WC Fic: Illustrations (part 5 of 8)
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Title: Illustrations (part 5 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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*************************************************
Getting Neal discharged, though, proved harder than he’d thought. “He’s not doing well here; he’d like to leave,” he explained to the young resident, just as he’d explained to the young nurse, and then the nurse’s manager.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a good idea. His protein levels are higher than we’d like,” said the resident.
Well, that was different, and was more of an answer than he’d heard before. On the other hand, it wasn’t an answer Peter really liked. “Come again?”
The resident’s mouth twisted, as if frustrated by Peter’s ignorance. “We’re worried about his renal function,” he explained begrudgingly.
“He’s in kidney failure?” Peter tried to squelch down the sharp spike of worry.
“No,” snapped the resident impatiently. “But we’re monitoring him. If it doesn’t improve, we’ll get him on dialysis.”
Peter wasn’t sure what to do about that, so he decided to focus on the one thing he knew he could fix. “I also wanted to talk to you about the restraints. Neal is--”
“I understand that this patient is a criminal,” interrupted the resident. “In these kinds of cases …”
“No,” said Peter harshly. “He’s not violent, and he’s not a danger to any of your staff or patients. I promise you.”
“He came in with a monitoring anklet,” said the kid slowly, as if talking to someone of limited intelligence.
“Yes,” said Peter, and nothing more. He glowered slightly. “And?”
“And, last night, after visiting hours were over and his friend left, he pulled a runner. Got into the parking lot before a nurse noticed--he probably wouldn’t have lasted the night, in the condition he’s in. The hospital’s responsible for him--he should’ve been in restraints when he came in, and if he wasn’t then, he certainly must be now.”
“He’s at the end of his sentence. He’s in here because he was shot in the line of duty.” Peter tried to sound reasonable, but the arrogant young doctor wasn’t budging.
“He's more alert now, and according to my information, he’s still technically a convict,” explained the resident with exaggerated patience. “The restraints are policy--just a precaution,” he added hurriedly, holding up one hand when Peter’s glower deepened into an outright glare.
“You are not to restrain this patient without my authorization. Do you understand?” Peter hadn’t meant to go all stern and commanding, but Neal was--he wasn’t sure what Neal was, but the Neal screaming in his sleep wasn’t the Neal Peter knew, and until Neal became himself again--well, he’d be damned if this young brat was going to harm Neal any further by his lack of understanding. Neal was already having nightmares, and Peter knew he didn't react well to any kind of restraint.
“Sir, I understand what you are saying from a public safety standpoint. But you do understand that in terms of patient treatment, you have little jurisdiction here.” The kid’s voice was filled with condescension, and his jaw was set in a stubborn line. He’d already turned away and was examining another patient’s chart, clearly distracted.
But this kid was also in charge of Neal, of Neal’s care. Of his life. Peter wanted so, so badly, to hit him, but also knew it would accomplish nothing, and would not help. “Just let me know when he’s ready to be discharged,” Peter spat out, and then turned on his heel, going back to Neal’s room with the bad news.
Neal was lying on his back, listlessly staring at the wall, when Peter returned. Alone, Neal looked very young, and the expression on his face betrayed discomfort and defeat and exhaustion. Peter watched him for a moment, pausing outside the door, before clearing his throat and entering the room.
“Sorry, buddy. No can do. They’re worried about your protein levels.” He said the words as gently as he could, knowing how badly Neal wanted out.
“So I won’t eat any meat. Please Peter.” Peter had to look away from those imploring blue eyes. The knowledge that for once, this wasn’t a con but the unvarnished truth, was painful.
“I’m afraid not, Neal.” Peter tried to gentle the words, but they came out stern and harsh despite himself.
Neal looked at Peter for a minute with over-bright too blue eyes, and then he slumped slightly in the bed. “All right, it’s fine. Thanks for trying.” Neal smiled brightly at Peter, as if everything was okay.
“I also couldn’t get them to budge on the restraints,” he said apologetically, adding softly, “They said you tried to run last night? You didn’t mention that part.” Peter didn’t want to believe that Neal would take the opportunity to run. He didn’t believe that Neal was that stupid, for starters, but more than that--
Neal looked uncomfortable, trying to shift within the restraints and failing to get very far.
“You had a nightmare, didn’t you?” asked Peter with sudden insight, and the quick flash of shame on Neal’s face was enough to confirm it. “Oh, Neal. I’m--”
“It’s fine,” said Neal quickly, putting a hand on Peter’s wrist as if to reassure and still smiling that bright, bright smile, but cutting Peter’s words off.
