persuading Neal at the best of times, but he was clutching at straws here. Neal sighed, sounding both weary and put out.
“Y’r bossy, Peter.”
“Yeah, I am. And I’m usually right. Just trust me on this, okay?”
Neal gave another sigh, the long exhale crackling over the phone. But in the end, Peter got the concession he wanted.
“’Kay.”
The drive wasn’t long, but it still managed to be one of the least fun trips he’d ever made. Neal was distracted, kept drifting off. Driving required just enough of Peter’s attention that he couldn’t focus on pushing Neal for useful information, but on the other hand attempts to keep him talking just for the sake of it didn’t work so well either. Neal seemed to be figuring out that there wasn’t any real point to the talking, but wasn’t clearheaded enough to see the value of keeping himself alert. It made him grouchy. The “not feeling good” that he complained of with increasing frequency probably wasn’t helping either.
It was a relief when he finally pulled to a stop, just down the block from the address he’d written down earlier. There were several bars here - so Neal probably hadn’t gone far from wherever he’d been drinking. Peter grabbed the phone, turning it back off speaker as he stepped out of the car. He couldn’t see any sign of Neal from there, but he’d mentioned an alley, so chances were he’d gone out the back.
In any case, it wasn’t likely the car would fit down any alleys around here. Having been fortunate enough to find an open parking spot, he’d best leave it here and look for Neal on foot.
A quick glance around to orient himself, and he was fairly sure the signal from Neal’s anklet had been coming from behind one of the bars to his left. He set out at a half-jog toward the alley where the back entrances would be located.
The alley was dark, the occasional light only just illuminating the areas directly around the doors. It was the kind of place to set any law enforcement officer on edge - the streets out front might be fairly safe, but this space was practically crying out for crimes to be committed. And not the nice kind either. It made him wish he’d thought to bring his gun along.
(It also struck him as vaguely amusing that he made such a mental distinction now between the “nice” kind of crime - i.e., Neal’s kind - and… well, other crimes. He wasn’t sure whether that meant he’d been at the job too long, or just long enough to gain some experience and perspective. He hoped it was the latter.)
“Neal?”
Neal made a vague noise, which might as easily have been acknowledgement or annoyance.
“Neal, I’m here. I need you to talk a bit so I can find you more quickly.”
That got a little more interest from Neal.
“Y’r here? I don’ see you…”
His voice was quiet, almost dreamy, but - there. Peter could hear him directly ahead, as well as through the phone now. A few more steps and he could see him, sitting against the wall, a little beyond the bright circle of light around the nearest door.
Flipping the phone shut and sticking it in his pocket, he crouched down.
“Hey,” he said with a slight smile. “How about now?”
Neal’s head came up, and the hand that’d been holding the phone to his ear dropped heavily to his side.
“Oh... Hey Peter.”
Peter pulled the phone from Neal’s loose grasp, sticking it in his own pocket so it wouldn’t get lost. He patted Neal on the knee.
“Let’s get you out of here, huh?”
To his surprise, Neal shook his head, the motion jerky but making his obstinacy quite clear.
“Don’ think ‘s good idea. Jus’… stay here.”
Peter sighed, exasperated.
“What, after getting me to come all this way you decide now you just want to sleep here?”
“’S safe now.” Neal mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself and hunching his shoulders slightly.
“No, it’s not,” Peter informed him.
“Y’r here. ‘S okay. Don’ wanna move.”
“Yeah, well, touching as your faith in me is,” (and really, it kind of was, actually) “I’m not gonna spend what’s left of the night sitting in an alley. So unless you want to stay here by yourself…”
Not that he actually had any intention of just leaving Neal there, but it was probably the simplest way to get his attention. And it worked, sort of. Neal gave a miserable groan.
“Y’r mean,” he accused.
“Practically heartless,” Peter agreed amiably. “Come on, let’s go.”
He extended a hand, which Neal took with a resigned sigh. He could feel Neal’s muscles quivering with effort - he wasn’t trying for passive resistance, clearly - but in the end it was Peter’s strength, not his own, that got him to his feet and kept him there.
Neal swallowed hard a couple of times, breathing fast and shallow. Peter shifted to the side, pulling one of Neal’s arms across his shoulders, and wrapping his other arm around Neal to better support him. He was taken by surprise when Neal flinched violently, stumbling forward a step and crying out as Peter’s hand made contact with his side. Peter had to move fast, shifting his grip as Neal’s knees started to give out.
“Neal?” he asked anxiously, his estimation of the situation’s seriousness ratcheting up a notch.
“Don’t… Hurts…” Neal ground out between clenched teeth.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll be more careful…” Peter assured him. He hesitated, grimacing. “Neal, I need to at least get you where I can have a better look at you and see what’s wrong.”
Neal didn’t answer. His head was drooping now as he leaned heavily on Peter. Peter wished at least for some sign that he’d understood, but started moving anyway, slowly, as much dragging Neal as supporting him, though Neal was making a stumbling attempt to walk.
They made it no more than three or four steps before Neal balked.
“S-stop,” he gasped. “Gonna - sick - ”
It was all the explanation Peter needed. He halted immediately, slowing the descent as Neal dropped to his knees, retching. He grimaced, trying to breathe only through his mouth as the sound and smell triggered a sympathetic clenching in his own gut. Steadying himself against the ground with one hand, Neal wrapped the other arm around his stomach. After a minute or so the vomiting gradually eased into the occasional dry heave. Peter caught his shoulders as he started to list forward.
Neal had started making a high-pitched whimpering sound in between heaves, curling inward with pain as much as nausea now. He seemed wrung out by the purging, too tired to resist as Peter pulled him back, away from the vomit on the ground, helping him move to lean against the wall next to the door. At least there was light to see by here. Not that he much liked what he saw.
Neal looked rough, to say the least. Apparently he’d meant what he said earlier - it was kind of late to be worrying about his clothes. In addition to the scuffs of dirt on both shirt and pants there were scattered drops of blood down the front of him. Mostly from his split lip, it looked like, though there was a small cut on his cheek as well. The beginnings of at least a couple bruises, on his cheek and along his jaw, were starting to show. He had his eyes squeezed tightly shut now, his features taut with pain.
“Neal…” Peter said gently, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
Neal made a sound of reluctant acknowledgment, not opening his eyes.
“Your side hurts - you said you got hit there?” At Neal’s nod, he continued, “Okay, I’m gonna have a look at it, see what we’re dealing with.”
Not that there would be much to be seen or done with broken ribs, if that was the problem. But he might be able to see if there was… something worse wrong. And at least he could be more careful once he knew where Neal was hurt.
Neal was reluctant to remove his arm from its protective position, guarding his side and stomach. He stiffened momentarily, but yielded to gentle pressure, allowing Peter to move the arm out of the way and pull his shirt up.
