(My family went on a trip up north for a while and I stayed behind to watch the pets in our huge house in the middle of nowhere all by myself and I swear to god it felt like months before they came back, so I tried to capture that feeling in this story, but then it just spiraled into something so much worse, but I'm not apologizing, although I will warn you: lots of psychological awfulness in this one so Neal might seem quite OOC)
On day one, Neal woke up in a bed, not his. It was big and comfortable, and the blankets were soft, but he didn't recognize the room, nice as it was. He sat up, glancing around quickly, but there was no one else there. Sunlight shone in through the window, brightening the room. It reminded him of a hotel he'd stayed at once with its comforting beige walls and the green patterned rug hung on one of them. Matching curtains were pulled back from the window, and from the bed, he could look out and see treetops.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, only just noticing he was completely naked. And wasn't that just uncomfortable to think about, imaging how he'd gotten here and where his clothes had gone. He stood, finding some underwear, sweatpants, and a T-shirt on the bedside table, but nothing else. These he slipped on quickly and walked over to the bedroom door. When he tried the knob, it opened, so he stepped out, then paused, taking in the new surroundings.
Straight ahead was an entry way with grey tile flooring. The front door looked a bit old and there were scratches near the handle where the paint had all but been shorn away. To the right was a staircase leading down, the white carpeted steps also looking worn and faded. To his left, there was a large, open living area with wood floor, and as he walked out into that, he was able to see out through the large, wall-to-wall window. More trees. He stepped over to this and stared at the scene before him.
It looked like he was in the middle of a forest.
He turned away and continued his exploration silently, not bothering to call out for anyone. The living room connected with a dining area with some kind of wood table, and that, in turn, connected to a large kitchen with lots of wood cabinets and drawers. Was everything wood here?
It was a huge house, and he hadn't even seen the downstairs yet. More than anything, he just wanted to know how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was going undercover with Peter. After that, nothing. But clearly something had happened. Maybe their covers had been blown.
"Peter?" Neal called, his voice shattering the silence and echoing through the large room. He received no answer, so he backtracked to the stairs, trotting down them. They twisted around and he found himself faced with three options.
To the left was a dark room, and when he peered inside, he recognized it as what must be the laundry area. Next to that was a short hallway, which he found led to two sperate bedrooms. And to the right was another large living area, which was more like a game room, he figured, since it had foosball and hockey tables. Off to the side was a small bathroom and straight ahead was a sliding glass door, which showed him a lower viewpoint of the woods, and which he made a face at. Seeing that there was no reason to stay here in this empty place, he ran back upstairs and straight to the front door, but the knob wouldn't turn. He tried again, twisting the lock this time, but it still wouldn't budge. He was beginning to understand the scratch marks.
Now, he didn't just wander the house. He searched it thoroughly, starting with the master bedroom he'd woken up in. He dug through drawers, as well as the two closets in the master bathroom, which was separated into two sinks on opposite sides. Clearly meant for a couple, though by now he'd realized there was no one else here.
He combed the rooms for hours, counting five bedrooms (two upstairs, two down), four bathrooms, one kitchen, one dining room, one mudroom branching off the kitchen with another door that led to a garage, one laundry room, and the game room downstairs.
He tried all the doors again, but the only ones that opened were the ones that didn't lead outside. In the garage, there was a side door, locked of course, but even the large heavy mechanical doors refused to budge, even if he could slip his fingers underneath them.
Exhausted, Neal headed back into the living room and stared out the window again. The woods were brown and bare, but he could spot the beginnings of green buds on the branches. It didn't look cold.
Where the hell was he? And where the hell was Peter?
-)()(-
Day two was much the same. He'd slept in the same bedroom, and when he woke up, He snooped around some more, finding a few things he hadn't paid attention to the first time around. First off, the kitchen was fully stocked. There were clothes his size in the drawers of the master bedroom, as well as everything else he'd need on a daily basis. There was running water, TV (but no phones), and even a speaker system wired in the kitchen. There was a fireplace in the living room, surrounded by rocks which covered the wall in a neat way.
