WC Fic: Illustrations (part 7 of 9)
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Title: Illustrations (part 7 of 9)
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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“Neal’s restless,” said Elizabeth, in the middle of dinner preparations as Peter walked in the door on Wednesday. “You should go up to him.”
Peter nodded and climbed the stairs slowly. They were both so tired. Neal was recovering--the nurses had assured them the treatment was working--and he was clearly doing better out of the hospital than in--but it was slow going. After the doctor’s visit, Peter had put his foot down--Neal wasn’t going back to June’s--particularly not while she remained out of town, visiting with her daughter and Samantha --until he was at least eating solid foods consistently and off the I.V.. Although Neal sulked a bit, clearly wanting to go home and lick his wounds in private, he didn’t fight Peter too hard. For the most part, he couldn’t--he was too weak and too reliant on Peter and Elizabeth’s help to make much more than a token protest, and partly, Peter knew that deep down, Neal didn’t really want to be alone, either.
The rest of it was more complicated--Peter hadn’t forgotten what Neal had told him, or the consequences of it, and Neal knew that. Peter had made sure not to mention it--he really didn’t need to add any extra stress to Neal’s condition right now--but he itched to report it. If what Neal said was true--and the way he’d said it, coupled with the anguish in his eyes, had left Peter with no doubt that not only was it true, it was far worse than what Neal had alleged--then Crawley needed to be stopped. Peter wasn’t used to thinking of inmates as a vulnerable population--but in many ways, they were. It made him physically ill to think of Neal, his Neal, at the mercy of someone who’d harm him like that.
But that was a problem--like so many--that needed to be dealt with later. In the meantime, Peter had also insisted that Neal start talking to them--he was tired of Neal pretending he felt better than he did, of feigning sleep or pretending to eat; it made it difficult to assess his condition, when neither Elizabeth nor Peter had any way of knowing better, and when the visiting nurse was only there for a few minutes a day. So Peter reminded Neal, every chance he got, of the consequences of lying--a return to a hospital bed, four point restraints, and an ugly blue gown. Neal wasn’t a kid, even if he sometimes acted like one--he had to take responsibility for his own treatment, and neither Peter nor El had the kind of lives that would allow them to indulge a thirty-two year old child.
But Neal did make an (reluctant) effort to be honest, even though he clearly hated every admission of weakness, of being less than fine and perfect. Still, he did it--or at least, he wouldn’t lie when asked a direct question, which was as much as Peter could hope for. He’d confess he’d been up half the night with nightmares, he agreed to ask Peter to stay when he was too nervous to sleep on his own. It visibly bothered Neal, Peter could tell, particularly because Neal was astute enough to realize than any admission on his part resulted in a new burden on Elizabeth or Peter. Neal, with his ridiculous need to please, hated being a burden on anyone--at least not overtly. He’d been plenty headache to Peter over the years, even if he hadn’t really meant to be--but he hated actually asking for help, whether or not he needed it. But Neal also kept telling them (like they couldn’t see) that he was trying, and that being home helped, a lot. There was no question, though--it was obvious how much more relaxed Neal was out of the hospital. No matter what Neal did, there was no chance Peter was sending him back there--Neal just didn’t need to know that.
But there were still a few nights--like apparently tonight--when Neal was visibly restless, when the fever took hold and confused his brain, made him querulous and uncomfortable and cranky, or just plain frightened. There were nights when Neal couldn’t sleep for the pain he would only reluctantly admit to, because the painkillers prescribed apparently made him feel foggy and he didn’t like them. Peter made him take them anyway, and would sit with him or at least check on him, frequently, to make sure Neal didn’t feel abandoned, and to make sure he had what he needed.
So yes, it was a strain, and it wasn’t easy--but Peter knew that neither he nor El would have had it any other way. Neal was making progress, albeit a little more slowly than initially anticipated, but that was fine. Neal was their friend, and Peter’s partner. He might have been demanding by being undemanding, but Peter knew that in some ways, he actually felt better having Neal close, where he could keep an eye on him for a few days, assure himself that Neal was okay.
He entered the bedroom, where Neal was tossing fitfully, sleeping but obviously uncomfortable. Peter frowned, and went back about halfway down the stairs. “El?” he called.
“Peter?” she answered, clearly distracted. “Everything okay?”
“When was Neal’s last painkiller?”
“I don’t know honey, but I’ve been home a few hours, and he’s been like that the whole time.”
Peter sighed, and climbed back up the stairs. “Neal,” he said, shaking one bony shoulder, and steeling himself for the inevitable argument, “come on, buddy, wake up ...”
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Neal continued to improve, and after a few days, he managed to sleep peacefully through the night, with the door open and Elizabeth and Peter snoring in the room directly across from him, Satchmo across his feet. A few days later, and they were able to disconnect the I.V., and Neal was permitted to come downstairs for meals, and to sit outside if he wanted without raising Peter’s blood pressure. And even though through it all, Neal was sweet and charming and rarely actually asked for anything, having him in their house and ill was demand enough. Much as they loved him, and much as he loved them, they were all relieved when Peter finally deemed him well enough to go back to June’s.