Dark discoloration was spreading across Neal’s ribcage in several places, but the worst of it seemed to be centered on the lower left side. Peter brushed his fingers over the area carefully. Neal tensed, but didn’t move away, so Peter pressed down gently, trying to test for any give that might indicate breaks. He didn’t feel anything shift, but Neal yelped, twisting away.
“Sorry.” Peter grimaced apologetically, though Neal couldn’t see it, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Might be broken, it’s hard to tell. We should probably get that x-rayed.” When Neal didn’t react, he reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “Hey, don’t phase out on me now.”
Neal finally looked at him - slowly, too slowly. He seemed to be having trouble tracking, and there was an odd, unfocused look to his eyes. Peter couldn’t put a finger on what was off, but this didn’t seem like a simple drunk confusion.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked.
Neal frowned, reaching up to rub cautiously at one of the bruises on his jaw.
“I don’t mean just that,” Peter clarified. “Were you hit hard enough to get a concussion? Did you fall and hit your head on something?”
“Nno…” Neal said the word slowly, thoughtfully. “Don’ think so. Not…” he trailed off, seeming to lose track of what he was talking about for a moment, before concluding, “Was feelin’ weird b’fore that ‘nyway.”
Peter blew out a long breath, shaking his head.
“What happened, Neal?”
“R’lly di’n’t drink too much.”
Okay, if he was going to get anything useful, he was probably going to have to give up hoping for any kind of linear story and just go with Neal’s thought processes.
“You said you only had a couple of drinks?” he prompted.
“One… anna half.”
It was more sullen insistence than explanation, but Peter was growing more willing to believe it as his sense of something wrong here increased.
“So why didn’t you finish them both?”
“Secn’d one tasted funny. Kinda salty and… weird. Thought she had th’ same thing I did, but… musta had som’thin’ else in it.”
Peter frowned. “You think there might’ve been something in your drink?”
Neal shook his head. “W’sn’t my drink. Her drink.”
“Wait, how do you know what her drink tasted like?”
“Switched ‘em.”
“What? You took her drink? Why?” Peter didn’t even try to conceal his confused disbelief.
“Di’n’t steal it,” he assured Peter earnestly. “’s an accident. Gave ‘er m’ new one.”
“So you ended up with her drink. Which tasted off.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. This was opening up possibilities he didn’t like one bit. Neal, apparently, took his expression to mean something else.
“R’lly di’n’t mean t’ take it, Peter. ‘S not stealin’.” Neal actually looked a bit worried, now. “’M I in trouble?”
“No, it’s okay, I believe you,” he assured Neal. “Do you think… she might have arranged for you to take her drink on purpose? Did she seem at all - ”
Peter cut himself off. Neal’s expression had scrunched up, either in concentration or, more likely, bewilderment. At the top of his game, Neal wasn’t likely to easily let himself be played like that. But if that was what had happened, he was hardly in a condition now for figuring it out. Though if what Peter suspected was true, Neal’s recollections of the night’s events were only likely to be fuzzier with time.
“Never mind, don’t worry about it.” Then he frowned, recalling what Neal had said earlier. “Wait, you said you had to help a girl… because someone was hurting her? Was that the girl, the one you swapped drinks with?”
Neal nodded. “Didn’t wanna go with ‘im.”
“She didn’t? With who?”
“Um… boyfrien’, I think.”
“Her date wanted her to leave with him, but she didn’t want to? So… you came out here to get him to leave her alone?”
“An’ he hit me.”
Peter barely bit back irrational laughter at the woeful complaint. It really wasn’t funny. At all. But Neal’s indignant expression wasn’t exactly helping. A second survey of Neal’s cuts and bruises sobered him quickly.
“More than once, apparently,” he murmured.
“Wasn’ happy. Came back when she got ‘way…”
“To beat you up some more, for interfering,” Peter concluded darkly.
And Neal, under the influence of whatever had been in that drink - most likely actually intended for the girlfriend, Peter was thinking at this point - had been in little condition to either fight back or flee effectively. Peter struggled to control the anger roiling inside him. Oh, he might’ve been thoroughly annoyed up till now, but that was nothing next to the fury he was currently feeling toward that -
He forced himself to stop that train of thought. Right now he needed to focus on getting Neal taken care of, and the man was in no condition to understand that those feelings weren’t directed at him. He pulled in a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
“And then he just left you here. So you called me.”
“Yep,” Neal brightened, looking inordinately pleased with Peter for finally understanding the situation. Then his eyes widened a bit - probably recalling Peter’s less-than-pleased reception of that phone call. “’M r’lly sorry ‘bout wakin’ you up.”
“It’s okay,” he assured Neal. “You did the right thing. I’m not mad at you.”
Neal squinted at him dubiously.
Great. Way to make him feel like a jerk. It wasn’t as if his reaction hadn’t been perfectly justified, under the circumstances. Which Neal would understand, once he was sober again. And, being Neal, despite that understanding he’d probably still be reminding Peter at every opportunity that when, through no fault of his own, he’d gotten into trouble, instead of going all independent he - Neal - had called Peter for help, just like Peter would’ve told him to, and had gotten an earful for his trouble. Neal could do wounded innocence very, very thoroughly.
But that was a dubious pleasure to look forward to later. The Neal he was dealing with now wasn’t capable of that kind of intentional guilt tripping. Which kinda made him feel worse, at the moment.
“Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier. I thought you were just drunk - ” he held up a hand to forestall further protestations of innocence “ - which I now know is not the case. I’m glad you called me. You did good.”
One corner of Neal’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. And apparently he believed Peter a lot more readily when he was drugged out of his head, because he seemed content to leave it at that.
“Now c’mon,” Peter said, shifting from kneeling by Neal’s side to a crouch. “We’d better get you to the hospital.”
“H’spital?” Neal’s good mood evaporated completely. Without really moving, his entire body seemed to hunch in on itself.
“Yeah, buddy, hospital. We need to get you checked out.”
“Hospit’l’s not good. Dang’rous.”
“Safer than here,” Peter pointed out, exasperated.
“No.”
“You’ve been listening to Haversham too much.”
Neal just gave him a look of abject misery, wrapping his arms around himself. It was the closest Peter had ever seen a human being come to looking like the proverbial kicked puppy. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly before turning to look at Neal again.
“Yes, it really is necessary. If for no other reason than that I need to get you tested and have some proof of whatever’s in your system right now. It’s our best chance of getting something we can actually act on, here.”
“Doesn’ matter.”
Peter had to wonder if Neal would be feeling so charitable tomorrow. He rather doubted it. “It does matter, Neal. I’m not letting him just get away with this. And I’m not taking the risk of you having more serious complications than a nasty hangover to worry about.”
