Ca Staub requested some Neal whump, so I wrote some Neal whump (I think...It's mostly in the flashbacks) with some comfort.
Also doubles as a birthday gift. Happy birthday, Ca Staub!
Summary: Neal is taken and interrogated for information. He gives nothing. (He escapes)
Peter searches with no clues. (The FBI can't always protect him but, they will do their best to find him)
The suspects are amateurs. (Nameless, faceless men to the end)
Escape and Safety
Everything ached. When he moved, pain would crackle along his nerves. He tried to stay still but, sometimes people would come in.
At those times, everything became a blur of pain and voices. He struggled to understand what they were asking and everything hurt too much to focus.
He couldn't remember what it was like to not hurt. His body trembled and his mind was fogged.
He needed to get out of here. Even dazed, he knew he wouldn't last much longer. They were getting tired of questioning him and would soon get rid of him. He needed to get out of here.
A little defiant spark sizzled inside him. It was enough to get him through the pain as he crawled along the cold concrete towards the only window. Bracing himself against the wall, he shuffled himself up into a standing position. Twinges of pain ran down his lower back and legs.
He let out a hiss and then hacked as something liquid blocked his throat. The pain swelled momentarily and he harnessed it, used it to throw himself out the window.
The cuffs they had him in were lying across the concrete, having been picked open. He hadn't been tied up nor had the window been locked. Amateurs. He was dealing with amateurs. Men who stole identities and bank details and had left a trail a mile wide.
Hands roughly grabbing him and dragging him into the room. The slam of the concrete when they tossed him onto the ground.
"Aren't you being a little too rough?" Neal mocked, hiding his fear behind a careful constructed mask. "What would happen if you damaged me?" He was playing the role of the new recruit, a new conman to add to their roster.
One of the other men grabbed him by his hair and tugged hard.
"I think it'd be okay," he said, his face inches from Neal's. His breath was a hot tang smelling of meat. "Not like your FBI friends will find you."
Neal deigned having anything to do with the FBI and didn't think about how they should have been busting the door down, he had given the signal twice already.
Neal jolted awake. He was cold and uncomfortable, dirt and leaves throughout his hair and clothes. His first instinct was to run his hand through his hair but, he couldn't lift his arm up. The effort was too much, the strain on his arm causing it to tremble as he lifted it up. He dropped it to the ground, knowing that he would have to move soon. It was a miracle that they hadn't found him yet.
It was a repeat of his escape; roll onto his stomach, crawl across the ground and use a wall or tree to pull himself up. His nose felt stuffed and his brain felt swollen, like it was pushing against his head. His throat felt clogged up and dry and he tried not to swallow because it hurt and felt like he was choking. He shuffled instead of walking and every breath he took felt wet in his chest.
He knew these were all bad signs, but he couldn't do anything about them. He stumbled onto the nearest street, keeping close to the walls. He must have been a sight, a tussled up man with dirty hair and clothes. He didn't smile and passer-bys didn't smile at him.
No one stopped to help or see if he was okay. He felt alone in a dangerous world.
Then, almost like a beacon or a gift from heaven, he spotted a phone booth. It was part-way down the street, just to the side of a street-light.
He stumbled towards it, gripping the receiver in his hand before it even registered in his head that he needed to contact someone.
And he had no change. His stomach lurched and he stuck his head outside of his little haven to throw up. It burned and he gagged as the smell assaulted his nose.
His eyes watered and tears forged new tear-tracks next to old down his face.
The phone was still in his hand, a lifeline that he couldn't let go off. Taking deep, rattling breaths, he dialled a number he knew automatically. And then hacked up something metallic tasting that had been stuck in his throat, wincing as his stomach twinged.
Peter ran both his hands over his face and rested for just a moment. 33 hours. Neal had been missing for thirty-three hours. He had barely slept and he knew it was the same for Jones and Diana and most of the White Collar office.
Sure, a few agents had suggested that maybe Neal had run. It was normal whenever the ex-conman went missing. But, he had vanished in the middle of a case. During a meet.