And it was the day after that, a bright and sunny Thursday morning, that Peter finally felt able to go over to June’s home, climb up to her rooftop terrace and sit in the sunshine, drinking her fine Italian roast and waiting for Neal to wake up. The contract Hughes had asked him to sign sat in a folder in front of him, and he’d practiced the proposal El and he had worked out in his head about a thousand times. Still, he wiped his pants on his hands, waiting for Neal, and waiting to cut his tracker, which had gone dead over a good week ago.
Neal was finally free, and as he waited, Peter admitted to himself that he was scared shitless about what might happen next.
Neal woke up about an hour later--uncharacteristic for him usually, but he was still healing. He was groggy and awkward as he made his way out to the terrace, his still healing body robbing him of his usual grace. He paused, the bright smile on his face stuttering slightly when he saw Peter.
“Peter! What’s up?” Neal asked, startled and trying to recover.
“Nothing much, just wanted to see how you were getting on. June was kind enough to let me up; we didn’t want to wake you.” Peter did his best to seem genial and innocuous. The conversation he needed to have would be difficult enough, he didn’t need Neal any more defensive and guarded than he already was.
“I’ll leave you boys alone,” said June. “Besides, Samantha was coming over for a visit with her mother this morning, and I need to make some preparations. We’re going to the zoo.”
“Tell Samantha to say hello to the tigers for me,” said Neal. “They were always my favourites.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, dear. You boys have fun, now.”
“Thank you for breakfast, June. It was delicious as always,” said Peter.
“It’s my pleasure,” replied June. “Now I really must be off, and I believe you both likely have some business to discuss that I had best not interfere with.”
Peter smiled weakly, while Neal looked mildly curious, but it was his con face. His eyes held more than a trace of panic. They both waited politely while June packed up the breakfast tray, leaving coffee and a croissant, along with some fruit for Neal.
“So, Peter, what brings you here on a Sunday morning?” asked Neal once June was out of earshot. “I can’t believe that you would miss me already.” His voice was light and teasing, but Peter could sense the tension.
So much for putting Caffrey at his ease. “Neal, we need to talk.” Peter leaned forward.
Neal shifted, his jig up, letting Peter see he was uncomfortable. “That never bodes well, but all right. So talk.”
“Eat some fruit while I talk,” ordered Peter roughly, seeing Neal make no move towards the food in front of him, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug like a lifeline. “You’re still too skinny.”
Neal put down the china mug in favour of nervously picking at the bowl of fruit in front of him, finally selecting a lone blueberry that he ate way more slowly than any blueberry had a right to be eaten.
“Well, first, you’re free and too thin. El wants you to come to our place next Saturday for a BBQ, celebrate your freedom. We’re going to invite Dana and her husband Gary--you remember him, and he makes the best hot wings, I promise you--you can even invite Moz if you want. And El made me promise also to tell you that it won’t all be beer and hot dogs--she’s overseeing the food and wine selection; it’ll be good. She’s even commissioned your bakery for cake. I’m trying to convince her to decorate it with a tracking anklet, but she isn’t going for it.”
“Uh ... okay. You don’t have to sell me on it, Peter, I’m happy to come. Thanks.” Neal, bemused but relaxing a tiny bit, nibbled on a piece of pineapple. Encouraged, Peter continued.
“And Hughes has been after me to unlock the anklet so we can give it to our new C.I. So may I?”
“Uh, okay. Sure.” Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal’s distinct lack of enthusiasm.
“I can’t believe you haven’t just cut it off by now,” Peter said slowly.
“Honestly, with everything else, I kind of forgot it was there. Not like I’ve had any place to go the last few days.” Neal had his con face on in full force, now. Peter didn’t like it. Seriously, Neal had waited almost five long years to get that anklet off. Why the hell wasn’t he leaping for joy now?
“Yeah. Right. So, about that ...”
“Peter, just tell me. What are they going to do to me?”
“Whoa, Neal. They’re not doing anything to you. You’re free now, got it? You can do anything you want--if it’s criminal, I will catch you, but I’ll have to go after you again. Hughes has offered you a contract. He’s tasked me with the job of convincing you to take it.”
“A contract.” Neal blinked, surprised.
“Yeah. $50,000, and you become a full-time contract employee. There are even benefits.”
“Benefits?” Neal blinked at him stupidly.
“Yeah. I don’t know much about the day to day workings of being a career criminal--aside from the likelihood of living in a storage unit--but I do know that you don’t get full dental.” Peter grinned, trying to get Neal--who looked like he was in a state of shock--to relax.
“A contract.” Neal echoed the words flatly.
“Yeah, Neal, a contract. I’m supposed to tell you how great it is. Hughes really wants you.”
“Hughes wants me?” Neal asked the question slowly, disbelievingly.
“In the years you’ve worked with us, despite a few glitches, you’ve been a great asset, Neal. Reese would be an idiot not to recognize that, and Reese isn’t an idiot.” Peter tried to force enthusiasm and sincerity into his voice, trying to get Neal to understand the truth behind the statement, without letting his real feelings show.
“A contract.” Neal was smiling now, his full on delighted Caffrey smile, which crinkled his eyes and lit up his face.
“Yeah, but here’s the part I need to trust you not to tell Hughes or anyone at the office about. Can I do that?” Peter’s voice had grown serious.
“Peter.” Neal sounded just the right amount of affronted.