“Gotta hangov’r now,” Neal grumbled, hunching his shoulders still further, head drooping. “’S not fair. Jus’ wanna go home. Not… nee’les ‘n lights anna… au- auden- audience.”
Neal might be struggling with his words, but he managed to make his feelings clear, spitting the last out emphatically. Peter could sympathize with the sentiment. The last thing most people wanted when feeling nauseated and not quite with it was a bunch of people standing around watching. He guessed the idea must be doubly disconcerting for Neal. He’d spent years honing a façade to present to the world. If he hadn’t been so careful in maintaining that control… well, Peter probably would’ve caught him a lot sooner than he did.
“Yeah, I get it.” He squeezed Neal’s shoulder sympathetically. “Look, as soon as you’ve been checked and the doctors say you’re all right to go, I’ll get you out of there and to someplace more comfortable. You can choose where you want to be. Within reason. Your place, mine, Mozzie’s…”
That last would be a serious pain and probably take some fancy maneuvering, he realized, wincing as soon as the word left his lips. He couldn’t well let Neal stay there unsupervised, and Haversham certainly wouldn’t like a Suit hanging around his house. Somehow he doubted that was the option Neal would jump for, though - if he even remembered this conversation later. Most likely he’d just want to hole up in his own space until he felt more himself. And if, for the moment, the idea of having a choice gave Neal some sense of control… it could only help. Both of them. Dealing with a drugged, co-operative Neal could be tricky enough. Peter didn’t even want to imagine the headache of trying to wrangle a drugged, belligerent Neal.
“Fine,” Neal conceded.
Peter blinked. Somehow he hadn’t expected the promise to just work, like that. Apparently he had Caffrey figured out better than he’d thought.
“Okay then.” He nodded.
Neal uncurled himself, pushing against the ground briefly before flopping back against the wall with a groan. He shut his eyes again.
“Neal?”
“Need s’m help,” Neal mumbled.
“Yeah, I kinda figured that might be the case,” Peter agreed with perfect solemnity.
Neal opened his eyes, extending a hand toward Peter. Hitching the arm over his shoulders, and pulling Neal forward a bit to get a better grip on him, Peter shifted, preparing to rise.
“Ready?” he asked.
Neal responded with a moan, and a couple of quick swallows.
“That’s the spirit,” Peter cheered wryly. “Just don’t throw up on me, okay?”
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter hadn’t exactly thought it through in detail, but his general expectations had been something along the lines of the doctors checking Neal over, running a few tests, and then sending him on his way to sleep off the effects. After all, Neal seemed fine. Mostly. At any rate, he didn’t seem any worse off than if he was just really drunk.
He was startled - and worried - when, on getting the test results back, they’d informed him that they’d need to keep Neal around a while longer, to monitor him for potentially dangerous side-effects. Apparently with GHB there wasn’t just the drug itself, and the toxic interactions with alcohol, to take into consideration. No, since it was so often homemade, there was also a lot of uncertainty regarding both the dosage taken and the purity of the drug to worry about.
He wasn’t at all reassured when further inquiry had produced a list of the most common side effects that, aside from the merely unpleasant ones, included such things as severe respiratory depression, seizures, problems with the heart rate, coma, and, well yes, possibly death as well. Considering the danger that Neal might still be in even here at the hospital, with help at hand… Peter felt a surge of nausea at the thought of just how easily he could’ve cut Neal off earlier and left him in that alley to deal with the fallout on his own. Or not deal with it, as the case might be.
As it was, the doctors assured him they were quite optimistic about the outcome. Yes, there were things to look out for, but given that Neal was still conscious, if not as responsive as they’d have liked, and not showing any difficulty breathing, they had reason to hope his condition would resolve itself enough that they’d feel comfortable releasing him in a few hours.
Finally encouraged enough to feel more resigned than apprehensive about the night ahead, it abruptly occurred to Peter that Neal was likely to be even less enamored of the idea of extra hospital time than he was. Hoping to avert potential homicidal urges on the part of hospital staff, he hurried back to sit with Neal. (Hey, they were professionals. It probably wasn’t anything they couldn’t deal with. Still, he was the professional here when it came to recalcitrant-con-wrangling, and he felt a certain responsibility.)
As it turned out, though, Neal was in no frame of mind to be intentionally difficult, or even put up a protest at the delay. He was too busy throwing up more than Peter would’ve thought he could possibly have eaten in the last week. Any grouchiness was pretty much swallowed up by the general misery of not just being sick repeatedly, but doing so with injured ribs (severe bruising, and one hairline fracture according to x-rays) and the doctors reluctant to give anything in the way of pain medications, considering the risks of interaction or worsening of other side-effects.
Peter had pretty much been reduced to helpless frustration. He was never much good in situations like this, where there was so little to actually do, and that plus an - admittedly selfish, if natural - desire to be nowhere in the vicinity of someone who was busy puking up his guts had him severely tempted to flee the area until things calmed down a bit. In fact, he’d resolved himself to do so, several times, deciding he’d probably just be in the way. Might as well get out before nurses started giving him dirty looks. But somehow in the end he stayed anyway. He even patted Neal’s shoulder awkwardly, and murmured even more awkward, meaningless reassurances when the spasms actually drew tears of pain from him.
Considering he did his fair share of emptying basins, the nurses never did get around to being annoyed with Peter. Besides, clumsy as his efforts at comfort might have been, Neal really did seem a little calmer when he was close by.
Neither of them got much in the way of rest, never mind actual sleep. It was lucky that the room’s other bed was currently unoccupied, or Neal would’ve had one unhappy roommate. With the combination of the drug and simple exhaustion, Neal was pretty much out of it between the worst bouts of nausea, though his restlessness and occasional moans made it clear that he was far from comfortable even then.
Peter took advantage of one of the lulls to step out of the room and make a few calls to NYPD. He’d have preferred to have his own people looking into things - no prejudice against his fellow law enforcement officers, but when it was one of his own that was hurt things got personal. But having weighed his options, he’d conceded that the PD was not only competent, but better equipped to kick-start the investigation at this point. They’d have people in the area, and could get IDs on the man and woman from the bar, and get to them - to check on the woman’s welfare, and make sure the man didn’t have time to clean up any evidence - faster than Peter’s team could at this time of night.
All the same, he would be making sure he was kept up to speed, every step of the way.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Continued in part two.
Summary: Neal drunk-dials Peter. Initially, Peter is Not Amused. Then he figures out what’s really going on… and he’s even less amused. Set somewhere mid-season one.
Confused on a Higher Level
It was a low-key, classy kind of place - one of the nicer bars available within his radius. Less of a high-energy party atmosphere, and more the sort of place you could just hang out and talk with someone. If you had someone to talk with, that was.