Peter couldn't lose the last image of Neal, chatting away with the suspects as they walked into a building. They could hear him over the transmission from the watch and then, nothing. It cut off right in the middle.
And no one was able to tell him how it happened or why the watch failed!
Peter waited a few minutes; something he felt he would always regret, before giving the signal for them to storm the building. If they found Neal, they would arrest him to keep his cover.
They didn't find Neal. Or any of the other men. The building was empty.
"Boss," Diana walked into the conference room, looking tired but determined. She placed a report in front of him. "Evidence has discovered an EMP device among the items from the building. It could have destroyed the watch and allowed them to take Caffrey without our knowledge."
Peter looked over the report. So, they now knew how the suspects got around the watch's transmission but, "it doesn't help us find Neal."
For a moment, Diana let him see how tired she was. Her posture slumped and her expression drooped.
"It's something," she said, "it's possible that they planned this."
"You think Neal's cover was blown?" Peter looked up from the report for a moment. It had been an idea he had only slightly entertained but always dismissed. Neal was perfect at keeping cover, if not slightly necrotic about it, and it was the first meeting with the suspects. They didn't know him well enough to know that Neal worked for the FBI. "Look into it," he told Diana. He had to know for sure. If they did know, then Peter was determined to find out how they knew. He couldn't afford to send Neal into danger like this again.
His phone rang. He answered it, getting the spiel about a reversed number and 'would he like to accept the charges?'
"P-Peter," the voice on the other end was harsh, heavy breathing panting into Peter's ear.
"Neal?" Peter questioned, worry bursting in his gut. Neal sounded horrible, his breathing much to quick and sporadic.
"I'll get Jones," Diana said, Peter's expression telling her everything. Within moments, the room came alive with agents, trying to trace the call.
"Neal? You okay?" Peter asked in concern when Neal didn't speak again.
"I'm fine," Neal responded. Peter hoped the slight tremble in his voice wasn't an indication of just how badly Neal felt. "I just." A deep breath and cough which turned into a hacking fit. "Hurts," Neal wheezed.
Peter looked up for reassurance as a few, very like sobbing sounds rang through the phone. Diana looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the terror he felt.
"Almost got it," Jones announced, loud enough for the phone to pick up.
"Jones? Why? I can hear Jones," Neal sounded really confused.
"That's because I'm at the FBI building," Peter said, "and the phone is on speaker."
On the other end, Neal swore. Peter mentally envisioned him pulling himself together, trying to produce the proper façade now that he knew others were listening.
"Are you able to find me?" he asked in one breath, an attempt to minimise stuttering and trembling.
"Got it!" Jones said, the atmosphere in the room rising in silent cheer. Jones announced the address and said, "EMTs are on route."
"Peter," Neal said. The word was said in a quick rush, a panic. Neal didn't want to go with strangers, people he didn't know. Not after the repeated beatings he received.
"I'm heading there too," Peter said, "stay on the line; I'll leave the phone here."
"Take mine with you," Jones said, sliding his phone along the table.
Peter picked it up and raced out of the room.
A foot butted into his gut with force and all the air left his lungs. Then it kicked him onto his back and pressed down hard.
Neal opened his bleary eyes, only able to see a blurred figure above him as tears ran down his checks and he coughed for air.
Something cold and thin and sharp pressed to his cheek. Neal winced as it stung.
"Tell me, what does the FBI know?" someone hissed into his ear.
Neal trembled and didn't say anything. He didn't know who this was or what the FBI would have on him.
"Tell me!" the person roared. Neal responded in a cry as the knife slashed across his upper arm.
Neal stammered something about something; possibly an insult about the man's choice of shoe considering his reaction.
"Make him talk," the man said to the other people in the room. "But don't break him just yet."
Neal swallowed as two large figures came into view.
"No!" Neal cried out, yanking his hand away and trying to roll away. It hadn't worked before but he wasn't about to give up.
More hands came out and pressed him down; he lurched and tried to flail his hands, anything to get them to leave him alone.