“Neal,” said Peter helplessly, “I’m … I’m on your side, here. Don’t … “ Don’t lie, Peter wanted to say, as the bright smile on Neal’s face was directly contradicted by the increase in the heart monitor, the defeated slump of his body, as if he didn’t know Neal well enough to know he was upset. But he didn’t say it.
Peter squeezed Neal’s hand, and then ruffled his hair, before exiting the room which had suddenly become too small, too confining. It didn’t even have a window. He didn’t know how Neal stood it.
Neal’s prison cell was almost the same size, and just as windowless, a small internal voice reminded him.
It didn’t help.
Peter didn’t know what to do. He wanted to promise Neal he’d get him out of there, like his friend Haversham would have, he wanted to …
In desperation, he called Elizabeth.
“Peter? Is everything okay?” Even hearing Elizabeth’s voice soothed him, made him feel less crazy.
“Neal wants out, but the doctor tells me they want to monitor him. They`ve stuck him in restraints, El.” Peter let his frustration and upset colour his voice.
“Is there any reason he can’t be monitored from home?” And this was why he’d married Elizabeth.
“I don’t know,” admitted Peter. “I didn’t ask. He’s an ass,” he added, remembering how angry he’d become at the resident’s callousness towards his friend.
“Who, Neal?” Elizabeth asked, startled.
“No, the kid who calls himself a doctor. He decided to restrain Neal because apparently that’s standard protocol with criminals.” Peter’s voice was heavily sarcastic to hide his upset, even though he knew that Elizabeth would see right through him.
“Well, honey, he doesn’t know Neal. You can’t be angry at him for the suggestion.” Elizabeth’s tone was soothing and reasonable, but Peter was not feeling reasonable.
“I can when you consider Neal’s been screaming in his sleep!” Peter ran a hand through his hair.
“Sweetheart … look, honey, I’ve got to go, but don’t worry. I’ll be there soon, as soon as this event is over, and we can sort it out with the medical staff, get the story and then make some decisions from there. If Neal’s as miserable as that, and if they’re that antsy, maybe we could figure out a way to get some home care.”
“Actually, that’s a good idea,” said Peter, considering, and figuring a way to leverage their distrust of Neal into some home care options. He closed his eyes, imagining Elizabeth in the blue dress she’d worn that morning, talking to him on her cell. “I love you, you know.”
“I love you back,” said Elizabeth, the warmth and love in her voice a balm to his shattered nerves. “I’ll see you both soon.”
********************************
Peter called into the office, telling Hughes that Neal was being discharged and he wasn’t coming in. Hughes was surprisingly understanding-while also demanding that Peter let him know what Neal had decided about the ongoing contract. Peter wasn’t able to tell him that he simply hadn’t really brought it up yet.
Elizabeth arrived mid-afternoon, after the morning christening she’d been dealing with was over. She took one look at Peter's face, and then at Neal's, before nodding firmly and leaving the room.
It took Elizabeth exactly 34 minutes to sort out Neal’s discharge, arrange homecare, and inform Neal that he was coming home with her. Peter watched in both relief and amusement as a groggy and bemused Neal failed miserably to protest the arrangement, while she packed up his stuff and chatted lightly to him about the food at the christening and told Peter where and what to sign.
The hospital’s discharge process itself took a good deal longer, and it wasn’t until early afternoon that Peter was able to load Neal into his car and drive home. Conveniently, as it was Friday, Peter decided to take the rest of the day and work from home, while watching over Neal with an eagle eye. The homecare company El had arranged had sent over a nurse with even more instructions than the hospital had had, with what to watch for and how to change the I.V., because she wasn’t able to stay for long on such short notice. It made Peter nervous, which he compensated for by being extra-vigilant; the close scrutiny made Neal fidgety and restless, unable to settle but unable to do much of anything but allow the attention. Peter was much harder to charm than the nurses, and while they were trained to deal with recalcitrant patients, Peter had trained himself to deal with an evasive Neal. Given the discharge tension, he’d already let Neal get away with skipping most of breakfast and with only a frown, allowed Neal to barely nibble at his lunch. By dinner time, Peter was growing more and more stern and Neal was getting more and more desperate.