Neal didn’t at the moment, but that was okay. Maybe he’d meet someone, maybe he wouldn’t. For the moment all he wanted was a place to unwind and get out of his own headspace, no real obligations or expectations from within or without.
The guy a couple of spots down at the counter stepped away, heading toward the restrooms at the back. As he passed behind Neal he stumbled slightly, his shoulder catching Neal in the back before he righted himself with an embarrassed, “Sorry, man.”
Probably more simple clumsiness than intoxication, Neal thought as he looked back to wave off the apology. The man sounded sober enough, anyhow. Neal brushed an arm unobtrusively across the pocket where he kept his wallet. Still safely in place. There weren’t many pickpockets skilled enough to have lifted it without his feeling something anyway - if the guy had managed it, he’d have almost deserved to keep it. Still would’ve been embarrassing. He turned back to pick up his glass.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
Sure enough, now he looked more closely he could see the lipstick marks on it, though it was all but full. The girl looked more startled and confused than angry, fortunately.
“Sorry!” He gave her his nicest apologetic smile - just a touch of sheepishness, plenty of invitation to laugh with him at the situation. “Same thing I was drinking, thought it was mine. Here, I just ordered a fresh one -” which, with perfect timing, the bartender was setting down in front of him even as he spoke “ - why don’t you just take this?”
He nudged the glass toward her. She hesitated only fractionally before taking it with an answering smile, her stance relaxing. She wasn’t bad looking at all, especially with that smile lighting up her eyes. Not exactly the type to stop you in your tracks - medium height, medium build, medium brown hair - but quite pretty. Could be the evening was about to get a bit more interesting.
“My name’s Neal, by the way,”
“Carrie,” she introduced herself. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“No one in particular,” he gave a casually dismissive shrug. “Just looking to relax a bit after a long day. You?”
“I’m actually here with - ”
“Hey! Carrie! I found a spot for us over here!”
Looking up, Carrie waved a quick acknowledgement to the man who’d called out.
“ - my boyfriend,” she finished.
“Ah.” Oh well. Not going anywhere there - even if he thought he had a chance at it here, he wasn’t really the girlfriend-stealing type.
“Carrie?” The call was louder this time.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” She flashed Neal an apologetic look, gathering her purse and drink. “He’s a bit… impatient. Excuse me.”
“Of course.” Neal smiled his understanding. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise.” She nodded, and with a last smile headed off to join her date.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter groaned as he was reluctantly dragged out of sleep by the buzz of his cell phone’s vibrating. Groping on his bedside table, he picked it up, raising it so he could see the caller ID. Neal. He flipped the phone open.
“Yeah, Caffrey, what is it?”
He knew his voice sounded gravelly with sleep, and not a little grouchy, but if Neal wanted chipper then he could call at a more reasonable hour. Anything that had him making a call at this time of the night had to be important enough that he couldn't care less about the recipient’s mood. The thought brought Peter a little more awake.
“Um…” Neal sounded hesitant, as if unsure how to start.
“Spit it out, Neal,” he ordered.
“Peter? Where are you?”
Okay, that didn’t sound good. Peter pushed himself up into a half-sitting position, leaning against the headboard.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he said, a little annoyed, a little concerned, and definitely not in the mood for evasion tactics or guessing games. “I’m in bed. I was asleep, until you called. Why aren’t you?”
“My bed isn’t here.”
There was something odd in Neal’s tone. He seemed… not just hesitant, but confused. And now Peter was getting more confused by the moment.
“Are you saying your bed is missing?”
“No. Don’ think so. M’ whole room’s not here. ‘S pro’bly still there.”
“What?” Peter frowned. Neal’s room was… He shook his head. “Where are you?”
“Out. I went… out.”
And then something clicked. It wasn’t just that Neal’s tone was off. His words were slurring slightly, he was confused …
“Neal, are you drunk?”
“Um…” Neal actually seemed to be giving the question some thought. Finally, he replied. “Don’ think so. No. Can’ be drunk. Doesn’… make sense.”
Peter shut his eyes. “Let me rephrase that. Have you been drinking?”
“Yes.”
Finally, a straightforward answer. Not that it made him any happier.
“Neal…” he ground out.
“Are you mad, Peter?”
“Well I’m not exactly happy.”
“I di’n’t do anything wrong.” Neal had the gall to sound hurt now, as well as confused. “Gave ‘em my real ID an’ paid an’ everything.”
“Neal - ” Peter cut off the angry tirade that wanted to burst out, glancing quickly at El to make sure she was still asleep. Keeping his voice low, he went on, carefully restrained but making his displeasure clear. “You are a - supposedly - responsible adult. You have every right to drink. You can even get drunk, if that’s what you want to do. But of all the people I would’ve thought might wake me in the middle of the night with a drunken phone call, I never…” He shook his head, at a loss. “I thought better of you than that.”
“Sorry.”
Neal actually sounded quite subdued, and genuinely apologetic. Peter thought the message had gotten through… as well as it could, in Neal’s current condition.
“Yeah, well. We’ll have a talk about this tomorrow, after we’ve both had some sleep. You can tell me whatever’s bothering you then, if you still think it’s important.”
“’m really sorry, Peter.”
He was moving past contrite into downright miserable. Time to end this, before he wound up dealing with a drunk, crying Caffrey. Peter was pretty sure neither of them wanted to deal with the fallout from that.
“Go home, Neal. Go to bed. Now.”
Not giving him a chance to respond, he hung up. He briefly contemplated turning the phone off entirely, but in the end his sense of duty won out and he simply set it back on the bedside table. As he settled himself underneath the covers again, El stirred.
“Who was it?” she asked, sounding more asleep than awake.
“Just Neal.”
“Mm. Something wrong?”
“No. He’s just… being a pain in the neck, as usual.” Only he wasn’t - not as usual. It really wasn’t like Neal to… He shook off the thought, too tired to deal with it now. He’d sort things out tomorrow. “Don’t worry about it, Hon. I’ll tell you in the morning. Just go back to sleep.”
Her only response was an indistinct murmur of assent. In moments her breathing was deep and even once more. A minute later he was well on his way to joining her. He was just on the point of drifting off when… the phone started vibrating, again. A glance confirmed that it was Neal. Again.
Pushing back the covers and sliding out of bed, he grabbed up the cell phone and headed quickly out of the room. If Neal was going to make him deal with this here and now, he was at least going to go somewhere where he could express his displeasure without waking El in the process. He was halfway down the stairs when he answered the phone, on the third ring.
“Neal, I told you - go home,” he growled.
“Think… I need s’m help.”
Peter sighed, dropping tiredly onto the couch. “You won’t hear me say this often, but - seriously, Neal? You couldn’t have just called Mozzie for help and left me out of this?”