"No, no, no, no," he whimpered as his strength seemed to leave him.
He resurfaced to consciousness an unknown amount of time later. It was slow. He grew aware of the sheets touching his skin and then the bed under him. Sounds returned with the soft breathing of someone nearby and the noise of machines humming away around him.
Awareness of his body returned last and was dimmed. He ached and was sore and numerous parts of him felt tight; pulled and compressed.
He opened his eyes and winced at the brightness. It seemed like it was daytime; even though the last he was aware, it was dark.
A hesitant voice called his name. He turned his head and the sight of Peter standing next to him was so welcome that he smiled.
"Pe-" he tried to call out to his friend, but his voice died in his throat. His throat chose that moment to come alive with sore, burning scratchiness.
"It's okay," Peter said, his hand reaching out to touch him. It stopped just short and Neal reached up to press it to his head. His hand trembled over Peter's, whose was strong and grounding; safe, and the effort of moving it seemed to push him into darkness again.
That's how El found Peter moments later, with his hand held to Neal's forehead. She carried in their lunch and placed it on the bedside table, stood beside her husband and looked down at their friend.
Neal slept the time away, unaware of the blossoming bruises on his face and the hairline cut underneath his chin. Both wrists were bandaged where the handcuffs had cut through. His left hand was bound, two fingers broken, as well was his right foot, which was badly sprained. He was covered in bruises and cuts from hits intended to hurt him enough to make him talk.
Although she couldn't see it under the blue gown Neal was wearing but she knew his chest was bound as well. A few ribs had cracked and thankfully none of them punctured either of his lungs. Internal bleeding had been a worry for the first few days. It must have been painful, must still be painful.
Yet, she had a feeling that none of his physical injuries could compare to the mental scars.
"He woke up for a moment," Peter said, sounding more content than he had in the past six days.
El leaned against him, able to hear her husband's quick heartbeat. She hadn't been there when Neal woke up the first time, but Peter had been. Distraught afterwards, Peter had described the events in detail; Neal had come around during a routine check and panicked. It had taken four nurses, a doctor and Peter to hold him down while he was sedated.
"This shouldn't have happened," Peter lamented and not for the first time. He was carrying around a lot of guilt over this.
"Hmm," El responded, running a hand down her husband's back. There was nothing she could say. Yes, it shouldn't have happened but, it wasn't Peter's fault.
It had been a probie, one not even assigned to the White Collar division, who had leaked Neal's identity. He was the cousin of the ring leader of this case, something which hadn't turned up in the background checks. The ring leader had twisted his arm, trying to get him to spill about what the FBI was investigating in relation to him. The probie had told him Neal's identity; figuring that selling out a conman and criminal CI wasn't the same as selling out another agent.
The connection had been made while Neal had been in surgery, one of the other suspects giving up the name. Jones had immediately investigated and the probie was brought in.
El had called the office during the time the probie had been brought before Peter.
"You are not an agent!" She had heard Peter berating the now ex-probie. He was bellowing, his voice tinted with anger and she just imagine how red with rage his face was. "Agent's don't sell out innocent people!" The ex-probie must have been silly enough to bring up Neal's criminal history, because Peter's next words were, "in this situation, Neal was innocent! He was helping us, which is more than I can say for you! Neal's more of an agent than you'll ever be! He's saved lives while you've endangered them! He's solved cases while you've let criminals get away! You are more of a liability than he ever was!" And so on. The speech had lasted for a long time. According to Diana, Peter had chewed out the ex-probie right in the middle of the office. Since he had sold out an undercover operative, none of the other divisions were standing up for the ex-probie either. It didn't matter that he had sold out a criminal, what mattered was that he had sold out a FBI operative. It meant that no one would trust him with sensitive case information, severely hindering his final days on the job.
Good riddance, El thought. Neal hadn't deserved any of this and Peter didn't deserve the guilt he felt. If just a little of their pain could be given to the person who caused it, then good.