“I don’t think you should take it.” Peter said the words baldly, not knowing how else to say it.
“Oh.” A pause, and then Caffrey, his exuberance noticeably dimmed, asked carefully, “Can I ask why?”
“Neal, the risks you’ve taken over the past year--being an FBI agent is a dangerous job. Ask El--every few years, she has a bit of a freak out about it, and then I spend the weekend buying her flowers and holding her close, so she remembers that I’m still here, I’m careful, and I’m not going anywhere, despite the risks. I come home to El, and I remember why I’m careful. You don’t have that, not yet--and I see the risks you take. It’s getting worse. I’m not--I’m not happy about that.”
“Peter, that’s stupid. I’m fine,” Neal said, with no small amount of exasperation.
“No, it’s not, but that’s not all,” replied Peter, not willing to let himself get drawn into an argument about it. “Neal, you’ll be taking all the risks of a full agent--hell, you know some of the situations you’ve been thrown into have been worse than the risks a full agent takes--but you won’t be a full agent. You’ll never be a full agent.”
“Peter, they can’t make me an agent,” began Neal in a patiently reasonable tone, “I don’t have the educational requirements--”
“So get them.” Peter’s voice was matter of fact and full of aha! satisfaction.
“What?” Neal looked up at Peter in shocked surprise.
“I’ve talked it over with El. We’ll co-sign a loan for you, you can consult part-time, and you can still go to school. I think--Neal, you’re capable of so much more than this. After that, after you’ve gotten your diploma and maybe a degree--a real degree--you can figure out what you want to do. Neal, you’re worth--”
Neal scrambled up, too quickly, listing to one side and then grabbing the table to steady himself, holding up a hand to fend off Peter who had half risen in alarm. “This? This is what you wanted to tell me? I hate to break it you, Peter, but you’ve spent almost five years telling me I’m a leopard, and now you think I can change my spots? By going to high school ? You’re--you think--I thought you weren’t like that. I guess I was wrong.”
“Neal. Calm down.” Peter had thought of many ways this conversation could go, but Neal getting angry was not one of them.
“I will not calm down, hissed Neal, clearly wanting to yell, but not willing to raise his voice with Samantha possibly in the house. “I don’t understand you. Do you think I’m not good enough to work for the FBI, anymore, now that I don’t have a chain around my foot you can yank whenever you want? Do you--”
“No, Neal,” said Peter forcefully, interrupting the tirade. “It’s that I think you could do so much better. Listen, I work for the F.B.I., but I chosethis. I went to school, and I had options, and this is the one I took. You didn’t have that. As far as I can tell, this is the first real job you had. Remember that gig where I stayed in the luxury hotel for the accounting conference? That could be you.”
“No, according to you, I could be the guy that stole from everyone at the conference.” Neal’s voice was full of anger and resentment.
“Neal, I’m trying to help you,” Peter said, trying to calm Neal down, perplexed as to why Neal was so agitated.
“I don’t want your help!” Neal all but shouted.
“Neal--what’s going on with you?” asked Peter, genuinely confused. “This isn’t like you.”
“Are you going to tell Hughes about the prison thing?” Neal asked abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes.
“What?” Peter was taken aback at the non sequitur.
Neal raised his voice, his tone cold with fury. “Are you going to tell Hughes--”
And suddenly, something clicked. “Neal--No. I would never tell Reese what you told me, I just--I wanted--I want--to report him--it’s not right,” and Peter winced at his babbling choice of words, because it was so far from right it was--it was just--he had no words to express how angry and horrified and sad he was at what Neal had endured, and so he gave up, “and not only do you deserve justice, Crawley needs to be stopped--but I gave you my word. You told me that information in confidence--I know it was difficult for you, and you have to know that I would never tell anyone unless you’re okay with it. You have my word, Neal. You know--you have to know, I would never betray you, not like that. And, for what it’s worth--if you decide never to press charges, I’ll completely support that. And no, I will never tell Hughes what you told me, unless you wanted me to--or unless your safety was at stake.”
“I don’t want him to know,” said Neal, in a small voice. “I don’t want anyone to know, no matter what--not even--I know you tell Elizabeth everything, but--”
“I wouldn’t tell her this,” said Peter forcefully. “Neal, it’s not my place to tell anyone, you got that? Not anyone, not unless you wanted me to and were okay with it.”
“Or unless you thought they needed to know,” said Neal flatly.
“No, Neal--listen to me,” implored Peter, willing Neal to understand. “I would only say something if I thought your safety, or that of someone else, for whatever reason, was at immediate risk unless they knew. I am being honest--if you were in danger and I had information that could help you, I would share it. You’ll have to trust my judgement that I would only share it if you or another person were really in imminent danger, or if I really thought it could help, and then I would only share the information necessary to help, no more and no less. Do you trust me?”
Neal sighed. “That’s not fair.”
“Neal, I wouldn’t do that to anyone, least of all you.” Peter stated the words firmly, convincingly, brooking no argument.
“You think I’m being a coward.” Neal accused, but sounding underneath it--not hurt, just resigned, as if he knew it was what he deserved.
“God, no, Neal. You’ve had to be strong your whole life--and you are. You’ve always been.”
