Unusual Behavior

by jeanie2914

Neal had been acting strange all week and Peter was determined to find out why. Just a quick, one-shot story.

I've had a bit of a struggle trying to be creative, so I decided to try something different. I found a Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card online, and I am going to work through a section-doing five brief, stories that satisfy the square's requirement-and see if it sparks some inspiration for me. So, here is...

SQUARE ONE. Unusual Behavior

He'd been watching Neal from the catwalk for the past twenty minutes, debating whether or not to take El's advice and just ask him what was going on.

Something had been off with him all week, and he'd been staring at the same page in the same file for fifteen minutes. He'd made no notes, had done no cross-checking of facts. He was just sitting there, hunched over his desk, head down, eyes on the file in front of him. Peter knew the cases he'd sent him weren't the most exciting but even bored, Neal was usually more animated than this. He'd complain, toss that stupid rubberband ball and take every opportunity to get away from his desk. Restroom. Coffee Run. Chatting up the pretty agent who'd just transferred in from Cybercrimes. After all that, he'd return to his desk, get that focused look on his face and plow through his work, making neat little notes as he went along. It reminded Peter of something his mother used to say; sometimes a kid just has to get their wiggles out. Granted Neal wasn't a kid but he definitely had a kind of pent up energy that often left him incessantly tapping his foot or his pen, and driving Peter to distraction.

But not this week; this week he'd had very little wiggle at all. Yesterday, when the team had gone over a suspected Money Laundering operation in Queens, Neal had sat quietly and said very little. He'd seemed distracted, preoccupied, and more than once Peter had had to say his name a couple of times to regain his attention before repeating whatever statement or question Neal had failed to respond to. That never happened; Neal's mind was like a steel trap and Peter often had to slow him down so the team could follow his rapid pace of reasoning. He usually chomped at the bit to get started on any investigation that would potentially send him into the field. He loved the con, it was his drug of choice so to speak, and being undercover was his favorite part of working at White Collar. It thrilled him, gave him an opportunity to show off his talents and satisfied his itch for excitement at the same time. But there had been none of that; no eagerness, no look of excitement or anticipation. What little he'd said only came after Peter had prodded him. He'd finally contributed, giving a couple suggestions for the team to follow up on and promised to see if there was any word on the street about who's funds was being cleaned.

Noticing the lack of usual fervor, Jones had jokingly implied Neal might know more about the operation than he should. Instead of the usual mischevious grin and witty comeback, there had been a flash of anger and a sharp retort. Neal had left the room, leaving both Clinton and Diana staring after him in surprise. When they'd looked at him in question, Peter had only shrugged, unable to explain as he mentally added Irritability to the growing list of symptoms his CI was exhibiting.

As the day continued, Neal's behavior remained strange. He stayed at his desk, and except for the briefest of exchanges, said nothing to anyone. There was no water cooler conversation, no dilly-dallying on his way to or from the coffee machine or restroom, no joking around with agents. He didn't seem to be angry or pouting, but his mind was clearly on something and whatever it was, it was consuming him.

A quiet, consumed, obsessed Neal Caffrey was dangerous, not only to himself but to anyone around him. The Garrett Fowler debacle had taught him that.

"Have you talked to Mozzie lately?" He'd asked Elizabeth last night over a plate of spaghetti.

"No, I haven't," she answered, dished out a side of salad. "Why?"

Peter speared a meatball with his fork. "Just wondering what he's been up to lately." Mozzie had come to him before when his concern for Neal's safety had trumped his loyalty to a friend. Of course, if Neal was dabbling in the usual criminal exploits, Mozzie was likely up to his own neck in it as well. "Neal's been acting strange this week," Peter said, getting to the real issue. He didn't actually care about what Mozzie was up to unless it involved Neal. If it involved Neal he did care; it was his job. "It's got me worried."

Elizabeth didn't seem surprised. His worrying about Neal was an all too common occurrence. "Worried that something's wrong with him or that he's up to something?"

The question brought Peter a twinge of guilt; he hadn't considered that something might be wrong with Neal. As an agent, and knowing Neal the way he did, his mind had automatically skipped to he's up to something. "Both, I guess," he amended now that the idea had been introduced. "I've checked his tracking data and there's nothing out of the ordinary."