Despite Neal’s discomfort with Peter’s over-attentiveness, the bed in Peter and Elizabeth’s home was still far more comfortable than the one in the hospital, with sheets soft and fine and a pile of down pillows. Their house was quiet, but not overly so, and while it still wasn’t his bed, Neal hadn’t had the kind of life where he could afford the luxury of wanting his own bed at night--when he even had one. He slept well, and frequently, for most of the day. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, but given the opportunity, he felt like he could sleep forever, if only Peter would let him.
He took his opportunity the next morning, when Peter could no longer help himself and was clearly desperate to go into the office; Elizabeth had a wedding all weekend and couldn’t be home either. He called Mozzie, and let Moz arrive before sending Peter on his way, but he knew Mozzie was uncomfortable around sick people, and now that Neal was home, he made short work of persuading Mozzie to leave as well. Much to his unconcealed joy, Mozzie had brought him a sketchpad, a set of nibs and an array of pencils, and he let both Mozzie and Peter see how happy the gift made him, how all he wanted was some peace and quiet to sketch in.
It wasn’t untrue. Once everyone had gone and the house was quiet, Neal disconnected the I.V., made himself coffee (against the doctor’s recommendation, but he hadn’t had a cup for weeks) and had a shower (carefully, because he was not supposed to but he hated that he didn’t feel clean) and made his slow, limping way down the stairs and painfully across the hall and through the kitchen patio doors, where he sat in a patch of sunlight on a faded plastic lawn chair and drew.
Neal drew for hours. He drew birds, and he drew the sky. He drew the sun, and he drew the schoolchildren rushing past.
He wished he could paint. Painting would have been better, but painting required standing, and he couldn’t manage that. Even he knew that.
Three days left. He tried not to wonder what he would do. He tried not to wonder if they’d really let him go.
He’d heard Peter talking about a new C.I., thought Peter had wanted him to ask--but he didn’t, because he already knew what that meant. It meant he was about to become redundant. But he couldn’t think about that either, couldn’t think--after almost nine years of waiting--about what he would do now. After everything, would Moz still want to run with him? After everything, could he even try for that white-picket life Peter kept hoping he’d go for? Peter made sure everyone knew he was a criminal, and yet--and yet, Peter kept throwing these women at him, successful, bright, intelligent women (like Taryn, like Sara and hadn’t that ended well?) who Neal knew, after everything, would never be serious about a guy like him. Would certainly never marry a guy like him.
On top of everything, he was really nervous about Peter, even though he knew it was ridiculous. Because he knew Peter still wanted him to report Doc Crawley. He knew Peter thought it would help. But his father had always told him--for years, growing up, when he’d been in pain from yet another broken bone or bad fall--that doctors would just hurt him, and take him away. Crawley had been the first doctor Neal had ever had any real experience with--aside from Dr. Powell--and both of them had proven his father, in this one particular instance, right. And he couldn’t re-live it--couldn’t tell his story again, just--couldn’t. It had been hard enough telling Peter, even though he’d been desperate. But Neal wasn’t stupid. He knew that if Peter forced the issue, pressed Neal to do it, Peter would win--he’d known of the possibility the second he confessed, but he’d had no choice, he’d had to get out there--because Peter held all the cards right now. But Neal was holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, Peter would protect him after all--that when Peter promised something, gave his word, he wouldn’t wiggle out of it, not on a technicality, no matter how much he might want to.
He needed to talk to Peter about it. About everything. He felt lost, and alone, and thoroughly confused. So he needed to talk to Peter, but in his current state, he knew it wouldn’t go well. He wasn’t sure if it was the medications, or the stress of the last few weeks, but he knew that he had no control anymore, no perspective, and no ability to hide.
Especially not from Peter, who had always seen too much.
So Neal kept drawing. He drew all the things he hadn’t let himself draw, all these years. Some of the things that Mozzie had destroyed, but all the things he hadn’t let himself think of for the past nine years. He drew mountains and bridges and lakes. He drew anything he wanted--but even now, even after everything, he didn’t draw his family--and he couldn’t draw Kate.
He wondered if, one day, he’d be able to.
When Peter found him and woke him up, the yard was dark and chill and Neal was stiff and sore, and he had missed his last two doses of medication. Peter was furious, and worried, and the sketchbook lay on the ground, forgotten, as Peter dragged him to his feet and back inside their warm, bright home.