“But you think I should report it. Press charges. It’s a crime, and you think all crime needs to be reported. You think that I--” Neal sounded like nothing so much as a lost little boy, and it made Peter’s heart ache to hear that tone in it--self-recrimination, and self-loathing.
“Neal, no. I am angry by what he did to you--what they all did to you, what they allowed to be done to you. I am angrier than you know. It makes me sick to think of it, and it makes me even more sick to know that possibly, there’s some other kid like you--young, good-hearted, with crappy judgement and no impulse control--”
“Thanks Peter,” interjected Neal wryly, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Don’t mention it,” said Peter smoothly, not allowing Neal to distract him. “Anyway, it makes me sick to think he’s out there, getting away with murder, worse, and living to repeat it. It does, Neal, I won’t lie to you, and yeah. Yeah, I want to report him. No,” and Peter held up a hand, “let me finish. It makes me sick, but I won’t do it at your expense, Neal. Do you understand that? You get to call the shots here.”
“Even if I don’t care about the other kid?” Neal was looking away, and wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes.
Peter chuckled mirthlessly. “Neal, the one thing I do know about you is that you do care about the other kid. You’ve never let your actions hurt anyone else if you could help it, even when it’s at your own expense. Especially when it’s at your own expense.”
“So we’re back to reporting him,” said Neal bitterly.
“No, Neal. We’re back to what I was telling you before--everything doesn’t need to be at your own expense. You get to--you’re supposed to--put yourself first, sometimes--I’m not talking about a con--when it counts. And for the record, I trust you to do the right thing, however you go about it. Reporting him is my way, Neal. We’ve come too far for me not to see that sometimes, my way isn’t always the only way. I think he should be charged, humiliated, shown for what he is--and stopped. I do. Like I said, I can’t help that. But Neal--if you’re not ready for all that, then I understand. It’s not your job to always be brave and strong and self-sacrificing. There are hundreds of other people--inmates, guards, nurses--people who I bet knew what was going on, people’s whose job it was to know what was going on, but who ignored that duty and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
“Some of them helped,” Neal murmured. “Crawley used to offer them drugs--morphine, stuff like that. Stuff that wouldn’t necessarily kill anyone if it fell short. Creepy Crawley, they’d call him, but everyone knew what he had available, and what the cost was. ”
Peter tried to control his expression. Every instinct in him made him want to tear Crawley limb from limb. He tried to calm himself, to think. He could get Diana to look into the man--quietly. There had to be something he could pin the guy on--even trumped up drug trafficking would be enough. In the meantime, he turned his thoughts firmly away from murder, and tried to focus back on Neal. “So, Neal, I asked you earlier if you trusted me.”
Neal sighed again. “You know I do, Peter, even when I shouldn’t.”
“Then trust me now. The contract thing, the school thing, it has nothing to do with what happened to you in prison, Neal. You haven’t let it define you, and you’ve accomplished so much. We’re all proud of you--Jones, Diana, Bancroft--even Hughes. Our own modern day Abegnale. I just think--Hughes wants you in our corner, and my job is to get you there--but you deserve the opportunity to think about what you want, to do what you want. Whatever you want, Neal. Not what Hughes wants, or Mozzie wants--or what I want. I just want you to think about it.” Peter paused a moment, and then added, with a slight emphasis, “Provided it’s legal.”
“What if I want things to stay the same?” asked Neal quietly, still looking away from Peter.
“Then take the contract. Just--just think about it first, will you? You could take a break, travel maybe. And if you change your mind later--offer’s open, Neal.” He reached out, slowly, and put a hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal startled slightly, but he didn’t move away.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll run?” Neal asked sharply, looking up, his eyes intent on Peter’s, examining him.
“You’re a free man, Neal,” Peter said gently, squeezing slightly. “It’s not running if no one’s chasing you.”
Neal stared at Peter for a moment, flabbergasted. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That was the problem in a nutshell.
He didn’t remember much of what Peter said after that. Platitudes and nonsense, stuff about a new C.I., but his mind was spinning, he couldn’t figure out why they needed a new C.I. when they already had him and he got stuck on that, and Peter gave up once he noticed Neal’s mind was no longer engaged. After he saw Peter out, with vague promises of coming over for that BBQ on Sunday with hot wings guy (Gary, Peter, honestly, he’d corrected automatically)--he sat down on the terrace and flipped open the sketchbook he’d managed to salvage from the Burke’s patio last Saturday morning. He flipped through it, drawing by drawing. Pigeons and lakes, buildings and people. Drawing after drawing of things he hadn’t seen for years, things he’d seen on the net, imagined, remembered from years ago. Things from his life now, from who he was. The things that he’d once painted, and that had been lost when he’d had to move, when he’d had to run, when he’d gone to prison. Mozzie had once asked why Neal even bothered storing them (because he had, when he could, in a storage locker as secure as any he’d used until Mozzie had cleared it out to use for something or other, without asking Neal first, not fathoming why Neal had become so upset) and Neal couldn’t explain it. The pieces of his life were in that book, in those lost paintings.
He flipped through each sketch, and he thought about making more, but his mind was whirling and blank, and nothing would come.
Neal closed his eyes and wondered what came next.
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Part eight.