He nearly gave himself a heart attack when he found the cat.
He'd walked halfway back upstairs after thoroughly checking the game room, only to freeze and nearly trip when he glanced up to see a pair of golden eyes staring at him from where it was perched on the ledge. Its fur was a sort of mix between tabby and calico, mostly brown.
It blinked, Neal blinked, then he smiled. "Hey, kitty."
It began to purr, but made no move to come down.
Neal wasn't exactly a cat person, but then he wasn't really a dog person either. That wasn't to say he disliked them. He'd just never had a pet before.
This cat, however, seemed to be content to keep to itself, so he finished climbing the stairs and dug around in the kitchen for some food.
"Mrow?"
He glanced down at his feet to see that the cat had followed, and was now rubbing up against his legs, purring louder than ever. Maybe it was hungry.
Neal found some sliced turkey in the fridge, so he set some out on the counter where the cat licked it up hungrily. It was pretty thin, he couldn't help but notice.
The day was just as uneventful as the one before, as was the day after that and the day after that.
The cat was a female, he found out, so he started calling her Cali, due to her slight calico markings. She followed him around sometimes, but mostly kept to herself. He'd found some cat food down in the laundry room, as well as her food bowl, which he diligently kept full for her. It was really the only responsibility he had now, aside from finding an escape, but that wasn't going so well.
Five days in and he was no closer to his goal than he'd been when he first woke up in this strange place. The doors were impossible to open, and he'd even tried breaking the glass on the sliding door downstairs, but it hadn't even made a scratch. Same with the windows.
He was delighted to find coffee. Italian Roast, no less. Someone knew him well.
His existence became boring and repetitive. It was the silence that got to him the most. That, coupled with the complete lack of social interaction made the days seem ten times longer than they actually were. The cat wasn't much company, though after day eight, he found himself talking to her a lot.
Oddly, he couldn't find any cameras. He'd think that whoever had trapped him here would want to keep an eye on him. He wasn't about to complain, though. That just made it so he could plot his escape in peace without worry of hiding it.
His captor seemed to have little regard for that, as there were lots of tools and materials in the garage he could put to good use, as well as the wiring from the TV both upstairs and downstairs.
He filled the silence by putting the speakers to use, blasting classic rock stations, and even listening to a baseball game once when he began to miss stakeouts with Peter. And if he was missing stakeouts with Peter and his awful sandwiches, something clearly had to be done.
-)()(-
He began keeping tally on a wall, like he'd done back in prison. So far, three weeks and four days. Almost a month in this house alone with no success. The black marker slowly began to cover one piece of the wall beside the large window in the living room.
What was puzzling was that at the end of each week, without fail, more food and supplies would appear in boxes in the garage, and no matter how long he sat there and waited, it never came when he was watching. It at least told him there were other people who came by, who knew he was here, though that didn't do much to comfort him, knowing they were the ones who had put him here in the first place.
They'd given him a cat, he supposed, which was a small kind gesture.
A month in and he began to wonder if Peter was even looking for him. He himself was starting to give up. Maybe the agent had done so already.
It was two months before the stress started getting to him.
He woke up feeling ill one night, and dragged himself and his thick comforter out on the couch near the fireplace. He couldn't sleep, so he sat and lost himself to thought until the first signs of daylight were visible outside.
He shuffled into the kitchen, keeping the blanket around him because he was cold despite the fact that the temperature hadn't changed since he'd been here.
Cali gave him her usual morning greeting while he made his coffee, and afterwards he added some more food to her bowl before returning to his place on the couch to catch up the sleep he'd lost last night.
He didn't get more than half an hour, hot then cold to the point where he woke up one too many times and decided he might as well do something productive. There really wasn't much he could do, but there was laundry and dishes, little things like that.
He paused, thinking about this house he was trapped in and how it had basically become his own special prison, one where he had chores to do like in a real household. His only company for the last two months was a cat, and that was it. He kept himself sane talking to her. But even so, it was still a prison and he still needed to escape since it was clear that Peter wasn't mounting a rescue anytime soon.
