Yes, this is a new story, but that does not mean that I'm giving up on 'Where There's A Will.' I'm just posting something that I've been slowly working on for a while now. I also just started classes so I will not be posting as often. I know that sucks - if I could've gotten out of it, I would have. ;-)

This story is on the darker side, so read with some caution. I don't know if it's darker than 'Tick Tock,' but it's up there in evilness. There won't be on-screen torture like that story, at least not yet. It's more of an after-math story.

This story is set somewhere vaguely in the second season.

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He had no idea how long he'd been there - it could have been a week or a month. There was no window to peer out of to see the sun or moon, no clock or watch to tell him the hour, no set routine to follow to know what to do next, when to sleep, what meal to eat. He was pretty sure he wasn't even given three meals a day, if his ever thinning body was any indication.

If he knew when a day passed he didn't think he would mark the walls with lines, even if he had something to mark them with. When he did that in prison, he knew how many more marks it would take until he was free, now he had no idea when he'll be let out of his new prison.

God, he missed the sun on his face, caressing him with warmth and making him feel he was being embraced by a friend. He missed the wind in his hair and fresh air and sounds other than his own raw, raspy voice and the clank of metal-on-metal.

He would talk sometimes, just to make a sound. He would say that Peter was coming, and he was going to make it out of this place, and everything would be better as soon as Peter was here. It was the truth because the alternative was unacceptable. It helped him stay sane, even if talking to oneself sounded like just the opposite.

The manacles on his wrists that connected to a chain and bolted to the wall were like a weight that never stopped reminding him he was completely and utterly trapped. He could reach three of the four walls - of course the one couldn't reach had the door. It wasn't like the tracking anklet he's no longer wearing - the tracking anklet may have restricted his freedom to some extent, but he knew that someone was always watching, that Peter was always watching. It was a safety net that Neal wasn't used to but appreciated more than he thought he would. The cuffs around his wrists now only meant fear and pain and loneliness.

The man that put him in this place would come in at what Neal could only guess as random times to ask him questions he didn't know the answers to and hurt him when he said, again, 'I don't know.' It was the only time he saw someone else, the only time he saw the outside of the room that had become his own private hell. It was just a glimpse before the door was shut and the pain and fear and confusion started again, but he relished that moment, that glimpse of a world outside of the four walls that kept him there. It helped him remember there was something else besides the small room that he'd been imprisoned in, a light at the end of the tunnel.

He didn't relish seeing the man that came in. All he brought was pain and fear and disgusting food that barely kept him alive.

The man would take pictures of Neal after he beat him up and Neal knew that Peter was getting those pictures even though the man never said so, no matter how many times Neal asked. He smiled at first when the pictures were taken, just to tell Peter he was okay, even though he wasn't. But smiling got harder after a while, and he eventually stopped altogether. There wasn't anything to smile about anymore.

Neal tried to stay awake and alert, ready as he could be for another attack, but he also knew he needed to sleep as well. He would try to guess how long until the man would come back and hurt him, how long he had to rest, but without any way to tell time, it was nearly impossible. It was always harder when he was woken up to the sound of the heavy metal door opening. He would wake up disoriented and confused and it made it harder to decipher all of the questions the man was asking. He knew that he couldn't give away any information that the man wanted, no matter how much he wanted it all to just end. There were lives at stake, but he didn't really know what it was that he wanted. Neal supposed that made it easier so he didn't say anything to make the pain stop. Neal thought that he knew once, but his thoughts hadn't been too clear for a while.

The room was small, smaller than his old cell in prison, and it was dark, too. Only a single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Neal wasn't sure where he was, but he suspected it was a basement of some sort, being as there were no windows and that there seemed to be a constant dampness in the room.

His hold on sanity was becoming desperate. He knew this, but there wasn't too much he could do about it but wait patiently for the calvary.

There were a lot of uncertainties in his new reality, his new hell, but there was one thing he knew without a shadow of a doubt - Peter was coming. He was coming and he was going to save him from this place, it was just a matter of time. All Neal had to do was wait. Wait and survive.

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Over one month ago Peter got a call that Neal's anklet was cut. The last place the anklet had a signal was a block from Neal's apartment in an alley. When Peter got there the only thing that was left was the anklet and Neal's fedora. They were in the middle of the alley, looking like a goodbye that Peter didn't expect, or want.

Peter didn't know if he ran or not, but he expected some sort of clue as to where the conman had run off to. Peter searched for where the younger man ran off to, but is was as if he fell off the face of the earth. There were no Caffrey forgeries, no impressive or daring heists, no nothing. Not even a postcard telling him that he was okay.

There was no evidence of foul play, but Mozzie was still around and Neal would never leave Mozzie, or that's what the little guy claimed. Peter didn't know what to believe.

Neal had been missing for one month and four days when Peter and his team finally got a real lead. It was actually Mozzie who tipped them off to a place he said Neal was definitely at. He didn't say how he knew, but he was so sure of the fact that Peter wasted no time to get a warrant and team together to raid the place.

Peter thought about the day he would find Neal many, many times. He thought he would see his kidnappers making him paint forgeries of priceless paintings they've yet to sell, or maybe counterfeit hundreds. He expected to find him relatively intact as his health was important to make good forgeries. He had imagined that Neal would smile at him and no doubt have a smart-mouth comment to say, like 'it's about time you got here' or 'what took you so long?' or even 'fancy seeing you here.'

Or if he did in fact run off, Peter thought it would be like the first time he caught Neal. It would be civil and bittersweet. Of course Kate wouldn't be there. Peter had wondered why Neal ran now that there was no Kate to run to. She was the reason he got caught, both times.

