WC Fic: Illustrations (part 4 of 8)
Title: Illustrations (part 4 of 8)
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one.
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They kept Neal sedated for three days.
It wasn’t fair, Peter thought. It just wasn’t bloody fair. Neal had served his time. More than served. He was almost done. He shouldn’t have had to do this. He shouldn’t have thought he had to. Almost as much as Neal, Peter was glad that the sentence was almost over. Despite anything he might have said, Peter had never liked sending Neal into danger--particularly given Neal’s precarious position and limited choices, exacerbated by Neal’s love of risk and recklessness with his own safety-and he’d liked it even less as time wore on. The young thief had wormed and insinuated his way into Peter’s life-and Peter was a guy of his creature comforts, who hated change. Once in, Peter didn’t like doing anything that would allow anything--or anyone--in his world to leave so easily.
Still, Neal didn’t have nightmares under sedation-at least not as far as Peter could tell-- and the doctors said he was progressing. Still, Peter worried. He couldn’t take much time off work-what, because his C.I. was in the hospital?-but he hated leaving Neal alone, even though Neal did have a steady stream of visitors. He and El dropped by when they could, as did Mozzie and even Alex, once. Jones and Diana kept tabs through Peter, and on the fourth day, the hospital let Peter know that they’d cut the sedation and moved Neal out of ICU and into medical.
Peter dropped by the hospital around noon. When he finally found the medical ward and Neal’s new room, Haversham was already there, speaking to a Neal that was awake but seemed unaware, blinking dazedly while Haversham ranted at him in soothing, low tones, abut how crazy he was being and all he had to do if he needed to get out was let him know and …
Neal saw Peter before Haversham did, and then Haversham tracked Neal’s gaze. “Suit! I mean, Agent Burke. How … considerate … of you to drop by.” Haversham did not recover well.
“Haversham. I thought I’d told you to call me Peter. Hello, Neal. How are you doing?”
Neal’s head shifted slightly. He blinked slowly at Peter, his blue eyes unfocussed and glazed, not saying anything. His hand, when Peter found it tucked under the blanket, was cold, limp and unresponsive. After a few minutes, Neal’s eyes slid closed and didn’t open again.
There was silence for a few minutes, but Neal remained still. Peter wasn`t even sure if he was sleeping. Trying to distract himself, he turned to Haversham, asking, “Have you been here long?”
Haversham seemed, if possible, more nervous than usual. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. Then Haverhsam sighed. “Do you really think I’m going to give you that kind of information, Suit?” Haversham sounded tired, now, more than nervous.
Peter sighed as well. As long as he’d known the little man, Haversham never changed, and neither did this dance. There were times that Peter almost enjoyed Haversham’s irritating company, but now was not that time. “How long had he been awake?”
Haversham considered Peter a moment, before coming to some kind of internal decision. To Peter’s surprise, when Mozzie spoke again, he actually answered the question. “Off and on, he’s awake only maybe five or ten, and then he’s out again. I’m not sure if he recognizes me-he’s pretty out of it.”
Peter didn’t say anything, and after a minute, Haversham turned back to look at Neal. His voice when he spoke again was both fond and concerned. “He’s only had access to drugs this good on a couple of occasions, so his tolerance is low.”
“Really?” Peter hadn’t really meant to ask, wasn’t necessarily invested in the answer, although he never passed up an opportunity to learn about Neal’s past.
“Yeah, once he was ….” Seeing Peter’s raised eyebrow, Haversham cut himself off and hurried on. “And another time in that clinic. Possibly once or twice in prison, though. He doesn’t talk about it much. Neal generally hates being drugged.”
“Right.” Peter filed the information away, making a mental note to take a look at Neal’s prison file again. He hadn’t ever really bothered to take a look at it in detail, he realized with some surprise, past the parole reports. “What’s that you were telling him about getting out?”
The little man shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m just trying to be encouraging.”
“You do know that with his anklet off, I have to countersign if he wants to leave this place?” Peter tried to keep his voice stern, but from the look on the other man`s face, Haversham wasn`t buying it, and Peter’s heart wasn’t really in it anyway.
“Sure, Suit,” was all Haversham said though, allowing it, generously playing along. Because they both knew that by the time Neal was ready to walk anywhere-the anklet would no longer be an issue.
*************
Peter had to leave by early evening. By then Neal was drifting in and out, although he had periods of lucidity. Over Neal’s protests that he scarcely needed to be babysat, Peter called Haversham before he left, and made sure to let Haversham know that Neal was not to be left alone. Both of them ignored Neal, because both of them could see how Neal tracked their progress across the room; both of them could see the fear in Neal’s eyes that under the influence of drugs he couldn’t hide as easily as he normally did. Haversham agreed to organized shifts, and to call if he needed to leave.