Title: Illustrations (part 7 of 9)
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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“Neal’s restless,” said Elizabeth, in the middle of dinner preparations as Peter walked in the door on Wednesday. “You should go up to him.”
Peter nodded and climbed the stairs slowly. They were both so tired. Neal was recovering--the nurses had assured them the treatment was working--and he was clearly doing better out of the hospital than in--but it was slow going. After the doctor’s visit, Peter had put his foot down--Neal wasn’t going back to June’s--particularly not while she remained out of town, visiting with her daughter and Samantha --until he was at least eating solid foods consistently and off the I.V.. Although Neal sulked a bit, clearly wanting to go home and lick his wounds in private, he didn’t fight Peter too hard. For the most part, he couldn’t--he was too weak and too reliant on Peter and Elizabeth’s help to make much more than a token protest, and partly, Peter knew that deep down, Neal didn’t really want to be alone, either.
The rest of it was more complicated--Peter hadn’t forgotten what Neal had told him, or the consequences of it, and Neal knew that. Peter had made sure not to mention it--he really didn’t need to add any extra stress to Neal’s condition right now--but he itched to report it. If what Neal said was true--and the way he’d said it, coupled with the anguish in his eyes, had left Peter with no doubt that not only was it true, it was far worse than what Neal had alleged--then Crawley needed to be stopped. Peter wasn’t used to thinking of inmates as a vulnerable population--but in many ways, they were. It made him physically ill to think of Neal, his Neal, at the mercy of someone who’d harm him like that.
But that was a problem--like so many--that needed to be dealt with later. In the meantime, Peter had also insisted that Neal start talking to them--he was tired of Neal pretending he felt better than he did, of feigning sleep or pretending to eat; it made it difficult to assess his condition, when neither Elizabeth nor Peter had any way of knowing better, and when the visiting nurse was only there for a few minutes a day. So Peter reminded Neal, every chance he got, of the consequences of lying--a return to a hospital bed, four point restraints, and an ugly blue gown. Neal wasn’t a kid, even if he sometimes acted like one--he had to take responsibility for his own treatment, and neither Peter nor El had the kind of lives that would allow them to indulge a thirty-two year old child.
But Neal did make an (reluctant) effort to be honest, even though he clearly hated every admission of weakness, of being less than fine and perfect. Still, he did it--or at least, he wouldn’t lie when asked a direct question, which was as much as Peter could hope for. He’d confess he’d been up half the night with nightmares, he agreed to ask Peter to stay when he was too nervous to sleep on his own. It visibly bothered Neal, Peter could tell, particularly because Neal was astute enough to realize than any admission on his part resulted in a new burden on Elizabeth or Peter. Neal, with his ridiculous need to please, hated being a burden on anyone--at least not overtly. He’d been plenty headache to Peter over the years, even if he hadn’t really meant to be--but he hated actually asking for help, whether or not he needed it. But Neal also kept telling them (like they couldn’t see) that he was trying, and that being home helped, a lot. There was no question, though--it was obvious how much more relaxed Neal was out of the hospital. No matter what Neal did, there was no chance Peter was sending him back there--Neal just didn’t need to know that.
But there were still a few nights--like apparently tonight--when Neal was visibly restless, when the fever took hold and confused his brain, made him querulous and uncomfortable and cranky, or just plain frightened. There were nights when Neal couldn’t sleep for the pain he would only reluctantly admit to, because the painkillers prescribed apparently made him feel foggy and he didn’t like them. Peter made him take them anyway, and would sit with him or at least check on him, frequently, to make sure Neal didn’t feel abandoned, and to make sure he had what he needed.
So yes, it was a strain, and it wasn’t easy--but Peter knew that neither he nor El would have had it any other way. Neal was making progress, albeit a little more slowly than initially anticipated, but that was fine. Neal was their friend, and Peter’s partner. He might have been demanding by being undemanding, but Peter knew that in some ways, he actually felt better having Neal close, where he could keep an eye on him for a few days, assure himself that Neal was okay.
He entered the bedroom, where Neal was tossing fitfully, sleeping but obviously uncomfortable. Peter frowned, and went back about halfway down the stairs. “El?” he called.
“Peter?” she answered, clearly distracted. “Everything okay?”
“When was Neal’s last painkiller?”
“I don’t know honey, but I’ve been home a few hours, and he’s been like that the whole time.”
Peter sighed, and climbed back up the stairs. “Neal,” he said, shaking one bony shoulder, and steeling himself for the inevitable argument, “come on, buddy, wake up ...”
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Neal continued to improve, and after a few days, he managed to sleep peacefully through the night, with the door open and Elizabeth and Peter snoring in the room directly across from him, Satchmo across his feet. A few days later, and they were able to disconnect the I.V., and Neal was permitted to come downstairs for meals, and to sit outside if he wanted without raising Peter’s blood pressure. And even though through it all, Neal was sweet and charming and rarely actually asked for anything, having him in their house and ill was demand enough. Much as they loved him, and much as he loved them, they were all relieved when Peter finally deemed him well enough to go back to June’s.