****************************
Neal didn’t make any protest while Peter re-attached the I.V., and didn’t even try to get out of Peter’s threatened dinner, although he insisted that he come down to eat at the table like a normal person. It didn’t matter. Peter brought him a tray, sat on the edge of his bed, and then proceeded to scold him all through dinner anyway.
Neal, for his part, concentrated on his food, both to avoid answering Peter and hoping that watching him eat might calm Peter’s ire a little. He knew that anger was Peter’s default setting, knew that it was merely worry and concern and maybe even a bit of misplaced guilt, and under better circumstances, he would deflect and tease and coax Peter out of his rage. But Neal was not on top of his game, and while he knew the broth was good--subtlely flavoured and not too rich-- eating was a struggle, and the anger on top of all that made him flinch inwardly, made him feel stifled and tense. The illness and the drugs combined to make him feel weak and jittery, and as Peter went on scolding, all Neal wanted to do was go home, where he could relax and just forget everything for a little while. He missed Kate, suddenly and with a passion--but he forced himself to think instead about table linens and Peter’s socks, and not about Kate, and her hair and her smile and her touch. He forced himself to focus on taking spoonful after spoonful of soup, ignoring the churning in his stomach, the burn in his throat, the exhaustion he felt tugging at his entire body. He saw Elizabeth enter the room and inconspicuously try to intervene and distract Peter, but he didn’t even have the energy to spare to smile at her. Not even half way through dinner he stopped, feeling something inside him stab and lurch, making him nauseous and breathless all at the same time. He stopped eating, trying with some effort to cover with moving things around on his plate and hoping Peter was too absorbed in his ranting to notice, but he was not that lucky. Both Elizabeth and Peter had turned to him in alarm, and for a moment, he wanted to hide under the bed, run away until he was fine again, until he didn’t need to try so hard, until he didn’t need to wonder if all his reactions and feelings were ridiculous anxiety or something more.
“Neal?” Elizabeth was asking gently. “You still with us?”
Had he been anywhere else, Neal would have smiled, tossed his head, made some clever remark--refocussed the marks. But he simply couldn’t manage it. And then something twisted inside him, and he couldn’t control himself, could barely manage to turn to one side before he was violently sick all over the Burke’s guest-room floor, miserable in his agony.
He wanted to throw something. Too bad he didn’t even have the energy to sit up.
Peter caught him before he could fall.
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Part six.
Title: Illustrations (part 5 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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*************************************************
Getting Neal discharged, though, proved harder than he’d thought. “He’s not doing well here; he’d like to leave,” he explained to the young resident, just as he’d explained to the young nurse, and then the nurse’s manager.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a good idea. His protein levels are higher than we’d like,” said the resident.
Well, that was different, and was more of an answer than he’d heard before. On the other hand, it wasn’t an answer Peter really liked. “Come again?”
The resident’s mouth twisted, as if frustrated by Peter’s ignorance. “We’re worried about his renal function,” he explained begrudgingly.
“He’s in kidney failure?” Peter tried to squelch down the sharp spike of worry.
“No,” snapped the resident impatiently. “But we’re monitoring him. If it doesn’t improve, we’ll get him on dialysis.”
Peter wasn’t sure what to do about that, so he decided to focus on the one thing he knew he could fix. “I also wanted to talk to you about the restraints. Neal is--”
“I understand that this patient is a criminal,” interrupted the resident. “In these kinds of cases …”
“No,” said Peter harshly. “He’s not violent, and he’s not a danger to any of your staff or patients. I promise you.”
“He came in with a monitoring anklet,” said the kid slowly, as if talking to someone of limited intelligence.
“Yes,” said Peter, and nothing more. He glowered slightly. “And?”
“And, last night, after visiting hours were over and his friend left, he pulled a runner. Got into the parking lot before a nurse noticed--he probably wouldn’t have lasted the night, in the condition he’s in. The hospital’s responsible for him--he should’ve been in restraints when he came in, and if he wasn’t then, he certainly must be now.”
“He’s at the end of his sentence. He’s in here because he was shot in the line of duty.” Peter tried to sound reasonable, but the arrogant young doctor wasn’t budging.
“He's more alert now, and according to my information, he’s still technically a convict,” explained the resident with exaggerated patience. “The restraints are policy--just a precaution,” he added hurriedly, holding up one hand when Peter’s glower deepened into an outright glare.