By next morning, Neal was mostly awake and coherent, could be coaxed into lowering himself to eat a little of the hospital food (no one pointed out that the bland hospital food was likely all he could manage) and the doctors were pleased with his progress. In Neal’s mind, somehow, this translated to him renewing his campaign to leave the hospital. He was still at it when Peter dropped by at lunch, hanging back in the doorway to shamelessly eavesdrop on Neal.
“Moz, I think I should go to June’s.” Neal’s voice was studiously casual. Even with his friends, Peter noted for the millionth time, Neal did not easily let his masks slip.
“The Suit is planning to take you to his place, let his wife feed you. Didn’t he tell you?” Haversham was no idiot, but Neal’s back was to the door and the hospital was noisy; in his loopy state Neal could not be faulted for not being as hyper-aware as he normally would be.
“Nah, they’re busy. I’ll be fine at home. June’s staff are pretty good to me, you know.” Neal was still trying.
“They are that. It’ll put a strain on them, though. June’ll likely have to pay them extra. Maybe you’d just better go with the Suit.” Haversham waved at Peter, and Peter grinned. Busted.
“Nah. June’s generous, and I won’t need much. You know me-I sleep when I’m recovering, and in a couple days, I’ll be back in the game.” Neal was starting to sound a little desperate.
“Sorry, Neal, I think I agree with the Suit on this one.” Haversham’s voice was gentle, soothing, caring. Peter blinked-he’d rarely heard the little man sound like that.
“You say that a lot. I’m not sure I like it-makes me feel like I’ve woken up in bizzaro-world.” Neal was trying to keep his voice light, but Peter could hear the resentment underneath. He hated it when Haversham ganged up with Peter.
“Or maybe I’ve been affected by red kryptonite.” Haversham said brightly, playing the game.
“Yeah. Come on, Moz. All you have to do is get me some clothes and a car.” Neal’s voice was cajoling, now. Unbelievable, thought Peter. Neal was actually trying to charm his friend from flat on his back on a hospital bed.
Haversham’s tone was hasty, as if he didn’t want Neal to say anything incriminating. He probably didn’t. “Neal, don’t you think that if you can’t manage to get your own clothes you might want to rethink your Houdini-act?”
“Moz, you know how much I hate hospitals. I can’t even think here.” And Neal’s voice in that moment was without artifice, and Peter ached to hear it.
Peter edged into the room, but Haversham shook his head, slightly, shooting Peter a warning look, before saying to Neal, “And I’m shaking. I hate these places too, I get it. But I still agree with the Suit.”
“That I should go stay at his place? They’re never even home. I’d be much better off at June’s. I’ll go to the Burkes’ when I’m feeling a little better.” Peter frowned, opening his mouth. That was scarcely fair. He’d …
Haversham outright glared at Peter this time, because Neal’s eyes had drifted shut. “That you shouldn’t leave here at all yet, Neal.” Haversham’s voice was still gentle, betraying none of his annoyance at the FBI agent standing like the proverbial elephant in the room. Neal’s lips twitched. His temper was starting to fray-he hated being gentled.
“I thought you were always there if I wanted to get out.” In pain and frustration, Neal let some of his anger slip, although his voice was pretty weak and his eyes stayed closed. It clearly frustrated him even more when Haversham didn’t react to the tone. Peter, for his part, raised an eyebrow, but it was nothing new, nothing he didn’t already know. He was scarcely going to hold it against Neal or Haversham now.
“That’s prison, Neal. That’s different.” Haversham’s voice was still gentle. Indulgent. Neal was the con-artist; and Peter could see by the look on Neal’s face how he hated being so out of control that others felt they could manipulate him. Hated it.
“I don’t see much of a difference.” This time, Neal didn’t even seem to care how bitter he clearly sounded.
“Get some rest, Neal,” was all Haversham said, his tone still mild, settling in to wait for Neal to do exactly that.
Seeing Neal in good hands, Peter nodded at Haversham and left.
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Early morning brought Peter, sipping at coffee Neal wasn’t yet allowed to drink. Neal was just lying in his room, alone. He turned his head when Peter entered.
“Where’s Haversham?” demanded Peter, tired after having spent the night in the van, and upset that no one was around. Work had been busy, for both he and El-but he had expected that …
“He had to go, and no one else was around. I told you I don’t need to be babysat, Peter,” Neal snapped. “That’s not helpful.”
Peter didn’t respond, just looked Neal over critically. He looked better, to some extent.
Then Peter noticed the restraints, binding Neal’s hands and feet to the bed.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me to be good and do as I’m told. I’m working on it,” said Neal, before Peter could comment on them, and his voice this time was even and neutral. Peter looked up. Neal might have had his voice back in control, but his eyes were still honest, and his eyes were filled with hurt and anger. But Peter could see how hard Neal was trying, and swallowed. Neal shouldn’t have had to try--not like this.