“Can’t ‘member his number.”
“But you could remember mine?” He wasn’t sure whether to be vaguely flattered, or even more exasperated.
“F’rst on speed dial. Moz made me promise not t’ put his info on the phone where the snoopy Feds c’d find it.” Neal paused, then added. “Sorry, Peter, but you are.”
Suppressing a groan, Peter let his head fall back to rest on the back of the couch. What had he ever done to deserve this? Some days… life was really not fair.
“So why didn’t you just call a taxi?”
“Cant ‘member th’ address,” Neal informed him mournfully.
“June’s address, or where you are now?” Please, please just let it be the simple answer....
“Me. Don’ r’member where I am. Or the name.”
Of course it couldn’t be as simple as reminding him of where he lived. This was ridiculous. Standing, he walked to the dining room table where his laptop sat. As he waited for it to start up, he asked, “Isn’t there someone there who can tell you? Or better yet, just make the call for you?”
“No… ‘s no one here now.”
No one there…. It was late, but not nearly late enough that everyone at a place that served drinks was likely to have packed up and gone home. Last call was usually closer to three or four a.m.
“Where are you? Are you at a bar?” There was silence for a few moments. With a sigh, Peter said, “Neal, I can’t hear you nod or shake your head.”
There was a quick inhale, as if Neal was trying to wake himself up. “Oh. Yes. Was… at a bar. Not anymore, though. Left.”
“Well, where are you now?”
“Outside. Inna… alley, I think.”
“So go back inside, and get someone to call you a cab.”
There was another brief silence, followed by some odd sounds, rustling and scraping as if maybe Neal was moving around, a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper - and then a loud clattering. Peter moved the phone away from his ear for a moment, wincing. Sounded like Neal had just dropped the phone. Then Neal’s voice came again.
“S’rry, Peter. You ‘kay?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Yes, Neal. I’m still here. Are you okay?”
“Um… don’ think I can go back ‘nside.”
“Why not? Is the door locked?”
“No… can’t get up.”
“You can’t get up?” Peter frowned, more genuine concern starting to displace some of the aggravation. “Neal, are you alright?”
“Don’ feel s’good.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when you drink too much.”
“Didn’t, drink t’ much. I know.”
“I think the fact that I’m having this conversation with you right now says otherwise,” Peter countered dryly.
“Didn’t,” Neal insisted, almost petulantly, sounding hurt at not being believed. “It was… Dunno th’ name now, but w’s not that strong. An’ only had… one an’ half of ‘em. Not t’ much at all.”
Peter rubbed at his forehead. Granted, he would’ve thought that Neal had a pretty good idea of his limitations. He was a casual drinker, never a heavy one, and for all Peter had seen him have a glass of wine or the occasional beer often enough, he couldn’t remember having seen him drink to the point of noticeably losing inhibitions, much less actually get falling down drunk. Probably as much habit as personal preference - a man in his (former) line of work could little afford that kind of loss of control.
If there’d been something wrong, anything going on to upset Neal, he might’ve suspected that as some kind of impetus for his actions, out of character though it might be on a normal basis. But there hadn’t been anything lately to especially throw him off balance. Not as far as he knew. And Neal had been acting absolutely normal. Or what passed for it, in Neal’s world. Which was, you know, a bit odd sometimes, but cheerful, outgoing, talking about things, not the kind of person to go off and drown his sorrows in a bottle. And he hadn’t seen any of the usual subtle warning signs that something might be up. Overall, he was fairly sure he could discount the idea of Neal drinking himself into oblivion - whether he’d set out to do it or not - because he was upset.
So what was this? It just… didn’t make sense. What he’d said earlier was true: he wouldn’t have expected this of Neal. Not from anything he knew of the man.
The computer was ready. He started bringing up Neal’s tracking information.
“Peter?” The question was quiet, hesitant.
“Yeah?” He responded wearily.
“R’lly don’ feel s’ good. Hurts…”
Peter’s brows drew together. “Hurts? What hurts, Neal?”
“Head… st’mach… kinda all over. Think he hit me r’lly hard.”
“Hit you?” Peter tensed. “Who hit you? Did you get in a fight?”
That would be about as unlike Neal as getting drunk out of his mind would be. Though considering the foreign ground they seemed to be treading on already… But seriously? Neal getting drunk and brawling? It didn’t add up.
“No!” The denial was wobbly, but adamant. “Wasn’ fightin’. Just… had t’ help her. ‘Cause he was hurting her… jus’ told ‘im to let her go.”
Of… course there was a girl involved here, somewhere. There would be.
“So you played knight in shining armor, and got beat up for your trouble. How badly are you hurt?”
“I dunno. I…” Neal pulled in a shuddering breath. “Peter? Can you come get me?”
Neal sounded so lost, even scared. There really wasn’t much of a choice to make.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “Yeah, I’m gonna come. Stay on the phone, okay?”
“’Kay.” Neal mumbled. “Than’s, Peter. ‘M sorry.”
The tracking information was up now. Peter checked the location - less than a mile from June’s place. He scribbled down the address of the closest building to enter into the car’s GPS.
“Yeah, well. We’ll figure out how much you have to be sorry for when I get there. Just stay with me for now.”
He considered waking El, to let her know that he was going, but decided there was no sense in both of them losing sleep at this point. Instead, tearing off the sheet with the address, he wrote her a brief note, outlining what had happened. He left the pad of paper sitting on the table - she’d see it if she noticed he was gone and came down, or if he didn’t get back until after she woke in the morning.
It was a cool night. He’d been sleeping in sweatpants and an old t-shirt - not exactly classy, but decent enough to be seen in public, if needs be. Thankful now that he’d left his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter where he’d dropped them earlier that evening, he grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door, heading out to the car.
Buckling himself in, he switched the phone onto speaker, setting it on the passenger seat.
“You still with me?” He asked.
There was a worryingly long pause before Neal spoke.
“Yeah. M’here.”
Was it his imagination, or was Neal’s voice getting quieter? Whatever was going on, he needed to keep Neal alert. If he had a concussion or something, it could be important for his health - and even if it turned out he was just drunk, Peter had no intention of worrying the whole way over because the man had passed out or fallen asleep on him.
“Keep talking, Neal.”
“Nothin’ t’ say.”
“Hey, you called me, remember? I’ve gotta drive, it’s your responsibility to do the talking.”
“Thought I had… right t’ r’main silent.”
“Not right now you don’t. Talk.”
“M’tired. Gonna lay down first.”
Peter muttered a curse. If he did that, the likelihood of his staying awake lessened considerably. He grabbed on to the first thing he thought might make sense to Neal in his current state, since the whole “dangerous to your health and my sanity” thing wasn’t likely to pull much weight.