"Tracking data tells you where he's been, Peter," she pointed out dryly, "Not how he feels or what he's thinking. You have to actually talk to him to find that out." She frowned. "How's he acting strange?"

"I don't know," he replied, finding it difficult to define the term. Any one thing itself seemed inconsequential but it was the summation he was finding troubling. He said as much. "It's not just one thing, its...its everything." El waited patiently for him to explain. "He's just not acting like himself. He's been really quiet," he began. "He hardly says a word on the way to work or the way home. I mean, he answers if I ask him something but mostly he just stares out the window. He's not cutting up or joking around at the office like he normally does, he doesn't pay attention during meetings and he practically took Jones's head off this morning." He frowned, thinking back to the way Neal's pale face had flushed in anger. "He's distracted and edgy. It's like his mind is on something else."

"That doesn't sound like Neal," she agreed. "I think you should just ask him what's wrong," she advised. "Tell him you're worried about him."

Peter could just see that exchange. If he could actually bring himself to say those words he doubted very much that Neal would believe them.

"He's not going to tell me if he's in trouble or mixed up in something he shouldn't be, El."

"Is that what you think is it?" Her brow furrowed. "That he's in some kind of trouble?"

"I don't know but something is wrong; I just need to find out what it is." He sighed. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just ask him."

She smiled. "I'm always right, Peter."

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Startled, Neal stiffened in his seat and looked up. He was surprised to see Peter standing in front of him, frowning, and apparently waiting for him to say something.

He hadn't seen him coming but that wasn't surprising. He'd had his head down, trying to keep both his mind and his eyes focused on the insurance fraud case that had been in the stack files Clinton had presented to him to review. He'd been working all day and hadn't even gotten through half of them. Each time he blinked to clear his vision it felt like his eyelids were lined with sand. He was also struggling with comprehension; he'd read the same page several times and still had no idea what it said.

He didn't understand how he could be so exhausted, how his eyes could be so tired, and still, night after miserable night, be unable to sleep. He'd had bouts of insomnia before, but they'd only lasted a night or two. He'd paint, read, or research some random topic until it passed. But he'd done all those things, and he still wasn't sleeping. He wasn't one to need a lot of sleep, but he needed some. He hadn't slept well since last week and hadn't slept at all since...he tried to rewind the expanse of hours that muddled the days together-

"Did you hear me?" Peter. Here. Demanding a response to something.

"I'm sorry," Neal mumbled, adjusting himself in his chair and trying to gather his scattered thoughts. "What did you say?"

Peter didn't like having to repeat himself; his frown deepened. "I asked what was going on with you."

"Nothing's going on with me," Neal replied, raking his hand through his hair. It felt limp and heavy. Had he showered this morning or had that been yesterday?

"Neal?"

Peter's voice cut through the fog in his mind reminding him of his surroundings. He blinked a couple of times but Peter's face wouldn't come into clear focus. But it was clear enough to see he was still frowning. Had he missed something again?

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

It was like he was watching a movie with the soundtrack off by a half second. He could see Peter's lips moving but there was a lag before the words began, and another delay as he tried to assign them meaning.

He was not okay. He couldn't focus, he couldn't think, and his mind kept slipping into neutral.

"Yeah," he lied, unwilling to admit to diminished capacity. He had a job to do; that was the only reason he was behind a stack of case files instead of behind bars. It was a point Peter made sure he understood on a regular basis. "I'm fine." Breaking eye contact, he picked up the loose pages of the case file and tapped them on the desk to align them before again raising his face to meet Peter's eyes. "Why?"

Peter nodded at the papers Neal had in his hands. "Because you've been looking at the same page for fifteen minutes, haven't made the first note, and-."

Neal's face flamed in sudden anger. "Do you really have nothing better to do than time how long I look at a file?" he burst out, slamming the papers down and rendering his previous straightening efforts pointless. He might not be working at his usual pace but he still worked faster than most of the agents in the office. He worked faster, was paid less and got zero respect. They referred to him with cute, demeaning titles like The Resident Criminal, White Collar's Pet CI, and Burke's Errand Boy. Sometimes they didn't know he was listening; sometimes they didn't care. It was humiliating and there was nothing he could do but smile and bear it. "I'm sorry," he snapped, feeling entitled to both his anger and his bitterness. "I'll try to work faster, Okay?"