“I’m sorry, Neal. I’m just sorry this happened. Along with everything else, I’m also supposed to keep you safe, Neal. That’s my responsibility. I know I’ve done a lousy job of it, but trust me when I say I’m trying. I just don’t know what to do.”
“This wasn’t your fault, Peter. It wasn’t,” said Neal, sincerely. He looked--and sounded--completely drained. Poor Neal, Peter thought. Between the drugs and the pain, he was not the suave swindler he usually managed to be.
“What’s with the restraints, Neal? What did you--”
“Nothing. I’m a con, remember? No one was here, I’m awake, and I have no anklet. It’s protocol, Peter. You should know. The resident’s upset that I’d been free this long.” Neal’s voice was resigned.
“Want me to undo them? I can--” Peter started to offer, but Neal cut him off.
“Nah, I could undo them if I wanted. It’s okay.” Peter knew he could, but he wondered if Neal could undo them without hurting himself. He doubted it, which is why he’d offered. But he didn’t argue.
“I’ll talk to them,” promised Peter.
“You do that,” said Neal, but he sounded weary and hopeless.
“You need anything, then?” Peter asked quietly, not wanting to stress Neal any further.
“No, I’m good.” Neal smiled, but it was his con smile--the one that never quite reached his eyes.
Neal made a show of settling himself in the bed, closing his eyes. “Why don’t you go home--I’m tired, Peter. I think I’ll take a nap.” It wasn’t even time for breakfast yet, and they’d be waking him up for rounds in minutes.
“I’ll call June,” said Peter. “She can--”
“No,” said Neal. “I want to be alone.” He laughed then, short and bitter. “Well, as alone as I can get here, anyway.”
“Neal--” Peter had opened his mouth to protest, to say something, but then … then he stopped. “Okay,” he said instead. He needed to stop fighting Neal. Let him behave as he liked, give in. He’s ill, Peter reminded himself. He can’t take any additional stress.
“I’m tired, Peter. Please,” said Neal, and Peter let it go, allowing the retreat. He didn’t want to fight with Neal, even if he hated leaving him here. He’d promised he wouldn’t, but it would be only for a few hours and maybe--maybe Neal needed this. He had to trust Neal to tell him what he needed.
So instead, he said, “Go right ahead, Neal. I’ve got to head back to the office--to interview a new C.I. of all things, if you can believe it” and here Peter barked a short laugh, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I brought your cell charger, and it’s plugged in; call me if you need anything.”
Neal didn’t answer. His breathing had evened out. It looked like he had, despite everything, actually fallen asleep.
Peter quietly slipped out of the room.
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Failing to find any medical personnel handy and already running late, Peter was halfway to the office when he realized he’d somehow forgotten his cell phone in Neal’s room. He turned around, cursing, heading back to the hospital.
Walking down the corridor to Neal’s room, he heard Neal calling before he entered. “Please … no … “
He rushed in, gun drawn, before seeing the room empty, Neal thrashing in his sleep, but not getting very far. Restraints kept both arms close to the bed, confining Neal neatly. Peter wasn’t sure why Neal was still restrained--he knew Neal could get out of the cuffs if he wanted, but ignoring the issue, he approached the bed quickly, putting a hand on Neal’s uninjured shoulder. “Neal? It’s Peter. I’m right here.”
“Peter? I’m …” Neal’s voice held that high note of panic that Peter had heard too often over the past week.
“Shhh, you’re safe,” he soothed. “I’m right here.”
Neal’s eyes popped open, blue and disoriented. “They’re taking me back? Please, Peter,” begged Neal, “please, I tried …”
“No. You’re fine. You’re in the hospital, and when you’re through here, I’ll be taking you to my home. You’re safe, Neal. No one is taking you anywhere right now.” Peter made his voice sound firm and final and authoritative.
With a gasp, Neal woke up fully. “Peter? I … “ he blinked, once, twice. “I must have fallen asleep. Silly.” Neal grinned self-deprecatingly, as if it had all been a joke.
But it hadn’t. Peter sat on the hard chair and watched Neal lie there, his eyes closed and his arms bound, and sighed. “What's going on with you, Neal? I can't--”
“Peter … “ and Neal blinked at Peter. “Who’s my attending physician?”
“Uh ... it’s--I don’t know, Neal, why does it matter?”
“It’s just important, all right?”
“I’ll find out.” Peter paused. “Neal ... I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me. Are you being threatened? Have you done something? Come on, Neal. Work with me here.” Peter was genuinely at a loss.