“You are not to restrain this patient without my authorization. Do you understand?” Peter hadn’t meant to go all stern and commanding, but Neal was--he wasn’t sure what Neal was, but the Neal screaming in his sleep wasn’t the Neal Peter knew, and until Neal became himself again--well, he’d be damned if this young brat was going to harm Neal any further by his lack of understanding. Neal was already having nightmares, and Peter knew he didn't react well to any kind of restraint.
“Sir, I understand what you are saying from a public safety standpoint. But you do understand that in terms of patient treatment, you have little jurisdiction here.” The kid’s voice was filled with condescension, and his jaw was set in a stubborn line. He’d already turned away and was examining another patient’s chart, clearly distracted.
But this kid was also in charge of Neal, of Neal’s care. Of his life. Peter wanted so, so badly, to hit him, but also knew it would accomplish nothing, and would not help. “Just let me know when he’s ready to be discharged,” Peter spat out, and then turned on his heel, going back to Neal’s room with the bad news.
Neal was lying on his back, listlessly staring at the wall, when Peter returned. Alone, Neal looked very young, and the expression on his face betrayed discomfort and defeat and exhaustion. Peter watched him for a moment, pausing outside the door, before clearing his throat and entering the room.
“Sorry, buddy. No can do. They’re worried about your protein levels.” He said the words as gently as he could, knowing how badly Neal wanted out.
“So I won’t eat any meat. Please Peter.” Peter had to look away from those imploring blue eyes. The knowledge that for once, this wasn’t a con but the unvarnished truth, was painful.
“I’m afraid not, Neal.” Peter tried to gentle the words, but they came out stern and harsh despite himself.
Neal looked at Peter for a minute with over-bright too blue eyes, and then he slumped slightly in the bed. “All right, it’s fine. Thanks for trying.” Neal smiled brightly at Peter, as if everything was okay.
“I also couldn’t get them to budge on the restraints,” he said apologetically, adding softly, “They said you tried to run last night? You didn’t mention that part.” Peter didn’t want to believe that Neal would take the opportunity to run. He didn’t believe that Neal was that stupid, for starters, but more than that--
Neal looked uncomfortable, trying to shift within the restraints and failing to get very far.
“You had a nightmare, didn’t you?” asked Peter with sudden insight, and the quick flash of shame on Neal’s face was enough to confirm it. “Oh, Neal. I’m--”
“It’s fine,” said Neal quickly, putting a hand on Peter’s wrist as if to reassure and still smiling that bright, bright smile, but cutting Peter’s words off.
“Neal,” said Peter helplessly, “I’m … I’m on your side, here. Don’t … “ Don’t lie, Peter wanted to say, as the bright smile on Neal’s face was directly contradicted by the increase in the heart monitor, the defeated slump of his body, as if he didn’t know Neal well enough to know he was upset. But he didn’t say it.
Peter squeezed Neal’s hand, and then ruffled his hair, before exiting the room which had suddenly become too small, too confining. It didn’t even have a window. He didn’t know how Neal stood it.
Neal’s prison cell was almost the same size, and just as windowless, a small internal voice reminded him.
It didn’t help.
Peter didn’t know what to do. He wanted to promise Neal he’d get him out of there, like his friend Haversham would have, he wanted to …
In desperation, he called Elizabeth.
“Peter? Is everything okay?” Even hearing Elizabeth’s voice soothed him, made him feel less crazy.
“Neal wants out, but the doctor tells me they want to monitor him. They`ve stuck him in restraints, El.” Peter let his frustration and upset colour his voice.
“Is there any reason he can’t be monitored from home?” And this was why he’d married Elizabeth.
“I don’t know,” admitted Peter. “I didn’t ask. He’s an ass,” he added, remembering how angry he’d become at the resident’s callousness towards his friend.
“Who, Neal?” Elizabeth asked, startled.
“No, the kid who calls himself a doctor. He decided to restrain Neal because apparently that’s standard protocol with criminals.” Peter’s voice was heavily sarcastic to hide his upset, even though he knew that Elizabeth would see right through him.
“Well, honey, he doesn’t know Neal. You can’t be angry at him for the suggestion.” Elizabeth’s tone was soothing and reasonable, but Peter was not feeling reasonable.
“I can when you consider Neal’s been screaming in his sleep!” Peter ran a hand through his hair.
“Sweetheart … look, honey, I’ve got to go, but don’t worry. I’ll be there soon, as soon as this event is over, and we can sort it out with the medical staff, get the story and then make some decisions from there. If Neal’s as miserable as that, and if they’re that antsy, maybe we could figure out a way to get some home care.”