“Don’t do that, Neal. You’ll ruin your clothes.”
“Too late f’r that. Already got… blood n’stuff on ‘em.”
“Then just… stay sitting up because I said so. It’s not a good idea for you to lie down right now.”
It was a weak method of persuading Neal at the best of times, but he was clutching at straws here. Neal sighed, sounding both weary and put out.
“Y’r bossy, Peter.”
“Yeah, I am. And I’m usually right. Just trust me on this, okay?”
Neal gave another sigh, the long exhale crackling over the phone. But in the end, Peter got the concession he wanted.
“’Kay.”
The drive wasn’t long, but it still managed to be one of the least fun trips he’d ever made. Neal was distracted, kept drifting off. Driving required just enough of Peter’s attention that he couldn’t focus on pushing Neal for useful information, but on the other hand attempts to keep him talking just for the sake of it didn’t work so well either. Neal seemed to be figuring out that there wasn’t any real point to the talking, but wasn’t clearheaded enough to see the value of keeping himself alert. It made him grouchy. The “not feeling good” that he complained of with increasing frequency probably wasn’t helping either.
It was a relief when he finally pulled to a stop, just down the block from the address he’d written down earlier. There were several bars here - so Neal probably hadn’t gone far from wherever he’d been drinking. Peter grabbed the phone, turning it back off speaker as he stepped out of the car. He couldn’t see any sign of Neal from there, but he’d mentioned an alley, so chances were he’d gone out the back.
In any case, it wasn’t likely the car would fit down any alleys around here. Having been fortunate enough to find an open parking spot, he’d best leave it here and look for Neal on foot.
A quick glance around to orient himself, and he was fairly sure the signal from Neal’s anklet had been coming from behind one of the bars to his left. He set out at a half-jog toward the alley where the back entrances would be located.
The alley was dark, the occasional light only just illuminating the areas directly around the doors. It was the kind of place to set any law enforcement officer on edge - the streets out front might be fairly safe, but this space was practically crying out for crimes to be committed. And not the nice kind either. It made him wish he’d thought to bring his gun along.
(It also struck him as vaguely amusing that he made such a mental distinction now between the “nice” kind of crime - i.e., Neal’s kind - and… well, other crimes. He wasn’t sure whether that meant he’d been at the job too long, or just long enough to gain some experience and perspective. He hoped it was the latter.)
“Neal?”
Neal made a vague noise, which might as easily have been acknowledgement or annoyance.
“Neal, I’m here. I need you to talk a bit so I can find you more quickly.”
That got a little more interest from Neal.
“Y’r here? I don’ see you…”
His voice was quiet, almost dreamy, but - there. Peter could hear him directly ahead, as well as through the phone now. A few more steps and he could see him, sitting against the wall, a little beyond the bright circle of light around the nearest door.
Flipping the phone shut and sticking it in his pocket, he crouched down.
“Hey,” he said with a slight smile. “How about now?”
Neal’s head came up, and the hand that’d been holding the phone to his ear dropped heavily to his side.
“Oh... Hey Peter.”
Peter pulled the phone from Neal’s loose grasp, sticking it in his own pocket so it wouldn’t get lost. He patted Neal on the knee.
“Let’s get you out of here, huh?”
To his surprise, Neal shook his head, the motion jerky but making his obstinacy quite clear.
“Don’ think ‘s good idea. Jus’… stay here.”
Peter sighed, exasperated.
“What, after getting me to come all this way you decide now you just want to sleep here?”
“’S safe now.” Neal mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself and hunching his shoulders slightly.
“No, it’s not,” Peter informed him.
“Y’r here. ‘S okay. Don’ wanna move.”
“Yeah, well, touching as your faith in me is,” (and really, it kind of was, actually) “I’m not gonna spend what’s left of the night sitting in an alley. So unless you want to stay here by yourself…”
Not that he actually had any intention of just leaving Neal there, but it was probably the simplest way to get his attention. And it worked, sort of. Neal gave a miserable groan.
“Y’r mean,” he accused.
“Practically heartless,” Peter agreed amiably. “Come on, let’s go.”
He extended a hand, which Neal took with a resigned sigh. He could feel Neal’s muscles quivering with effort - he wasn’t trying for passive resistance, clearly - but in the end it was Peter’s strength, not his own, that got him to his feet and kept him there.
Neal swallowed hard a couple of times, breathing fast and shallow. Peter shifted to the side, pulling one of Neal’s arms across his shoulders, and wrapping his other arm around Neal to better support him. He was taken by surprise when Neal flinched violently, stumbling forward a step and crying out as Peter’s hand made contact with his side. Peter had to move fast, shifting his grip as Neal’s knees started to give out.
“Neal?” he asked anxiously, his estimation of the situation’s seriousness ratcheting up a notch.
“Don’t… Hurts…” Neal ground out between clenched teeth.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll be more careful…” Peter assured him. He hesitated, grimacing. “Neal, I need to at least get you where I can have a better look at you and see what’s wrong.”
Neal didn’t answer. His head was drooping now as he leaned heavily on Peter. Peter wished at least for some sign that he’d understood, but started moving anyway, slowly, as much dragging Neal as supporting him, though Neal was making a stumbling attempt to walk.
They made it no more than three or four steps before Neal balked.
“S-stop,” he gasped. “Gonna - sick - ”
It was all the explanation Peter needed. He halted immediately, slowing the descent as Neal dropped to his knees, retching. He grimaced, trying to breathe only through his mouth as the sound and smell triggered a sympathetic clenching in his own gut. Steadying himself against the ground with one hand, Neal wrapped the other arm around his stomach. After a minute or so the vomiting gradually eased into the occasional dry heave. Peter caught his shoulders as he started to list forward.
Neal had started making a high-pitched whimpering sound in between heaves, curling inward with pain as much as nausea now. He seemed wrung out by the purging, too tired to resist as Peter pulled him back, away from the vomit on the ground, helping him move to lean against the wall next to the door. At least there was light to see by here. Not that he much liked what he saw.
Neal looked rough, to say the least. Apparently he’d meant what he said earlier - it was kind of late to be worrying about his clothes. In addition to the scuffs of dirt on both shirt and pants there were scattered drops of blood down the front of him. Mostly from his split lip, it looked like, though there was a small cut on his cheek as well. The beginnings of at least a couple bruises, on his cheek and along his jaw, were starting to show. He had his eyes squeezed tightly shut now, his features taut with pain.
“Neal…” Peter said gently, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
Neal made a sound of reluctant acknowledgment, not opening his eyes.
“Your side hurts - you said you got hit there?” At Neal’s nod, he continued, “Okay, I’m gonna have a look at it, see what we’re dealing with.”