“If, if I tell you-I”, and here Neal swallowed, and his eyes slipped close before Neal forced them open with visible effort, “I'll tell you, if it'll help, help you understand. But I-I can't--”
“What, Neal? What can't you do?” Peter asked, when Neal spent long moments not speaking, just blinking at Peter.
“I can't tell Agent Burke.” Neal's words held a touch of pleading, and Peter understood what he was asking immediately. It was something Peter had offered, once before, when Alex was missing and Peter needed to know everything Neal did about Kate and Adler, and wanted to know anything he could about Neal's mysterious past.
This time was no different.
“Okay, Neal. It might not change what I'll do, but--just tell me. Just me. No repercussions, not for things said and done. I swear.”
“Promise?”
“My badge is in my coat, and on that chair. You have my word, Neal.”
Neal looked sick and weak and desperate, and Peter knew Neal didn't really want to, knew better than to push Neal in that state, knew he was taking unfair advantage--but it had been days and hours of worry and fear and not knowing. So Peter just let him talk.
And in slow, halting words, Neal began to tell him a story, tell him things he never wanted to hear. About being admitted to prison in a daze, a prison where OPR had put him without Peter's concern or care. About the Gateway, about life when exposed to the general prison population as a snitch, about trying to protect himself, hampered by shock and grief but knowing that he couldn’t afford to be, knowing he was in a place (once again, he thought he'd left it behind years ago and Peter told himself he didn't want to interrupt but really, really he just didn't want to know, couldn't handle knowing, not now when Neal was telling him things that he could never have imagined, never even thought--) where he had to stay sharp, because everyone was a potential threat, a place where his glib tongue was no real asset and his pretty face a definite liability.
Peter didn't ask for details, kept silent, didn't press, because what Neal was saying was bad enough. And when Neal began talking about Dr. Crawley, about being vulnerable and injured and threatened by the professionals meant to help him; about being harmed and hurt by those very people, let alone the inmates; about knowing he'd been sent to the infirmary once or twice on pretexts flimsy and fabricated by Crawley; about feeling unsafe and scared yet unable to escape, or even try-Peter wanted to kill something. He'd begun making this noise, almost like--
“I'm sorry, Peter,” Neal was saying, “I know-I know it's hard to believe, you think I'm --”
“God, no,” said Peter, horrified. It never occurred to him, not once, not to believe Neal. It never occurred to him that Neal would think he would not be believed. “I'm going to call Hughes. Crawley needs to be reported, needs to be--”
“No!” cried Neal, jerking up, slamming himself against the restraints and then going abruptly white with pain. “No, Peter, you promised--”
“Neal, I don't--”
“Peter, Peter … I … “ But Neal was done in. Peter could see him fighting against it, so he leaned down to whisper, “Ok. I won’t call Hughes now. Rest; we’ll talk later.”
Neal took a breath, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded raw and despairing. Peter had never seen Neal look so desolate, not even in jail, not even when he was being arrested. And now, now Neal was outright begging. “I just … please Peter. I know I just keep asking for more, and I keep doing it, but please. Please just let me get out of here.”
Peter looked at Neal for a long moment, at the defeat and exhaustion in the uncharacteristically unguarded blue eyes. “Okay, Neal,” he said, because God, what else could he say? Pure relief and wild hope flooded Neal's face, and Neal blinked rapidly. “Okay. I’ll talk to them,” Peter repeated. “No promises, though, all right?” he warned, because God knew what they'd say. Neal still looked terrible-and Peter knew there was no way he was anywhere near ready to leave the hospital. But Neal was wearing him down-he had worn him down. Worse, though, was the realization that Neal himself was wearing down, and Peter had to do something, even if it was the wrong thing.
“Peter, I--” began Neal, but he lost the battle even as Peter watched, and sagged into a light, restless sleep mid-sentence. By the time the nurse eventually wandered in, wondering what was up with Neal's elevated heart rate, Neal had already succumbed to sleep.
Peter ran a shaking hand through his hair. He couldn't say he wasn't grateful for Neal's involuntary nap. When Neal had suggested an explanation, when he'd--
He'd never expected the things he'd heard. Not in a million years. He wanted to tear Crawley limb from limb. He wanted to report the guards, the personnel, shut down the entire blight on law enforcement and corrections that the Gateway represented. He wanted -
He couldn't. Neal had treated his story like a confession of his own crime, and had asked Peter not to report it. Worse was the fact that Neal clearly felt like somehow, he was the one that had messed up somewhere in this scenario. As fucked up as it was, Neal would interpret any report as a betrayal, as--
Peter felt sick and dirty.
One thing was clear, however. He wasn't leaving this hospital again without Neal. Peter patted the blanket over Neal’s leg, gripping for a moment, before pushing to his feet and going off in search of a nurse.
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Part five.