Neal's heart continued to pound, first with fury and then, when he realized what he'd done, with fear. Peter was a Federal Agent who demanded, one might say deserved, respect. He would not tolerate being spoken to like that, especially by him, here, and in front of everyone. If Neal didn't know his place-that of a criminal on work-release-he'd undoubtedly lose it and that meant going back to prison.

Peter just stood there, staring at him. It seemed like forever before he reacted, putting his palms down on the desk and leaning forward. Neal felt his already queasy stomach knot in dread as Peter's brown eyes bore into his.

"and," Peter said slowly as Neal's anxiety grew, "you look like hell." He didn't sound angry. "I'm worried about you." He sounded sincere."Tell me what's wrong, Neal. Let me help."

Expecting a harsh reprimand but getting an expression of concern triggered a rush of emotions; Neal's throat constricted and tears sprang to his eyes.

He wasn't sure how but the next thing he knew he was on his feet, his jacket was on and Peter, his hand on the small of his back, was guiding him towards the door.

"It's okay," Peter was saying quietly at his side. "Let's get you home."

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Whatever was wrong, it was taking a toll on Neal. Not only did he look exhausted, but he was also experiencing mood swings he was unable to moderate. Two minutes ago he'd been furious, his pale cheeks flushed and his eyes flashing; a minute after that his whole demeanor had changed and he'd looked on the verge of tears.

Peter didn't know what to do other than to get him out of the office, away from curious eyes, and find out once and for all what was going on.

When they stepped into the elevator, Neal immediately turned his back to the other occupants and faced the door, leaving Peter to engage in the brief exchanges and polite pleasantries of elevator conversation. Fortunately, mid-afternoon wasn't the busiest time of day-they only picked up two additional passengers during their descent-and they arrived on the ground floor in just over four minutes. Neal stepped out and Peter came alongside, glancing at him to see where he was on the emotional spectrum.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal wasn't tearful but he was distressed. "I know I-"

"I don't want an apology," Peter replied, moving towards the garage door. "I want an explanation. But not here."

Neal followed but kept a step between them until they reached the car. Peter unlocked the doors, Neal circled to the passenger side, and they both got in. Once there, instead of turning the key in the ignition, he turned to Neal.

"Okay, Neal." He paused until Neal reluctantly returned his gaze. "Tell me what is going on and don't you lie," he warned. "To be honest," he added, allowing his tone to soften, "right now you aren't very good at it."

There was uncertainty in Neal's red-rimmed eyes. Peter imagined he was debating the truth of that statement. "I'm just tired, Peter," he said after a moment.

Neal often used a literal truth to avoid an honest answer. Peter didn't doubt he was tired; he looked tired, he sounded tired, but why was he tired? What kind of trouble was he in? Not only did he need to know, but Neal also needed to tell him.

"Don't play with me Neal," he warned again. "Tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

Again, Peter saw Neal's uncertainty but it quickly changed into desperation.

"I don't know what's wrong," he said in a rush. "I just can't sleep. I haven't slept since..." He paused as if trying to remember, then shook his head. "I don't even know what day it is, Peter."

It wasn't the confession Peter had expected but his doubt of its veracity was quickly dispersed by the helpless, pleading expression in Neal's eyes.

"Wednesday," he supplied quietly. He mentally ran through the list of symptoms he'd compiled, then evaluated Neal's recent behavior from a new perspective. Reserved, preoccupied, easily distracted, and irritable coupled with his less than pristine appearance; bleak, red-rimmed eyes, and dull, lifeless hair. Insomnia. "How long has this been going on?"

Neal was the most high energy person he'd ever known and he'd seen him without sleep before. He might be a bit snappish and have tired eyes the next day, but he'd never seen him like this.

"I don't..." Neal's words trailed off, a half blank, half confused look on his face. It was the same expression he'd shown when Peter had first asked him what was wrong. He'd thought it was an act, an evasive tactic, but now he knew better. It was the brain-numbing result of sleep deprivation. "Monday, maybe?" Neal ventured doubtfully. "I think I slept some Sunday night."

Neal's mind was sluggish but his mind was not; that was more than forty-eight hours. Going without sleep for that long wasn't only mentally debilitating it was dangerous.