By the end of the day, he felt worse, but he was too tired to be restless, so he ended up falling asleep on the couch again. His dreams were of the bureau and what it would be like if he ever got back there. Not if. When. He was going to get back there.
Waking up was a chore in and of itself. His head was light and his limbs were weak, maybe because he'd hardly eaten anything yesterday. Mainly coffee. He eventually dragged himself off the couch and went about his morning routine, a bit more slowly, but it wasn't like he had a deadline. He didn't actually have to do anything either. He just preferred to keep himself busy.
Over the next few days, he was miserable, and one morning, as he dragged the black marker in a line to mark another tally, he decided stubbornly that he wasn't going to try anymore. He felt like shit. He was just going to sleep until it went away. There was the beginning of a beard on his face, but he didn't feel like shaving it off so he stumbled into his room and collapsed onto the bed with a long sigh.
It took longer than he'd hoped for his head to stop pounding and his stomach to settle down, but when he did feel like moving, he'd lost something, some piece of himself.
He still went about his daily routines as always, but there was no real purpose to it anymore other than keeping himself busy. He no longer possessed the hope that someone would come for him, especially when he reached the point where the marks on the wall showed half a year's worth of black marker. Half a year. Six months he'd been here and not a word from either his captors nor his friends.
Bit by bit, he began to lose himself. He'd always been a social person by nature. Being deprived of human contact for so long was beginning to take its toll. Once, he caught himself talking to Peter like he was right there beside him. He tried to keep himself focused, making up new activities to occupy his time, and those worked for a while, but then they too became just a meaningless repetition.
More and more, he'd find himself just sitting, staring off into space as his mind took him somewhere else.
And then...
Eight months, one week, and four days in...
He got out.
He'd found it on accident, the old attic in the garage. It looked like it hadn't been used in a very long time, the hatch on the ceiling completely unnoticeable unless you knew it was there. Neal had been standing on a chair, digging around inside the many boxes that lined the shelves along one wall. He'd lost his balance and one hand had somehow caught the string hanging down from the ceiling, which he'd never really noticed before.
He came crashing to the floor, along with the end of a wooden ladder covered in dust.
For a moment, he laid where he was, blinking up at the dark hole that had appeared above him where the ladder was attached.
He stood, glancing curiously at the ladder while placing one foot on the bottom step. It appeared sturdy enough, so he climbed, a little cautious, but having something new to keep his attention on was exciting.
The attic was dark and empty, save for a lot of cobwebs and wooden planks stacked up along one wall. There was a small window, which he went straight towards, looking out directly over the driveway. He reached up to wipe dust and dirt off the surface, and that's when he hit a lucky break.
The window turned completely on its frame and his hand touched fresh air for the first time in forever. It was December, so the cold air was a shock, but he didn't even think about that. Instead, he immediately drew back enough to kick the window clear out, then stuck his head through the gap.
A cold winter breeze blew through his hair, which had grown longer. He hadn't cut it in a while, hadn't bothered to. He could fit through the window, but it would be a tight squeeze, not that that mattered. He'd be free.
It took some maneuvering, but he did manage to crawl through and onto the roof, where he glanced down at the ground below, only a short distance.
He jumped, landing on his feet, but then falling on his face from the force of it, which was more than he'd anticipated. But it didn't matter because he was out.
The ground was frozen, and there was frost clinging to everything in sight. His breath came in white clouds, and he grinned ecstatically, looking around. He was free. But now came the tricky part. He still had to get somewhere far away from here, somewhere he could call for help. There were no cars that he could see, so driving was out.
He started off, but in the middle of walking up the driveway, he heard a sound, tires on gravel.
They must have known somehow. Maybe they did have cameras and he just couldn't see them. It didn't matter now. He was already sprinting off in the opposite direction, into the woods. His legs flew over the ground as he tore through the frozen landscape. He came to a creek and leaped it with ease, only then glancing back to see a bunch of shadowy figures giving chase.
Why did they even want him? All they'd done so far was lock him up inside. Surely if they needed him for something, they'd have told him by now.