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one.
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They kept Neal sedated for three days.
It wasn’t fair, Peter thought. It just wasn’t bloody fair. Neal had served his time. More than served. He was almost done. He shouldn’t have had to do this. He shouldn’t have thought he had to. Almost as much as Neal, Peter was glad that the sentence was almost over. Despite anything he might have said, Peter had never liked sending Neal into danger--particularly given Neal’s precarious position and limited choices, exacerbated by Neal’s love of risk and recklessness with his own safety-and he’d liked it even less as time wore on. The young thief had wormed and insinuated his way into Peter’s life-and Peter was a guy of his creature comforts, who hated change. Once in, Peter didn’t like doing anything that would allow anything--or anyone--in his world to leave so easily.
Still, Neal didn’t have nightmares under sedation-at least not as far as Peter could tell-- and the doctors said he was progressing. Still, Peter worried. He couldn’t take much time off work-what, because his C.I. was in the hospital?-but he hated leaving Neal alone, even though Neal did have a steady stream of visitors. He and El dropped by when they could, as did Mozzie and even Alex, once. Jones and Diana kept tabs through Peter, and on the fourth day, the hospital let Peter know that they’d cut the sedation and moved Neal out of ICU and into medical.
Peter dropped by the hospital around noon. When he finally found the medical ward and Neal’s new room, Haversham was already there, speaking to a Neal that was awake but seemed unaware, blinking dazedly while Haversham ranted at him in soothing, low tones, abut how crazy he was being and all he had to do if he needed to get out was let him know and …
Neal saw Peter before Haversham did, and then Haversham tracked Neal’s gaze. “Suit! I mean, Agent Burke. How … considerate … of you to drop by.” Haversham did not recover well.
“Haversham. I thought I’d told you to call me Peter. Hello, Neal. How are you doing?”
Neal’s head shifted slightly. He blinked slowly at Peter, his blue eyes unfocussed and glazed, not saying anything. His hand, when Peter found it tucked under the blanket, was cold, limp and unresponsive. After a few minutes, Neal’s eyes slid closed and didn’t open again.
There was silence for a few minutes, but Neal remained still. Peter wasn`t even sure if he was sleeping. Trying to distract himself, he turned to Haversham, asking, “Have you been here long?”
Haversham seemed, if possible, more nervous than usual. “What’s it to you?” he snapped. Then Haverhsam sighed. “Do you really think I’m going to give you that kind of information, Suit?” Haversham sounded tired, now, more than nervous.
Peter sighed as well. As long as he’d known the little man, Haversham never changed, and neither did this dance. There were times that Peter almost enjoyed Haversham’s irritating company, but now was not that time. “How long had he been awake?”
Haversham considered Peter a moment, before coming to some kind of internal decision. To Peter’s surprise, when Mozzie spoke again, he actually answered the question. “Off and on, he’s awake only maybe five or ten, and then he’s out again. I’m not sure if he recognizes me-he’s pretty out of it.”
Peter didn’t say anything, and after a minute, Haversham turned back to look at Neal. His voice when he spoke again was both fond and concerned. “He’s only had access to drugs this good on a couple of occasions, so his tolerance is low.”
“Really?” Peter hadn’t really meant to ask, wasn’t necessarily invested in the answer, although he never passed up an opportunity to learn about Neal’s past.
“Yeah, once he was ….” Seeing Peter’s raised eyebrow, Haversham cut himself off and hurried on. “And another time in that clinic. Possibly once or twice in prison, though. He doesn’t talk about it much. Neal generally hates being drugged.”
“Right.” Peter filed the information away, making a mental note to take a look at Neal’s prison file again. He hadn’t ever really bothered to take a look at it in detail, he realized with some surprise, past the parole reports. “What’s that you were telling him about getting out?”
The little man shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m just trying to be encouraging.”
“You do know that with his anklet off, I have to countersign if he wants to leave this place?” Peter tried to keep his voice stern, but from the look on the other man`s face, Haversham wasn`t buying it, and Peter’s heart wasn’t really in it anyway.
“Sure, Suit,” was all Haversham said though, allowing it, generously playing along. Because they both knew that by the time Neal was ready to walk anywhere-the anklet would no longer be an issue.
*************
Peter had to leave by early evening. By then Neal was drifting in and out, although he had periods of lucidity. Over Neal’s protests that he scarcely needed to be babysat, Peter called Haversham before he left, and made sure to let Haversham know that Neal was not to be left alone. Both of them ignored Neal, because both of them could see how Neal tracked their progress across the room; both of them could see the fear in Neal’s eyes that under the influence of drugs he couldn’t hide as easily as he normally did. Haversham agreed to organized shifts, and to call if he needed to leave.