And it was the day after that, a bright and sunny Thursday morning, that Peter finally felt able to go over to June’s home, climb up to her rooftop terrace and sit in the sunshine, drinking her fine Italian roast and waiting for Neal to wake up. The contract Hughes had asked him to sign sat in a folder in front of him, and he’d practiced the proposal El and he had worked out in his head about a thousand times. Still, he wiped his pants on his hands, waiting for Neal, and waiting to cut his tracker, which had gone dead over a good week ago.
Neal was finally free, and as he waited, Peter admitted to himself that he was scared shitless about what might happen next.
Neal woke up about an hour later--uncharacteristic for him usually, but he was still healing. He was groggy and awkward as he made his way out to the terrace, his still healing body robbing him of his usual grace. He paused, the bright smile on his face stuttering slightly when he saw Peter.
“Peter! What’s up?” Neal asked, startled and trying to recover.
“Nothing much, just wanted to see how you were getting on. June was kind enough to let me up; we didn’t want to wake you.” Peter did his best to seem genial and innocuous. The conversation he needed to have would be difficult enough, he didn’t need Neal any more defensive and guarded than he already was.
“I’ll leave you boys alone,” said June. “Besides, Samantha was coming over for a visit with her mother this morning, and I need to make some preparations. We’re going to the zoo.”
“Tell Samantha to say hello to the tigers for me,” said Neal. “They were always my favourites.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, dear. You boys have fun, now.”
“Thank you for breakfast, June. It was delicious as always,” said Peter.
“It’s my pleasure,” replied June. “Now I really must be off, and I believe you both likely have some business to discuss that I had best not interfere with.”
Peter smiled weakly, while Neal looked mildly curious, but it was his con face. His eyes held more than a trace of panic. They both waited politely while June packed up the breakfast tray, leaving coffee and a croissant, along with some fruit for Neal.
“So, Peter, what brings you here on a Sunday morning?” asked Neal once June was out of earshot. “I can’t believe that you would miss me already.” His voice was light and teasing, but Peter could sense the tension.
So much for putting Caffrey at his ease. “Neal, we need to talk.” Peter leaned forward.
Neal shifted, his jig up, letting Peter see he was uncomfortable. “That never bodes well, but all right. So talk.”
“Eat some fruit while I talk,” ordered Peter roughly, seeing Neal make no move towards the food in front of him, his hands wrapped around his coffee mug like a lifeline. “You’re still too skinny.”
Neal put down the china mug in favour of nervously picking at the bowl of fruit in front of him, finally selecting a lone blueberry that he ate way more slowly than any blueberry had a right to be eaten.
“Well, first, you’re free and too thin. El wants you to come to our place next Saturday for a BBQ, celebrate your freedom. We’re going to invite Dana and her husband Gary--you remember him, and he makes the best hot wings, I promise you--you can even invite Moz if you want. And El made me promise also to tell you that it won’t all be beer and hot dogs--she’s overseeing the food and wine selection; it’ll be good. She’s even commissioned your bakery for cake. I’m trying to convince her to decorate it with a tracking anklet, but she isn’t going for it.”
“Uh ... okay. You don’t have to sell me on it, Peter, I’m happy to come. Thanks.” Neal, bemused but relaxing a tiny bit, nibbled on a piece of pineapple. Encouraged, Peter continued.
“And Hughes has been after me to unlock the anklet so we can give it to our new C.I. So may I?”
“Uh, okay. Sure.” Peter raised an eyebrow at Neal’s distinct lack of enthusiasm.
“I can’t believe you haven’t just cut it off by now,” Peter said slowly.
“Honestly, with everything else, I kind of forgot it was there. Not like I’ve had any place to go the last few days.” Neal had his con face on in full force, now. Peter didn’t like it. Seriously, Neal had waited almost five long years to get that anklet off. Why the hell wasn’t he leaping for joy now?
“Yeah. Right. So, about that ...”
“Peter, just tell me. What are they going to do to me?”
“Whoa, Neal. They’re not doing anything to you. You’re free now, got it? You can do anything you want--if it’s criminal, I will catch you, but I’ll have to go after you again. Hughes has offered you a contract. He’s tasked me with the job of convincing you to take it.”
“A contract.” Neal blinked, surprised.
“Yeah. $50,000, and you become a full-time contract employee. There are even benefits.”
“Benefits?” Neal blinked at him stupidly.
“Yeah. I don’t know much about the day to day workings of being a career criminal--aside from the likelihood of living in a storage unit--but I do know that you don’t get full dental.” Peter grinned, trying to get Neal--who looked like he was in a state of shock--to relax.
“A contract.” Neal echoed the words flatly.
“Yeah, Neal, a contract. I’m supposed to tell you how great it is. Hughes really wants you.”
“Hughes wants me?” Neal asked the question slowly, disbelievingly.
“In the years you’ve worked with us, despite a few glitches, you’ve been a great asset, Neal. Reese would be an idiot not to recognize that, and Reese isn’t an idiot.” Peter tried to force enthusiasm and sincerity into his voice, trying to get Neal to understand the truth behind the statement, without letting his real feelings show.
“A contract.” Neal was smiling now, his full on delighted Caffrey smile, which crinkled his eyes and lit up his face.
“Yeah, but here’s the part I need to trust you not to tell Hughes or anyone at the office about. Can I do that?” Peter’s voice had grown serious.
“Peter.” Neal sounded just the right amount of affronted.
