Sometimes you regret ever rescuing Neal, especially when it puts you in impossible circumstances like this-- with the kid at your feet, stoned off his rocker from unknown drugs and alternating between singing off-tune and divulging secrets he never would've at any other time.
You're trying to think about what to do-- what to say-- how to fix everything that's wrong in this moment when Neal's eyes clear slightly and he gazes up at you. "Mozzie," he mumbles. "Even Kate... you're the only one, Peter."
"Only one, what?"
"The only one in my life I really trust," he breathes and he looks so young, all wide eyes and floppy hair and bad singing that you feel like you've been sucker punched, your hand limply falling to his hair for a minute.
You remember a little too well what was only a few weeks ago, the look in his eyes as he forced an oxygen tube on you, telling you straight out-- after Kate, after Frowler, after the ring, after everything-- that he trusts you, the underlying belief that you will save his life before the oxygen fully runs out strangling you just a little, so you drop your hand and squeeze his shoulder, trying to comfort him as things click into place-- decision's made.
It's time to find those security tapes, somehow, and get him out of here.