Not that there would be much to be seen or done with broken ribs, if that was the problem. But he might be able to see if there was… something worse wrong. And at least he could be more careful once he knew where Neal was hurt.
Neal was reluctant to remove his arm from its protective position, guarding his side and stomach. He stiffened momentarily, but yielded to gentle pressure, allowing Peter to move the arm out of the way and pull his shirt up.
Dark discoloration was spreading across Neal’s ribcage in several places, but the worst of it seemed to be centered on the lower left side. Peter brushed his fingers over the area carefully. Neal tensed, but didn’t move away, so Peter pressed down gently, trying to test for any give that might indicate breaks. He didn’t feel anything shift, but Neal yelped, twisting away.
“Sorry.” Peter grimaced apologetically, though Neal couldn’t see it, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Might be broken, it’s hard to tell. We should probably get that x-rayed.” When Neal didn’t react, he reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “Hey, don’t phase out on me now.”
Neal finally looked at him - slowly, too slowly. He seemed to be having trouble tracking, and there was an odd, unfocused look to his eyes. Peter couldn’t put a finger on what was off, but this didn’t seem like a simple drunk confusion.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked.
Neal frowned, reaching up to rub cautiously at one of the bruises on his jaw.
“I don’t mean just that,” Peter clarified. “Were you hit hard enough to get a concussion? Did you fall and hit your head on something?”
“Nno…” Neal said the word slowly, thoughtfully. “Don’ think so. Not…” he trailed off, seeming to lose track of what he was talking about for a moment, before concluding, “Was feelin’ weird b’fore that ‘nyway.”
Peter blew out a long breath, shaking his head.
“What happened, Neal?”
“R’lly di’n’t drink too much.”
Okay, if he was going to get anything useful, he was probably going to have to give up hoping for any kind of linear story and just go with Neal’s thought processes.
“You said you only had a couple of drinks?” he prompted.
“One… anna half.”
It was more sullen insistence than explanation, but Peter was growing more willing to believe it as his sense of something wrong here increased.
“So why didn’t you finish them both?”
“Secn’d one tasted funny. Kinda salty and… weird. Thought she had th’ same thing I did, but… musta had som’thin’ else in it.”
Peter frowned. “You think there might’ve been something in your drink?”
Neal shook his head. “W’sn’t my drink. Her drink.”
“Wait, how do you know what her drink tasted like?”
“Switched ‘em.”
“What? You took her drink? Why?” Peter didn’t even try to conceal his confused disbelief.
“Di’n’t steal it,” he assured Peter earnestly. “’s an accident. Gave ‘er m’ new one.”
“So you ended up with her drink. Which tasted off.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed as he considered the implications. This was opening up possibilities he didn’t like one bit. Neal, apparently, took his expression to mean something else.
“R’lly di’n’t mean t’ take it, Peter. ‘S not stealin’.” Neal actually looked a bit worried, now. “’M I in trouble?”
“No, it’s okay, I believe you,” he assured Neal. “Do you think… she might have arranged for you to take her drink on purpose? Did she seem at all - ”
Peter cut himself off. Neal’s expression had scrunched up, either in concentration or, more likely, bewilderment. At the top of his game, Neal wasn’t likely to easily let himself be played like that. But if that was what had happened, he was hardly in a condition now for figuring it out. Though if what Peter suspected was true, Neal’s recollections of the night’s events were only likely to be fuzzier with time.
“Never mind, don’t worry about it.” Then he frowned, recalling what Neal had said earlier. “Wait, you said you had to help a girl… because someone was hurting her? Was that the girl, the one you swapped drinks with?”
Neal nodded. “Didn’t wanna go with ‘im.”
“She didn’t? With who?”
“Um… boyfrien’, I think.”
“Her date wanted her to leave with him, but she didn’t want to? So… you came out here to get him to leave her alone?”
“An’ he hit me.”
Peter barely bit back irrational laughter at the woeful complaint. It really wasn’t funny. At all. But Neal’s indignant expression wasn’t exactly helping. A second survey of Neal’s cuts and bruises sobered him quickly.
“More than once, apparently,” he murmured.
“Wasn’ happy. Came back when she got ‘way…”
“To beat you up some more, for interfering,” Peter concluded darkly.
And Neal, under the influence of whatever had been in that drink - most likely actually intended for the girlfriend, Peter was thinking at this point - had been in little condition to either fight back or flee effectively. Peter struggled to control the anger roiling inside him. Oh, he might’ve been thoroughly annoyed up till now, but that was nothing next to the fury he was currently feeling toward that -
He forced himself to stop that train of thought. Right now he needed to focus on getting Neal taken care of, and the man was in no condition to understand that those feelings weren’t directed at him. He pulled in a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
“And then he just left you here. So you called me.”
“Yep,” Neal brightened, looking inordinately pleased with Peter for finally understanding the situation. Then his eyes widened a bit - probably recalling Peter’s less-than-pleased reception of that phone call. “’M r’lly sorry ‘bout wakin’ you up.”
“It’s okay,” he assured Neal. “You did the right thing. I’m not mad at you.”
Neal squinted at him dubiously.
Great. Way to make him feel like a jerk. It wasn’t as if his reaction hadn’t been perfectly justified, under the circumstances. Which Neal would understand, once he was sober again. And, being Neal, despite that understanding he’d probably still be reminding Peter at every opportunity that when, through no fault of his own, he’d gotten into trouble, instead of going all independent he - Neal - had called Peter for help, just like Peter would’ve told him to, and had gotten an earful for his trouble. Neal could do wounded innocence very, very thoroughly.
But that was a dubious pleasure to look forward to later. The Neal he was dealing with now wasn’t capable of that kind of intentional guilt tripping. Which kinda made him feel worse, at the moment.
“Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier. I thought you were just drunk - ” he held up a hand to forestall further protestations of innocence “ - which I now know is not the case. I’m glad you called me. You did good.”
One corner of Neal’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. And apparently he believed Peter a lot more readily when he was drugged out of his head, because he seemed content to leave it at that.
“Now c’mon,” Peter said, shifting from kneeling by Neal’s side to a crouch. “We’d better get you to the hospital.”
“H’spital?” Neal’s good mood evaporated completely. Without really moving, his entire body seemed to hunch in on itself.
“Yeah, buddy, hospital. We need to get you checked out.”
“Hospit’l’s not good. Dang’rous.”
“Safer than here,” Peter pointed out, exasperated.
“No.”
“You’ve been listening to Haversham too much.”
Neal just gave him a look of abject misery, wrapping his arms around himself. It was the closest Peter had ever seen a human being come to looking like the proverbial kicked puppy. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly before turning to look at Neal again.
