Lost
(Disclaimer: Not my characters.)
Iron bars obstructing his view. Harsh lighting overhead. Orange jumpsuit chafing his skin. The old surroundings pressed in on Neal, until the memory of his time outside of them might have been a dream.
Only there was Peter, pacing outside Neal's cell, jaw clenched.
"Peter," he heard himself saying, "you don't understand—"
"What?" Peter stopped and faced him. "What don't I understand?"
Neal risked one look into Peter's eyes. What he saw made him wince and look away.
"Help me out here, Neal. I'm trying to understand." The voice was tight and grim, with that sardonic note that Neal hated.
"You can't—" Neal cleared his throat, tried again. "You asked me to give up a whole . . . a whole lifestyle. A way of thinking. The only way I know how to think, or to live. Peter, I—"
"No." Peter cut him off, stepping closer, gripping the bars with both hands. Neal looked at those hands. Focused on them hard, to keep from meeting Peter's eyes again.
"No, Neal. I didn't ask you to give up anything. You asked me. You came to me with a request and I granted it. You made the commitment to doing whatever you had to do to stay out of prison."
"I had to—"
"It doesn't matter why you did it. You did it. And then, the first chance you got, you did this." The voice faltered. "Neal . . . how could you do it?"
The anger was draining out of Peter's voice on those last words. Now there was disappointment, which was worse. Disappointment and . . . sadness?
In spite of himself, Neal's gaze traveled slowly upwards again, to rest on the other man's face. What he saw now was pain. The ruins of trust broken, of friendship lost.
Cold searing his insides as though he'd swallowed a block of ice, Neal took a quick step forward. "Peter—" But Peter was turning away. Neal grabbed the bars. "Peter, wait!"
Neal jolted awake, sweat pouring off him, eyes wide with terror.