“Actually, that’s a good idea,” said Peter, considering, and figuring a way to leverage their distrust of Neal into some home care options. He closed his eyes, imagining Elizabeth in the blue dress she’d worn that morning, talking to him on her cell. “I love you, you know.”
“I love you back,” said Elizabeth, the warmth and love in her voice a balm to his shattered nerves. “I’ll see you both soon.”
********************************
Peter called into the office, telling Hughes that Neal was being discharged and he wasn’t coming in. Hughes was surprisingly understanding-while also demanding that Peter let him know what Neal had decided about the ongoing contract. Peter wasn’t able to tell him that he simply hadn’t really brought it up yet.
Elizabeth arrived mid-afternoon, after the morning christening she’d been dealing with was over. She took one look at Peter's face, and then at Neal's, before nodding firmly and leaving the room.
It took Elizabeth exactly 34 minutes to sort out Neal’s discharge, arrange homecare, and inform Neal that he was coming home with her. Peter watched in both relief and amusement as a groggy and bemused Neal failed miserably to protest the arrangement, while she packed up his stuff and chatted lightly to him about the food at the christening and told Peter where and what to sign.
The hospital’s discharge process itself took a good deal longer, and it wasn’t until early afternoon that Peter was able to load Neal into his car and drive home. Conveniently, as it was Friday, Peter decided to take the rest of the day and work from home, while watching over Neal with an eagle eye. The homecare company El had arranged had sent over a nurse with even more instructions than the hospital had had, with what to watch for and how to change the I.V., because she wasn’t able to stay for long on such short notice. It made Peter nervous, which he compensated for by being extra-vigilant; the close scrutiny made Neal fidgety and restless, unable to settle but unable to do much of anything but allow the attention. Peter was much harder to charm than the nurses, and while they were trained to deal with recalcitrant patients, Peter had trained himself to deal with an evasive Neal. Given the discharge tension, he’d already let Neal get away with skipping most of breakfast and with only a frown, allowed Neal to barely nibble at his lunch. By dinner time, Peter was growing more and more stern and Neal was getting more and more desperate.
Despite Neal’s discomfort with Peter’s over-attentiveness, the bed in Peter and Elizabeth’s home was still far more comfortable than the one in the hospital, with sheets soft and fine and a pile of down pillows. Their house was quiet, but not overly so, and while it still wasn’t his bed, Neal hadn’t had the kind of life where he could afford the luxury of wanting his own bed at night--when he even had one. He slept well, and frequently, for most of the day. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, but given the opportunity, he felt like he could sleep forever, if only Peter would let him.
He took his opportunity the next morning, when Peter could no longer help himself and was clearly desperate to go into the office; Elizabeth had a wedding all weekend and couldn’t be home either. He called Mozzie, and let Moz arrive before sending Peter on his way, but he knew Mozzie was uncomfortable around sick people, and now that Neal was home, he made short work of persuading Mozzie to leave as well. Much to his unconcealed joy, Mozzie had brought him a sketchpad, a set of nibs and an array of pencils, and he let both Mozzie and Peter see how happy the gift made him, how all he wanted was some peace and quiet to sketch in.
It wasn’t untrue. Once everyone had gone and the house was quiet, Neal disconnected the I.V., made himself coffee (against the doctor’s recommendation, but he hadn’t had a cup for weeks) and had a shower (carefully, because he was not supposed to but he hated that he didn’t feel clean) and made his slow, limping way down the stairs and painfully across the hall and through the kitchen patio doors, where he sat in a patch of sunlight on a faded plastic lawn chair and drew.
Neal drew for hours. He drew birds, and he drew the sky. He drew the sun, and he drew the schoolchildren rushing past.
He wished he could paint. Painting would have been better, but painting required standing, and he couldn’t manage that. Even he knew that.
Three days left. He tried not to wonder what he would do. He tried not to wonder if they’d really let him go.
He’d heard Peter talking about a new C.I., thought Peter had wanted him to ask--but he didn’t, because he already knew what that meant. It meant he was about to become redundant. But he couldn’t think about that either, couldn’t think--after almost nine years of waiting--about what he would do now. After everything, would Moz still want to run with him? After everything, could he even try for that white-picket life Peter kept hoping he’d go for? Peter made sure everyone knew he was a criminal, and yet--and yet, Peter kept throwing these women at him, successful, bright, intelligent women (like Taryn, like Sara and hadn’t that ended well?) who Neal knew, after everything, would never be serious about a guy like him. Would certainly never marry a guy like him.