“I don’t think you should take it.” Peter said the words baldly, not knowing how else to say it.
“Oh.” A pause, and then Caffrey, his exuberance noticeably dimmed, asked carefully, “Can I ask why?”
“Neal, the risks you’ve taken over the past year--being an FBI agent is a dangerous job. Ask El--every few years, she has a bit of a freak out about it, and then I spend the weekend buying her flowers and holding her close, so she remembers that I’m still here, I’m careful, and I’m not going anywhere, despite the risks. I come home to El, and I remember why I’m careful. You don’t have that, not yet--and I see the risks you take. It’s getting worse. I’m not--I’m not happy about that.”
“Peter, that’s stupid. I’m fine,” Neal said, with no small amount of exasperation.
“No, it’s not, but that’s not all,” replied Peter, not willing to let himself get drawn into an argument about it. “Neal, you’ll be taking all the risks of a full agent--hell, you know some of the situations you’ve been thrown into have been worse than the risks a full agent takes--but you won’t be a full agent. You’ll never be a full agent.”
“Peter, they can’t make me an agent,” began Neal in a patiently reasonable tone, “I don’t have the educational requirements--”
“So get them.” Peter’s voice was matter of fact and full of aha! satisfaction.
“What?” Neal looked up at Peter in shocked surprise.
“I’ve talked it over with El. We’ll co-sign a loan for you, you can consult part-time, and you can still go to school. I think--Neal, you’re capable of so much more than this. After that, after you’ve gotten your diploma and maybe a degree--a real degree--you can figure out what you want to do. Neal, you’re worth--”
Neal scrambled up, too quickly, listing to one side and then grabbing the table to steady himself, holding up a hand to fend off Peter who had half risen in alarm. “This? This is what you wanted to tell me? I hate to break it you, Peter, but you’ve spent almost five years telling me I’m a leopard, and now you think I can change my spots? By going to high school ? You’re--you think--I thought you weren’t like that. I guess I was wrong.”
“Neal. Calm down.” Peter had thought of many ways this conversation could go, but Neal getting angry was not one of them.
“I will not calm down, hissed Neal, clearly wanting to yell, but not willing to raise his voice with Samantha possibly in the house. “I don’t understand you. Do you think I’m not good enough to work for the FBI, anymore, now that I don’t have a chain around my foot you can yank whenever you want? Do you--”
“No, Neal,” said Peter forcefully, interrupting the tirade. “It’s that I think you could do so much better. Listen, I work for the F.B.I., but I chosethis. I went to school, and I had options, and this is the one I took. You didn’t have that. As far as I can tell, this is the first real job you had. Remember that gig where I stayed in the luxury hotel for the accounting conference? That could be you.”
“No, according to you, I could be the guy that stole from everyone at the conference.” Neal’s voice was full of anger and resentment.
“Neal, I’m trying to help you,” Peter said, trying to calm Neal down, perplexed as to why Neal was so agitated.
“I don’t want your help!” Neal all but shouted.
“Neal--what’s going on with you?” asked Peter, genuinely confused. “This isn’t like you.”
“Are you going to tell Hughes about the prison thing?” Neal asked abruptly, anger flashing in his eyes.
“What?” Peter was taken aback at the non sequitur.
Neal raised his voice, his tone cold with fury. “Are you going to tell Hughes--”
And suddenly, something clicked. “Neal--No. I would never tell Reese what you told me, I just--I wanted--I want--to report him--it’s not right,” and Peter winced at his babbling choice of words, because it was so far from right it was--it was just--he had no words to express how angry and horrified and sad he was at what Neal had endured, and so he gave up, “and not only do you deserve justice, Crawley needs to be stopped--but I gave you my word. You told me that information in confidence--I know it was difficult for you, and you have to know that I would never tell anyone unless you’re okay with it. You have my word, Neal. You know--you have to know, I would never betray you, not like that. And, for what it’s worth--if you decide never to press charges, I’ll completely support that. And no, I will never tell Hughes what you told me, unless you wanted me to--or unless your safety was at stake.”
“I don’t want him to know,” said Neal, in a small voice. “I don’t want anyone to know, no matter what--not even--I know you tell Elizabeth everything, but--”
“I wouldn’t tell her this,” said Peter forcefully. “Neal, it’s not my place to tell anyone, you got that? Not anyone, not unless you wanted me to and were okay with it.”
“Or unless you thought they needed to know,” said Neal flatly.
“No, Neal--listen to me,” implored Peter, willing Neal to understand. “I would only say something if I thought your safety, or that of someone else, for whatever reason, was at immediate risk unless they knew. I am being honest--if you were in danger and I had information that could help you, I would share it. You’ll have to trust my judgement that I would only share it if you or another person were really in imminent danger, or if I really thought it could help, and then I would only share the information necessary to help, no more and no less. Do you trust me?”
Neal sighed. “That’s not fair.”
“Neal, I wouldn’t do that to anyone, least of all you.” Peter stated the words firmly, convincingly, brooking no argument.
“You think I’m being a coward.” Neal accused, but sounding underneath it--not hurt, just resigned, as if he knew it was what he deserved.
“God, no, Neal. You’ve had to be strong your whole life--and you are. You’ve always been.”