By next morning, Neal was mostly awake and coherent, could be coaxed into lowering himself to eat a little of the hospital food (no one pointed out that the bland hospital food was likely all he could manage) and the doctors were pleased with his progress. In Neal’s mind, somehow, this translated to him renewing his campaign to leave the hospital. He was still at it when Peter dropped by at lunch, hanging back in the doorway to shamelessly eavesdrop on Neal.
“Moz, I think I should go to June’s.” Neal’s voice was studiously casual. Even with his friends, Peter noted for the millionth time, Neal did not easily let his masks slip.
“The Suit is planning to take you to his place, let his wife feed you. Didn’t he tell you?” Haversham was no idiot, but Neal’s back was to the door and the hospital was noisy; in his loopy state Neal could not be faulted for not being as hyper-aware as he normally would be.
“Nah, they’re busy. I’ll be fine at home. June’s staff are pretty good to me, you know.” Neal was still trying.
“They are that. It’ll put a strain on them, though. June’ll likely have to pay them extra. Maybe you’d just better go with the Suit.” Haversham waved at Peter, and Peter grinned. Busted.
“Nah. June’s generous, and I won’t need much. You know me-I sleep when I’m recovering, and in a couple days, I’ll be back in the game.” Neal was starting to sound a little desperate.
“Sorry, Neal, I think I agree with the Suit on this one.” Haversham’s voice was gentle, soothing, caring. Peter blinked-he’d rarely heard the little man sound like that.
“You say that a lot. I’m not sure I like it-makes me feel like I’ve woken up in bizzaro-world.” Neal was trying to keep his voice light, but Peter could hear the resentment underneath. He hated it when Haversham ganged up with Peter.
“Or maybe I’ve been affected by red kryptonite.” Haversham said brightly, playing the game.
“Yeah. Come on, Moz. All you have to do is get me some clothes and a car.” Neal’s voice was cajoling, now. Unbelievable, thought Peter. Neal was actually trying to charm his friend from flat on his back on a hospital bed.
Haversham’s tone was hasty, as if he didn’t want Neal to say anything incriminating. He probably didn’t. “Neal, don’t you think that if you can’t manage to get your own clothes you might want to rethink your Houdini-act?”
“Moz, you know how much I hate hospitals. I can’t even think here.” And Neal’s voice in that moment was without artifice, and Peter ached to hear it.
Peter edged into the room, but Haversham shook his head, slightly, shooting Peter a warning look, before saying to Neal, “And I’m shaking. I hate these places too, I get it. But I still agree with the Suit.”
“That I should go stay at his place? They’re never even home. I’d be much better off at June’s. I’ll go to the Burkes’ when I’m feeling a little better.” Peter frowned, opening his mouth. That was scarcely fair. He’d …
Haversham outright glared at Peter this time, because Neal’s eyes had drifted shut. “That you shouldn’t leave here at all yet, Neal.” Haversham’s voice was still gentle, betraying none of his annoyance at the FBI agent standing like the proverbial elephant in the room. Neal’s lips twitched. His temper was starting to fray-he hated being gentled.
“I thought you were always there if I wanted to get out.” In pain and frustration, Neal let some of his anger slip, although his voice was pretty weak and his eyes stayed closed. It clearly frustrated him even more when Haversham didn’t react to the tone. Peter, for his part, raised an eyebrow, but it was nothing new, nothing he didn’t already know. He was scarcely going to hold it against Neal or Haversham now.
“That’s prison, Neal. That’s different.” Haversham’s voice was still gentle. Indulgent. Neal was the con-artist; and Peter could see by the look on Neal’s face how he hated being so out of control that others felt they could manipulate him. Hated it.
“I don’t see much of a difference.” This time, Neal didn’t even seem to care how bitter he clearly sounded.
“Get some rest, Neal,” was all Haversham said, his tone still mild, settling in to wait for Neal to do exactly that.
Seeing Neal in good hands, Peter nodded at Haversham and left.
*********************
Early morning brought Peter, sipping at coffee Neal wasn’t yet allowed to drink. Neal was just lying in his room, alone. He turned his head when Peter entered.
“Where’s Haversham?” demanded Peter, tired after having spent the night in the van, and upset that no one was around. Work had been busy, for both he and El-but he had expected that …
“He had to go, and no one else was around. I told you I don’t need to be babysat, Peter,” Neal snapped. “That’s not helpful.”
Peter didn’t respond, just looked Neal over critically. He looked better, to some extent.
Then Peter noticed the restraints, binding Neal’s hands and feet to the bed.
“I suppose you’re here to tell me to be good and do as I’m told. I’m working on it,” said Neal, before Peter could comment on them, and his voice this time was even and neutral. Peter looked up. Neal might have had his voice back in control, but his eyes were still honest, and his eyes were filled with hurt and anger. But Peter could see how hard Neal was trying, and swallowed. Neal shouldn’t have had to try--not like this.