"We've got to get you checked out by a doctor," Peter announced decidedly, firing up the engine of the car. "This is not-"

"No, Peter, please!" Neal cried out in objection. "I don't need a doctor. I just need..."

"Need what?" Peter asked. If he knew what he needed he wouldn't be in this shape.

"Just let me go home," Neal pleaded. "Please," he said again. "I'll figure it out, I promise."

Peter hesitated, unsure of what he should do. Neal had told him the problem, granted he was in no condition for deception, and now that he knew, he couldn't just pretend he didn't. He had to do something.

"Okay, Neal," he relented, not wanting to add more stress to an already difficult the situation. "I'll take you home."

Neal's thanks was a look of relief and a moment later, he was staring ahead in silence, just like he had on the morning ride in.

Peter knew everyone had times when sleep eluded them, hell, just last night, he'd lain awake until after two am, worrying about Neal. But 48 hours with no sleep went way beyond the ordinary. And something was causing it. He knew there were medical conditions that caused sleep disruptions but, in his experience, the reasons were usually much more organic in nature.

"So," he began, "Is there anything...Neal." His tone cut through Neal's stupor. Dull eyes found his. "Is there anything I should know about?" He asked, his eyes back on the road. "You know, something that's got you more uptight than usual?"

"No," Neal answered wearily, "There's nothing..." Peter felt Neal's eyes on him and when he continued, his tone was sharp. "I'm not up to anything if that's what you mean."

It was exactly what he meant. "I'm not saying you're up to something," he deflected, hoping to ease the sudden tension in the car. "I just thought maybe something was worrying you," That was true enough. "Something I could help with."

It worked. As fast as Neal's temper had flared, it fizzled out. "That's nice of you to say," the weariness had returned, "but really, Peter, nothing is wrong. I just can't sleep."

Neal again settled in and Peter didn't try again to initiate conversation. The rest of the ride was passed in silence.

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"Really, Peter. I can find my way to my apartment."

When they'd arrived at Riverside Drive, Peter thought maybe Neal had fallen asleep but it was just a cognitive delay between their arriving and Neal reacting to it. He had given in on seeing a doctor but he wasn't about to let Neal just wander off. He said he could find his way to the apartment but Peter wasn't convinced.

"I'm sure you can," he replied as he followed Neal up the walk. "But I'm coming in with you or we can just hop back in the car and head over to the ER."

Neal didn't argue, a testament to his mental state, and reached down to open the door. It didn't budge. With a frown, he tried again.

"Is it locked?" That was unusual. Even if June wasn't home, Janet always appeared at the door whenever he knocked.

"Oh, yeah," Neal mumbled, fishing first in one pocket and then the other before finding the key. "June and Mozzie are in Richmond," he explained as he unlocked the door. "Pinochle Tournament."

Peter didn't even know there were Pinochle Tournaments.

"Did Janet go with them?" he asked, pulling the door closed behind them.

"No," Neal answered as he started up the staircase. "she's in...I don't remember. She's somewhere visiting her daughter."

That meant Neal was on his own. Glad he'd insisted on coming in, Peter climbed the stairs behind him. "How long have they been gone?"

"I don't know." They had reached Neal's apartment. "They left on Wednesday."

So Neal had been on his own for a week. The door wasn't locked. Neal entered and Peter followed him inside.

"So you've been here all this time by yourself?" Peter asked, glancing around. The apartment's appearance, much like Neal's, wasn't up to its usual standards. There were dishes in the sink, books on the dining table, and a pillow and a blanket on the oversized loveseat. There also seemed to be some work in progress on an easel facing the terrace.

"I'm not ten, Peter," Neal reminded him, more weary than offended as he slipped off his jacket and tossed it across the back of one of the chairs. "And I don't need a sitter." He managed a half-hearted grin. "I have a tracking device."

"A tracking device tells me where you are," Peter said, echoing Elizabeth's wisdom from the night before, "not how you are." He shed his jacket as well, hanging it across the other chair. Neal entered the equally messy bedroom and continued into the bathroom on the opposite side. Peter heard the water run briefly, and a moment later Neal exited, wiping his face with a hand towel.

"Thanks for bringing me home," he said, the face splashing doing little to alleviate his fatigued appearance, "but you don't have to stay. Really," his lack of guile was almost painful to witness, "I'll be fine."