“But you think I should report it. Press charges. It’s a crime, and you think all crime needs to be reported. You think that I--” Neal sounded like nothing so much as a lost little boy, and it made Peter’s heart ache to hear that tone in it--self-recrimination, and self-loathing.
“Neal, no. I am angry by what he did to you--what they all did to you, what they allowed to be done to you. I am angrier than you know. It makes me sick to think of it, and it makes me even more sick to know that possibly, there’s some other kid like you--young, good-hearted, with crappy judgement and no impulse control--”
“Thanks Peter,” interjected Neal wryly, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Don’t mention it,” said Peter smoothly, not allowing Neal to distract him. “Anyway, it makes me sick to think he’s out there, getting away with murder, worse, and living to repeat it. It does, Neal, I won’t lie to you, and yeah. Yeah, I want to report him. No,” and Peter held up a hand, “let me finish. It makes me sick, but I won’t do it at your expense, Neal. Do you understand that? You get to call the shots here.”
“Even if I don’t care about the other kid?” Neal was looking away, and wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes.
Peter chuckled mirthlessly. “Neal, the one thing I do know about you is that you do care about the other kid. You’ve never let your actions hurt anyone else if you could help it, even when it’s at your own expense. Especially when it’s at your own expense.”
“So we’re back to reporting him,” said Neal bitterly.
“No, Neal. We’re back to what I was telling you before--everything doesn’t need to be at your own expense. You get to--you’re supposed to--put yourself first, sometimes--I’m not talking about a con--when it counts. And for the record, I trust you to do the right thing, however you go about it. Reporting him is my way, Neal. We’ve come too far for me not to see that sometimes, my way isn’t always the only way. I think he should be charged, humiliated, shown for what he is--and stopped. I do. Like I said, I can’t help that. But Neal--if you’re not ready for all that, then I understand. It’s not your job to always be brave and strong and self-sacrificing. There are hundreds of other people--inmates, guards, nurses--people who I bet knew what was going on, people’s whose job it was to know what was going on, but who ignored that duty and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
“Some of them helped,” Neal murmured. “Crawley used to offer them drugs--morphine, stuff like that. Stuff that wouldn’t necessarily kill anyone if it fell short. Creepy Crawley, they’d call him, but everyone knew what he had available, and what the cost was. ”
Peter tried to control his expression. Every instinct in him made him want to tear Crawley limb from limb. He tried to calm himself, to think. He could get Diana to look into the man--quietly. There had to be something he could pin the guy on--even trumped up drug trafficking would be enough. In the meantime, he turned his thoughts firmly away from murder, and tried to focus back on Neal. “So, Neal, I asked you earlier if you trusted me.”
Neal sighed again. “You know I do, Peter, even when I shouldn’t.”
“Then trust me now. The contract thing, the school thing, it has nothing to do with what happened to you in prison, Neal. You haven’t let it define you, and you’ve accomplished so much. We’re all proud of you--Jones, Diana, Bancroft--even Hughes. Our own modern day Abegnale. I just think--Hughes wants you in our corner, and my job is to get you there--but you deserve the opportunity to think about what you want, to do what you want. Whatever you want, Neal. Not what Hughes wants, or Mozzie wants--or what I want. I just want you to think about it.” Peter paused a moment, and then added, with a slight emphasis, “Provided it’s legal.”
“What if I want things to stay the same?” asked Neal quietly, still looking away from Peter.
“Then take the contract. Just--just think about it first, will you? You could take a break, travel maybe. And if you change your mind later--offer’s open, Neal.” He reached out, slowly, and put a hand on Neal’s shoulder. Neal startled slightly, but he didn’t move away.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll run?” Neal asked sharply, looking up, his eyes intent on Peter’s, examining him.
“You’re a free man, Neal,” Peter said gently, squeezing slightly. “It’s not running if no one’s chasing you.”
Neal stared at Peter for a moment, flabbergasted. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That was the problem in a nutshell.
He didn’t remember much of what Peter said after that. Platitudes and nonsense, stuff about a new C.I., but his mind was spinning, he couldn’t figure out why they needed a new C.I. when they already had him and he got stuck on that, and Peter gave up once he noticed Neal’s mind was no longer engaged. After he saw Peter out, with vague promises of coming over for that BBQ on Sunday with hot wings guy (Gary, Peter, honestly, he’d corrected automatically)--he sat down on the terrace and flipped open the sketchbook he’d managed to salvage from the Burke’s patio last Saturday morning. He flipped through it, drawing by drawing. Pigeons and lakes, buildings and people. Drawing after drawing of things he hadn’t seen for years, things he’d seen on the net, imagined, remembered from years ago. Things from his life now, from who he was. The things that he’d once painted, and that had been lost when he’d had to move, when he’d had to run, when he’d gone to prison. Mozzie had once asked why Neal even bothered storing them (because he had, when he could, in a storage locker as secure as any he’d used until Mozzie had cleared it out to use for something or other, without asking Neal first, not fathoming why Neal had become so upset) and Neal couldn’t explain it. The pieces of his life were in that book, in those lost paintings.
He flipped through each sketch, and he thought about making more, but his mind was whirling and blank, and nothing would come.
Neal closed his eyes and wondered what came next.
*********************************
Part eight.