“I’m sorry, Neal. I’m just sorry this happened. Along with everything else, I’m also supposed to keep you safe, Neal. That’s my responsibility. I know I’ve done a lousy job of it, but trust me when I say I’m trying. I just don’t know what to do.”
“This wasn’t your fault, Peter. It wasn’t,” said Neal, sincerely. He looked--and sounded--completely drained. Poor Neal, Peter thought. Between the drugs and the pain, he was not the suave swindler he usually managed to be.
“What’s with the restraints, Neal? What did you--”
“Nothing. I’m a con, remember? No one was here, I’m awake, and I have no anklet. It’s protocol, Peter. You should know. The resident’s upset that I’d been free this long.” Neal’s voice was resigned.
“Want me to undo them? I can--” Peter started to offer, but Neal cut him off.
“Nah, I could undo them if I wanted. It’s okay.” Peter knew he could, but he wondered if Neal could undo them without hurting himself. He doubted it, which is why he’d offered. But he didn’t argue.
“I’ll talk to them,” promised Peter.
“You do that,” said Neal, but he sounded weary and hopeless.
“You need anything, then?” Peter asked quietly, not wanting to stress Neal any further.
“No, I’m good.” Neal smiled, but it was his con smile--the one that never quite reached his eyes.
Neal made a show of settling himself in the bed, closing his eyes. “Why don’t you go home--I’m tired, Peter. I think I’ll take a nap.” It wasn’t even time for breakfast yet, and they’d be waking him up for rounds in minutes.
“I’ll call June,” said Peter. “She can--”
“No,” said Neal. “I want to be alone.” He laughed then, short and bitter. “Well, as alone as I can get here, anyway.”
“Neal--” Peter had opened his mouth to protest, to say something, but then … then he stopped. “Okay,” he said instead. He needed to stop fighting Neal. Let him behave as he liked, give in. He’s ill, Peter reminded himself. He can’t take any additional stress.
“I’m tired, Peter. Please,” said Neal, and Peter let it go, allowing the retreat. He didn’t want to fight with Neal, even if he hated leaving him here. He’d promised he wouldn’t, but it would be only for a few hours and maybe--maybe Neal needed this. He had to trust Neal to tell him what he needed.
So instead, he said, “Go right ahead, Neal. I’ve got to head back to the office--to interview a new C.I. of all things, if you can believe it” and here Peter barked a short laugh, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can. I brought your cell charger, and it’s plugged in; call me if you need anything.”
Neal didn’t answer. His breathing had evened out. It looked like he had, despite everything, actually fallen asleep.
Peter quietly slipped out of the room.
**************************************
Failing to find any medical personnel handy and already running late, Peter was halfway to the office when he realized he’d somehow forgotten his cell phone in Neal’s room. He turned around, cursing, heading back to the hospital.
Walking down the corridor to Neal’s room, he heard Neal calling before he entered. “Please … no … “
He rushed in, gun drawn, before seeing the room empty, Neal thrashing in his sleep, but not getting very far. Restraints kept both arms close to the bed, confining Neal neatly. Peter wasn’t sure why Neal was still restrained--he knew Neal could get out of the cuffs if he wanted, but ignoring the issue, he approached the bed quickly, putting a hand on Neal’s uninjured shoulder. “Neal? It’s Peter. I’m right here.”
“Peter? I’m …” Neal’s voice held that high note of panic that Peter had heard too often over the past week.
“Shhh, you’re safe,” he soothed. “I’m right here.”
Neal’s eyes popped open, blue and disoriented. “They’re taking me back? Please, Peter,” begged Neal, “please, I tried …”
“No. You’re fine. You’re in the hospital, and when you’re through here, I’ll be taking you to my home. You’re safe, Neal. No one is taking you anywhere right now.” Peter made his voice sound firm and final and authoritative.
With a gasp, Neal woke up fully. “Peter? I … “ he blinked, once, twice. “I must have fallen asleep. Silly.” Neal grinned self-deprecatingly, as if it had all been a joke.
But it hadn’t. Peter sat on the hard chair and watched Neal lie there, his eyes closed and his arms bound, and sighed. “What's going on with you, Neal? I can't--”
“Peter … “ and Neal blinked at Peter. “Who’s my attending physician?”
“Uh ... it’s--I don’t know, Neal, why does it matter?”
“It’s just important, all right?”
“I’ll find out.” Peter paused. “Neal ... I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me. Are you being threatened? Have you done something? Come on, Neal. Work with me here.” Peter was genuinely at a loss.