Out of all the scenarios swimming around in his head, he never expected to see the man that was always full of life and happiness no matter what life threw at him to be cowering in a small, dark room that smelled of waste, mold and fear.

When Peter and Diana opened the door to the small room in the basement he heard a small, heartbreaking whimper. Peter moved the beam of his flashlight around until he found what he had been looking for for over a month. He was leaning against the wall in the corner, trying to hide his face from the harsh light. His legs were pulled up against himself, possibly for warmth considering how cold it was in the room and the fact that he was only wearing a dirty t-shirt and slacks. But it could have been for some form of comfort as well, as small as it might have been.

When he risked a glance at them, Peter's breath caught in his throat. There was so much terror in those usually vibrant and mischievous blue eyes. In all of his years he'd never seen something so heart-rending.

For far too many moments no one moved. Peter and Diana stared at Neal while Neal hid behind his arms again. Finally Peter put his gun away and cautiously approached the terrified, trembling man while Diana backed out of the room to call for a bus.

Peter must have made a sound because Neal flinched and tried to curl into himself even more, causing the chains around his wrists to clank. Seeing Neal restrained like he was some kind of animal made Peter want to find the man that did this and give him a taste of his own medicine. But right now, Neal needed him.

"Neal?" Peter tried to say quietly, but in the complete silence that was only previously filled with Neal's harsh and wet sounding breaths, it seemed like he was yelling. Neal must have thought the same because he flinched again.

"Neal, its me, Peter," he said, much quieter this time while crouching so he didn't look so intimidating. Neal looked up when Peter said the last word, and there was so much uncertain hope in his eyes when he looked up at Peter that he was fearful to do anything to destroy that tiny spark of hope and make Neal retreat back into himself.

"Hey, Neal. You're okay," Peter whispered. The spark of hope grew bigger and Neal uncurled himself a little. "That's right, Neal. You're safe now."

Neal's dry lips moved like he tried to say something that looked like 'Peter,' but the only thing that came out was a raspy whisper.

"Hey, you want some water?" Peter asked. "I can get you some."

Neal looked uncertainly at Peter for a long moment, like he didn't think Peter was telling the truth, then nodded minutely, timidly.

"Okay, I'll go get some," Peter said and slowly walked back out of the room. Jones was right outside and, to Peter's surprise, he was holding a bottle of water. He must have become a mind reader while he was in the other room. He was also holding small bolt cutters. Yep, definitely a mind reader now.

Peter took the proffered bottle and bolt cutters, nodded his thanks and returned to Neal. Neal was still in the same corner Peter left him in. He looked surprised that Peter came back.

"I'm just going to put the bottle on the ground here. I'm not going to hurt you," Peter said and slowly walked closer to Neal then put the bottle on the ground within his reach.

Neal looked so longingly at the bottle of water you'd think it was the Mona Lisa or something. But he also looked like he would never ask for it for fear of... something. Maybe of being punished. Peter wasn't sure and didn't want to think too hard about it.

"You can take it, Neal. It's yours," Peter encouraged. Neal looked uncertainly at Peter again, then slowly reached out to take the water, and Peter noticed his hands were shaking and the left one looked like it was in bad shape. He twisted off the cap with some effort and took a tentative sip. He must have been thirsty because he started chugging the water down after the first taste.

"Not too fast, Neal. You don't want to choke on it," Peter said and Neal immediately stopped drinking and quickly put the bottle down. He looked afraid again - well, more afraid than a moment ago. "You can still drink it, Neal. I just wanted you to go slower."

Neal looked down at the water, but didn't pick it up again.

"Okay, that's fine. You don't have to drink it," Peter said, then waited a moment before speaking again. "Hey, Neal, you want to get out of here?"

Neal just looked at Peter like he didn't understand what he just said.

"I think you should get checked out, Neal," Peter said, but that must not have been the right thing to say because Neal shook his head and curled up again.

"Neal I want to make sure you're okay - that's it," Peter said. He moved a little closer to the scared young man. "Can you come with me, please?"

Neal looked uncertainly at Peter, like he didn't know if every word that was coming out of his mouth was a lie or not. Eventually he nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Peter approached the scared man and crouched in front of him, Neal watching his every movement closely. He then showed Neal the bolt cutters. Neal let out another small, heart-rendering whimper and stared at Peter with a look of betrayal in his eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Neal," Peter assured the young man. "I just want to get those chains off. Can I do that?"

The look of betrayal slowly disappeared from Neal eyes and he nodded, so Peter slowly reached for the chains. Neal tensed even more, but he let Peter cut through the chains, leaving the cuffs on for the time being.

"There, that's better," Peter said. "Now we can leave?"

Neal still looked unsure, but eventually he uncurled himself and used the wall to help stand up. He must have been hurt because he winced as he stood. He tried to take a step, but he staggered and would have fallen if Peter didn't catch him before he hit the ground.

Peter carefully lowered them to the ground, and Neal looked straight into Peter's eyes. "Trus' you," he said, his voice quiet and very raspy, like he hadn't talked for a long time, which was probably true.

Even though it was hard to hear, Peter knew exactly what he was saying. Trust you. Neal had said it many times before, but this time Peter believe it now more than ever.

And not a moment later did Neal go limp in Peter's arms.

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Don't worry, I won't kill Neal off. I may put him through hell, but I would never permanently kill or cripple him. I can't even read death fics, and I'm barely able to read the permanent injury ones. I like to have a light at the end of the metaphoric tunnel.

There are some questions that this chapter hasn't answered, like why Neal was being held, or if the bad guy got caught - the next chapter will answer those, so don't worry.

Thanks for reading, guys! Reviews make me smile!