"Yes you will be," Peter said, placing a hand on the back of Neal's shoulder and steering him towards the living room, "because I'm gonna make sure of it."

"Peter," Neal began, "you don't need to-"

"I have trouble sleeping sometimes myself," Peter told him, purposely ignoring his objection, "and I've learned a sure-fire way to beat it." He moved the blanket to the arm of the love seat and tossed the pillow onto the neighboring chair. "Sit down." Neal looked at him blankly but complied and Peter pushed the coffee table forward. "Take off your tie and put your feet up." He glanced around. "Where do you keep the remote?"

"The what?" Neal was still tugging at his tie.

"The remote, Neal, for the TV. This place is way too quiet. There it is." Peter picked it up from the shelf and hit the power button. A moment later, a calming blue hue permeated the room. "What do you like to watch?" he asked, introducing some white noise into the mix as he flipped through the channels. Old westerns he'd seen a dozen times worked best for him. He wasn't wasn't sure what would... "Oh," he said, stopping at a familiar face, "here you go. Frank Sinatra."

"I don't feel like watching anything, Peter," Neal protested. He feet were still on the floor but he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first couple buttons of his shirt.

"I know you don't, but trust me." Keeping the remote in hand, he returned to the loveseat and sat down beside Neal. "This always works for me."

Peter could tell Neal didn't like being crowded. "What always works?" he demanded in irritation, scooting to put a few inches of space between them. "What are we doing?"

"We're watching a movie, Neal." Peter hit the info button on the remote, "Lady in Cement," he read from the screen. "Comedy, Crime, Drama."

"So this is your plan?" Neal asked skeptically. "To watch television?"

Watching television might be on the list of things Not To Do when you couldn't sleep but it had always worked for him. Sometimes the best way to get what you were looking for was to stop chasing after it and just let it come to you. In his experience, that approach worked for more than just sleep.

"Yeah," he answered, placing the remote on the table. "This is what I do when I can't sleep," he explained. "I go downstairs, find something to watch and just, you know, veg out." He propped his feet on the table. "Next thing I know," he leaned back, making a show of getting comfortable, "I'm sleeping."

Neal didn't respond. Usually, his mind worked at lightning speed but this week, today especially, there was a marked slow down. Peter didn't know if he was considering his words, was still trying to process them, or had just blanked out. Either way, it didn't matter. As long as Neal kept still, Peter was confident that eventually he'd succumb to the hypnotic, mind-numbing effects of television viewing.

Peter was pleased when, a few moments later, Neal gave in and put his feet on the table. "This really works for you?"

He was willing to try but still sounded doubtful.

"Yep," Peter assured him with a confident nod. "Every time."

"Okay, then." Peter felt Neal's frame relax beside him. "Have you seen this movie before?"

"No," Peter admitted. "Have you?"

"Yeah," Neal answered, "but it's been awhile. Sinatra plays a detective named Tony Rome. Not a bad movie."

"Then old Frank was a good choice?"

"Frank is always a good choice."

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Just over an hour later, Peter's plan had come to fruition. The credits were rolling and Neal, leaning heavily against him, was down for the count. He couldn't wait to say I told you so but he knew he'd have to; after more than fifty hours without sleep, Neal was going to be out of commission for a while.

Not wanting to disturb him, Peter waited until he was sure Neal was soundly asleep-he'd begun to snort softly- before extricating himself. Holding Neal steady with one hand, Peter grabbed a pillow, placed it on the loveseat, and eased Neal down. Although he stirred faintly, adjusting his position and pulling his legs onto the loveseat, Neal didn't wake and within seconds, he was out again. Peter gently tugged the blanket, freeing the end of it from beneath Neal's head, and spread it over him.

He stepped back, surveying the scene in satisfaction. Still wearing his shoes, dress shirt and slacks, Neal looked less than comfortable curled up in such a small space, but at least he was finally sleeping. Peter didn't know what had caused Neal's insomnia; if something had happened, if something was bothering him or if being alone every evening in the big, quiet house had just gotten to him.

When Neal recovered he'd ask him and maybe, just maybe, he'd get an honest answer.

But he wasn't counting on it.

The End

SQUARE ONE: Insomnia.