“If, if I tell you-I”, and here Neal swallowed, and his eyes slipped close before Neal forced them open with visible effort, “I'll tell you, if it'll help, help you understand. But I-I can't--”
“What, Neal? What can't you do?” Peter asked, when Neal spent long moments not speaking, just blinking at Peter.
“I can't tell Agent Burke.” Neal's words held a touch of pleading, and Peter understood what he was asking immediately. It was something Peter had offered, once before, when Alex was missing and Peter needed to know everything Neal did about Kate and Adler, and wanted to know anything he could about Neal's mysterious past.
This time was no different.
“Okay, Neal. It might not change what I'll do, but--just tell me. Just me. No repercussions, not for things said and done. I swear.”
“Promise?”
“My badge is in my coat, and on that chair. You have my word, Neal.”
Neal looked sick and weak and desperate, and Peter knew Neal didn't really want to, knew better than to push Neal in that state, knew he was taking unfair advantage--but it had been days and hours of worry and fear and not knowing. So Peter just let him talk.
And in slow, halting words, Neal began to tell him a story, tell him things he never wanted to hear. About being admitted to prison in a daze, a prison where OPR had put him without Peter's concern or care. About the Gateway, about life when exposed to the general prison population as a snitch, about trying to protect himself, hampered by shock and grief but knowing that he couldn’t afford to be, knowing he was in a place (once again, he thought he'd left it behind years ago and Peter told himself he didn't want to interrupt but really, really he just didn't want to know, couldn't handle knowing, not now when Neal was telling him things that he could never have imagined, never even thought--) where he had to stay sharp, because everyone was a potential threat, a place where his glib tongue was no real asset and his pretty face a definite liability.
Peter didn't ask for details, kept silent, didn't press, because what Neal was saying was bad enough. And when Neal began talking about Dr. Crawley, about being vulnerable and injured and threatened by the professionals meant to help him; about being harmed and hurt by those very people, let alone the inmates; about knowing he'd been sent to the infirmary once or twice on pretexts flimsy and fabricated by Crawley; about feeling unsafe and scared yet unable to escape, or even try-Peter wanted to kill something. He'd begun making this noise, almost like--
“I'm sorry, Peter,” Neal was saying, “I know-I know it's hard to believe, you think I'm --”
“God, no,” said Peter, horrified. It never occurred to him, not once, not to believe Neal. It never occurred to him that Neal would think he would not be believed. “I'm going to call Hughes. Crawley needs to be reported, needs to be--”
“No!” cried Neal, jerking up, slamming himself against the restraints and then going abruptly white with pain. “No, Peter, you promised--”
“Neal, I don't--”
“Peter, Peter … I … “ But Neal was done in. Peter could see him fighting against it, so he leaned down to whisper, “Ok. I won’t call Hughes now. Rest; we’ll talk later.”
Neal took a breath, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded raw and despairing. Peter had never seen Neal look so desolate, not even in jail, not even when he was being arrested. And now, now Neal was outright begging. “I just … please Peter. I know I just keep asking for more, and I keep doing it, but please. Please just let me get out of here.”
Peter looked at Neal for a long moment, at the defeat and exhaustion in the uncharacteristically unguarded blue eyes. “Okay, Neal,” he said, because God, what else could he say? Pure relief and wild hope flooded Neal's face, and Neal blinked rapidly. “Okay. I’ll talk to them,” Peter repeated. “No promises, though, all right?” he warned, because God knew what they'd say. Neal still looked terrible-and Peter knew there was no way he was anywhere near ready to leave the hospital. But Neal was wearing him down-he had worn him down. Worse, though, was the realization that Neal himself was wearing down, and Peter had to do something, even if it was the wrong thing.
“Peter, I--” began Neal, but he lost the battle even as Peter watched, and sagged into a light, restless sleep mid-sentence. By the time the nurse eventually wandered in, wondering what was up with Neal's elevated heart rate, Neal had already succumbed to sleep.
Peter ran a shaking hand through his hair. He couldn't say he wasn't grateful for Neal's involuntary nap. When Neal had suggested an explanation, when he'd--
He'd never expected the things he'd heard. Not in a million years. He wanted to tear Crawley limb from limb. He wanted to report the guards, the personnel, shut down the entire blight on law enforcement and corrections that the Gateway represented. He wanted -
He couldn't. Neal had treated his story like a confession of his own crime, and had asked Peter not to report it. Worse was the fact that Neal clearly felt like somehow, he was the one that had messed up somewhere in this scenario. As fucked up as it was, Neal would interpret any report as a betrayal, as--
Peter felt sick and dirty.
One thing was clear, however. He wasn't leaving this hospital again without Neal. Peter patted the blanket over Neal’s leg, gripping for a moment, before pushing to his feet and going off in search of a nurse.
*********************************
Part five.