“Yes, it really is necessary. If for no other reason than that I need to get you tested and have some proof of whatever’s in your system right now. It’s our best chance of getting something we can actually act on, here.”
“Doesn’ matter.”
Peter had to wonder if Neal would be feeling so charitable tomorrow. He rather doubted it. “It does matter, Neal. I’m not letting him just get away with this. And I’m not taking the risk of you having more serious complications than a nasty hangover to worry about.”
“Gotta hangov’r now,” Neal grumbled, hunching his shoulders still further, head drooping. “’S not fair. Jus’ wanna go home. Not… nee’les ‘n lights anna… au- auden- audience.”
Neal might be struggling with his words, but he managed to make his feelings clear, spitting the last out emphatically. Peter could sympathize with the sentiment. The last thing most people wanted when feeling nauseated and not quite with it was a bunch of people standing around watching. He guessed the idea must be doubly disconcerting for Neal. He’d spent years honing a façade to present to the world. If he hadn’t been so careful in maintaining that control… well, Peter probably would’ve caught him a lot sooner than he did.
“Yeah, I get it.” He squeezed Neal’s shoulder sympathetically. “Look, as soon as you’ve been checked and the doctors say you’re all right to go, I’ll get you out of there and to someplace more comfortable. You can choose where you want to be. Within reason. Your place, mine, Mozzie’s…”
That last would be a serious pain and probably take some fancy maneuvering, he realized, wincing as soon as the word left his lips. He couldn’t well let Neal stay there unsupervised, and Haversham certainly wouldn’t like a Suit hanging around his house. Somehow he doubted that was the option Neal would jump for, though - if he even remembered this conversation later. Most likely he’d just want to hole up in his own space until he felt more himself. And if, for the moment, the idea of having a choice gave Neal some sense of control… it could only help. Both of them. Dealing with a drugged, co-operative Neal could be tricky enough. Peter didn’t even want to imagine the headache of trying to wrangle a drugged, belligerent Neal.
“Fine,” Neal conceded.
Peter blinked. Somehow he hadn’t expected the promise to just work, like that. Apparently he had Caffrey figured out better than he’d thought.
“Okay then.” He nodded.
Neal uncurled himself, pushing against the ground briefly before flopping back against the wall with a groan. He shut his eyes again.
“Neal?”
“Need s’m help,” Neal mumbled.
“Yeah, I kinda figured that might be the case,” Peter agreed with perfect solemnity.
Neal opened his eyes, extending a hand toward Peter. Hitching the arm over his shoulders, and pulling Neal forward a bit to get a better grip on him, Peter shifted, preparing to rise.
“Ready?” he asked.
Neal responded with a moan, and a couple of quick swallows.
“That’s the spirit,” Peter cheered wryly. “Just don’t throw up on me, okay?”
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter hadn’t exactly thought it through in detail, but his general expectations had been something along the lines of the doctors checking Neal over, running a few tests, and then sending him on his way to sleep off the effects. After all, Neal seemed fine. Mostly. At any rate, he didn’t seem any worse off than if he was just really drunk.
He was startled - and worried - when, on getting the test results back, they’d informed him that they’d need to keep Neal around a while longer, to monitor him for potentially dangerous side-effects. Apparently with GHB there wasn’t just the drug itself, and the toxic interactions with alcohol, to take into consideration. No, since it was so often homemade, there was also a lot of uncertainty regarding both the dosage taken and the purity of the drug to worry about.
He wasn’t at all reassured when further inquiry had produced a list of the most common side effects that, aside from the merely unpleasant ones, included such things as severe respiratory depression, seizures, problems with the heart rate, coma, and, well yes, possibly death as well. Considering the danger that Neal might still be in even here at the hospital, with help at hand… Peter felt a surge of nausea at the thought of just how easily he could’ve cut Neal off earlier and left him in that alley to deal with the fallout on his own. Or not deal with it, as the case might be.
As it was, the doctors assured him they were quite optimistic about the outcome. Yes, there were things to look out for, but given that Neal was still conscious, if not as responsive as they’d have liked, and not showing any difficulty breathing, they had reason to hope his condition would resolve itself enough that they’d feel comfortable releasing him in a few hours.
Finally encouraged enough to feel more resigned than apprehensive about the night ahead, it abruptly occurred to Peter that Neal was likely to be even less enamored of the idea of extra hospital time than he was. Hoping to avert potential homicidal urges on the part of hospital staff, he hurried back to sit with Neal. (Hey, they were professionals. It probably wasn’t anything they couldn’t deal with. Still, he was the professional here when it came to recalcitrant-con-wrangling, and he felt a certain responsibility.)
As it turned out, though, Neal was in no frame of mind to be intentionally difficult, or even put up a protest at the delay. He was too busy throwing up more than Peter would’ve thought he could possibly have eaten in the last week. Any grouchiness was pretty much swallowed up by the general misery of not just being sick repeatedly, but doing so with injured ribs (severe bruising, and one hairline fracture according to x-rays) and the doctors reluctant to give anything in the way of pain medications, considering the risks of interaction or worsening of other side-effects.
Peter had pretty much been reduced to helpless frustration. He was never much good in situations like this, where there was so little to actually do, and that plus an - admittedly selfish, if natural - desire to be nowhere in the vicinity of someone who was busy puking up his guts had him severely tempted to flee the area until things calmed down a bit. In fact, he’d resolved himself to do so, several times, deciding he’d probably just be in the way. Might as well get out before nurses started giving him dirty looks. But somehow in the end he stayed anyway. He even patted Neal’s shoulder awkwardly, and murmured even more awkward, meaningless reassurances when the spasms actually drew tears of pain from him.
Considering he did his fair share of emptying basins, the nurses never did get around to being annoyed with Peter. Besides, clumsy as his efforts at comfort might have been, Neal really did seem a little calmer when he was close by.
Neither of them got much in the way of rest, never mind actual sleep. It was lucky that the room’s other bed was currently unoccupied, or Neal would’ve had one unhappy roommate. With the combination of the drug and simple exhaustion, Neal was pretty much out of it between the worst bouts of nausea, though his restlessness and occasional moans made it clear that he was far from comfortable even then.
Peter took advantage of one of the lulls to step out of the room and make a few calls to NYPD. He’d have preferred to have his own people looking into things - no prejudice against his fellow law enforcement officers, but when it was one of his own that was hurt things got personal. But having weighed his options, he’d conceded that the PD was not only competent, but better equipped to kick-start the investigation at this point. They’d have people in the area, and could get IDs on the man and woman from the bar, and get to them - to check on the woman’s welfare, and make sure the man didn’t have time to clean up any evidence - faster than Peter’s team could at this time of night.
All the same, he would be making sure he was kept up to speed, every step of the way.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Continued in part two.