If she slipped the ex-probie's name to Mozzie, and if he spread the word that he wasn't to be given any kind of work; illegal or otherwise, then so be it. She had made Mozzie promise that he wouldn't injure or kill the guy though.
If she slipped the ex-probie's name to June, and if she spread the word that he wasn't to be trusted; well, it was the truth.
Everyone involved was operating on little sleep and no rest. Peter hadn't been home properly in days and his thoughts were almost always with Neal. He spared some thought for how she was, one of the reasons she loved him.
June spoke about how her house seemed so quiet as she watched over sleeping Neal whenever she could. El believed she was paying most of the hospital bill, one of the reasons Neal had a nice private room.
Mozzie took night shifts, watching over Neal when no one else was allowed to. El hadn't asked him how he was doing it and she didn't expect him to tell her but, she had seen him walking around in a doctor's coat once or twice just out of the corner of her eye.
Jones and Diana were picking up the slack, closing the case and filling out the paperwork that Peter and Neal were unable to complete. They also took turns visiting Neal at least once a day. Jones brought flowers and Diana brought a card which everyone in the office; and a few others, had signed.
El hadn't slept properly in days. Worry for Neal and worry for her overworked husband had melded together to form some kind of insomnia that was difficult to shake. She still remembered Peter calling her, almost at midnight, telling her that they had found Neal and that he was in intensive care.
It had been a long five days and their ordeal wasn't even close to over. Neal still slept away, looking peaceful for all his black and blue and bandaged skin.
They pulled at him. Tugged his arms, pulled his legs and yanked at his hair. Forever testing, seeing how much he could handle and then increasing their force. He burned, bleed, cried and gagged. There wasn't a single part they didn't tug, cut or hit.
A hand pulling at his hair, holding his head back as a knife danced under his chin.
A punch to the chest and a punch to the nose. His nose bleed, hot and wet, over his lips.
They held his mouth open and cut at his tongue, speaking about dead men and the tales they told and how he must have made quite the fortune with his tongue. Fooling the FBI must have taken talent.
Neal called mentally for Peter, too afraid to say his name. What if they went after Peter next? Or worse, El? He couldn't do that; he couldn't bring something like that down onto them.
"Neal?" Peter called his name, sounding far away.
"Peter?" he mumbled back without opening his eyes. He could feel Peter's presence now.
"You're safe." A hand petting his head, brushing against his hair and a touch that didn't hurt.
"Mmm." Everything fell away.
They grabbed his arm and pulled. He pulled back but, it was a feeble movement.
He could hear them talking, voices in the background. He had to escape. Rolling across the floor worked, for all it aggravated his injuries. Escape outweighed pain.
He moved. Hands moved out to hold him down.
"No!" He kicked out, something finally working for him as he heard a body hit the ground.
His name, accompanied by swears in a multitude of languages. His name again.
"Moz?" he questioned, opening his eyes to see his friend sitting on the ground with his hands around his side.
"You kick hard, mon frere," the little man responded.
Neal looked around. His neck and back hurt from the upside-down, half-in half-out position he held over the bed.
"Little help?" he asked in a horse whisper. He didn't seem to be able to move.
Moz gave a chuckle and lifted him back into bed. Neal realised that he wasn't in his apartment at June's or the concrete room.
"Why am I in hospital?" he asked. It was a nice hospital room too, with only one bed to the room and numerous chairs. There was a desk, which had flowers and a card on it, and a bedside table, along with hospital machines.
"You got beat up," Moz responded. Neal felt he was oversimplifying a bit. "Normally, there'd be more people here to welcome you back to the land of the living but, it's the middle of the night and there's a conspiracy to keep people out of your room so the so-called doctors can experiment on your brain."
It was outside visiting hours. Neal nodded in understanding and lent back into his pillow.
"I will keep you company," Moz said and Neal heard him pull up a chair.
"Thanks," he responded before falling back into the darkness.
Peter had told him that they had caught the men, including the one who had sold him out. They wouldn't touch him again. Neal slept. His friends were watching over him, he was safe and he could heal.