On top of everything, he was really nervous about Peter, even though he knew it was ridiculous. Because he knew Peter still wanted him to report Doc Crawley. He knew Peter thought it would help. But his father had always told him--for years, growing up, when he’d been in pain from yet another broken bone or bad fall--that doctors would just hurt him, and take him away. Crawley had been the first doctor Neal had ever had any real experience with--aside from Dr. Powell--and both of them had proven his father, in this one particular instance, right. And he couldn’t re-live it--couldn’t tell his story again, just--couldn’t. It had been hard enough telling Peter, even though he’d been desperate. But Neal wasn’t stupid. He knew that if Peter forced the issue, pressed Neal to do it, Peter would win--he’d known of the possibility the second he confessed, but he’d had no choice, he’d had to get out there--because Peter held all the cards right now. But Neal was holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, Peter would protect him after all--that when Peter promised something, gave his word, he wouldn’t wiggle out of it, not on a technicality, no matter how much he might want to.
He needed to talk to Peter about it. About everything. He felt lost, and alone, and thoroughly confused. So he needed to talk to Peter, but in his current state, he knew it wouldn’t go well. He wasn’t sure if it was the medications, or the stress of the last few weeks, but he knew that he had no control anymore, no perspective, and no ability to hide.
Especially not from Peter, who had always seen too much.
So Neal kept drawing. He drew all the things he hadn’t let himself draw, all these years. Some of the things that Mozzie had destroyed, but all the things he hadn’t let himself think of for the past nine years. He drew mountains and bridges and lakes. He drew anything he wanted--but even now, even after everything, he didn’t draw his family--and he couldn’t draw Kate.
He wondered if, one day, he’d be able to.
When Peter found him and woke him up, the yard was dark and chill and Neal was stiff and sore, and he had missed his last two doses of medication. Peter was furious, and worried, and the sketchbook lay on the ground, forgotten, as Peter dragged him to his feet and back inside their warm, bright home.
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Neal didn’t make any protest while Peter re-attached the I.V., and didn’t even try to get out of Peter’s threatened dinner, although he insisted that he come down to eat at the table like a normal person. It didn’t matter. Peter brought him a tray, sat on the edge of his bed, and then proceeded to scold him all through dinner anyway.
Neal, for his part, concentrated on his food, both to avoid answering Peter and hoping that watching him eat might calm Peter’s ire a little. He knew that anger was Peter’s default setting, knew that it was merely worry and concern and maybe even a bit of misplaced guilt, and under better circumstances, he would deflect and tease and coax Peter out of his rage. But Neal was not on top of his game, and while he knew the broth was good--subtlely flavoured and not too rich-- eating was a struggle, and the anger on top of all that made him flinch inwardly, made him feel stifled and tense. The illness and the drugs combined to make him feel weak and jittery, and as Peter went on scolding, all Neal wanted to do was go home, where he could relax and just forget everything for a little while. He missed Kate, suddenly and with a passion--but he forced himself to think instead about table linens and Peter’s socks, and not about Kate, and her hair and her smile and her touch. He forced himself to focus on taking spoonful after spoonful of soup, ignoring the churning in his stomach, the burn in his throat, the exhaustion he felt tugging at his entire body. He saw Elizabeth enter the room and inconspicuously try to intervene and distract Peter, but he didn’t even have the energy to spare to smile at her. Not even half way through dinner he stopped, feeling something inside him stab and lurch, making him nauseous and breathless all at the same time. He stopped eating, trying with some effort to cover with moving things around on his plate and hoping Peter was too absorbed in his ranting to notice, but he was not that lucky. Both Elizabeth and Peter had turned to him in alarm, and for a moment, he wanted to hide under the bed, run away until he was fine again, until he didn’t need to try so hard, until he didn’t need to wonder if all his reactions and feelings were ridiculous anxiety or something more.
“Neal?” Elizabeth was asking gently. “You still with us?”
Had he been anywhere else, Neal would have smiled, tossed his head, made some clever remark--refocussed the marks. But he simply couldn’t manage it. And then something twisted inside him, and he couldn’t control himself, could barely manage to turn to one side before he was violently sick all over the Burke’s guest-room floor, miserable in his agony.
He wanted to throw something. Too bad he didn’t even have the energy to sit up.
Peter caught him before he could fall.
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Part six.