He didn't stop, even when he came to a steep hill leading down to another stream that wound its way through the trees. On the other side was an equally steep hill. He'd have to climb that once he made it to the bottom.
The men behind him hadn't been shooting, so they wanted him alive if they had guns, which he was pretty sure of.
Decision made, he slid down the steep hillside, rocks clattering with him, and he reached the bottom without tripping. He glanced up once, pleased to see that his pursuers were no longer in sight, but he wasn't taking any chances, even if he was breathing heavily and his lungs burned from the cold air.
He began climbing up the rocky slope on the other side, glancing back periodically, but no one ever came in sight at the top of the other hill.
He almost made it to the top.
His fingers were growing numb from grabbing onto frozen, frost covered rocks, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when they failed to grab hold of something the next time he reached for a hand hold. His feet slipped out from under him and his chin scraped against sharp rocks as he slid backwards, scrabbling desperately for purchase while slowly gaining speed.
He figured he'd just hit the bottom, get a little bruised, and try again, but abruptly, his fall came to a jarring halt as his right arm suddenly got caught up between two of the larger rocks and he heard a loud pop as his shoulder came out of its socket.
He stared up at his arm, the only thing keeping him from continuing to slide down, and muffled the cry of pain that he couldn't otherwise hold back. He reached up with his free hand and tried to push one of the rocks away, but neither of them would move. His weight pulled on his injured arm and he kicked his legs, trying to find purchase on the steep slope so he could alleviate it. There was nothing but loose stones that only rolled down to the bottom.
Neal bit back tears as he hung there, his free hand tugging uselessly at the rocks. When he heard voices in the distance, he panicked, renewing his efforts. He'd tear the arm off if it meant he wouldn't have to go back there.
His struggles were futile, and he only seemed to end up wedging his arm further into the crack. He gave up eventually, going still and letting his other arm hang limply at his side while he panted through the agony. It was cold now that he'd stopped moving, and he shivered, all the while listening to the voices getting closer until they were right there.
He felt them pulling and prodding at his trapped arm and he didn't bother to stifle his screams this time. He was already caught, so what did it matter?
His legs kicked out against the rocks again, trying to push himself up, but strong hands held him still while they went about freeing his arm.
He felt it when they did and he howled in pain before the world faded out around him.
-)()(-
His eyes opened slowly and when he saw where he was, he groaned out loud. Back in that same bed in that same room in that same damn house.
He sat up, feeling all the doubt and disheartenment return two-fold. He'd gotten out. But here he was, back in his prison.
His arm was in a sling, and he inspected it closely, looking for anything in the design or the material that stood out to him, but there was nothing like that. It was just a navy blue sling with a white strap that came up and around his shoulder.
The arm itself felt okay, still a bit painful, but he could ignore it for the most part.
The first thing he did was head straight to the attic, but he should have expected they'd fix it so he couldn't get out again. The ladder was still down, but when he climbed it, he couldn't see a thing. They'd boarded up the window.
Back inside, Cali was there to greet him, winding between his legs, and Neal picked her up carefully, holding her against his chest with his good arm. She purred softly, closing her eyes. Neal wondered briefly what would have happened to her if he had escaped. Would they have just left her to die?
The tally marks on the wall continued to spread. Winter passed slowly. Neal eventually took the sling off and tossed it into a corner. His arm was sore for a little while, but it slowly got better.
Spring came and announced a complete year that he'd been here. One whole year, to the day. He still didn't know the exact date, but there were 365 tally marks on that wall, which meant he was back to around April. He wondered if he should do something to celebrate, but then decided against it. There was nothing to celebrate. In fact, he didn't even know why he still kept count. It didn't matter.
Two weeks after that little anniversary, he noticed that he'd started seeing things. At first, it was just his peripherals. A flash, a tiny movement. It was never much.
After another month, it became a little more noticeable. Once, he'd nearly given himself a heart attack when he looked over to see Cali perched on top of the fridge, teeth bared in a fiendish snarl. He blinked and it was gone. She looked at him and blinked her golden colored eyes lazily.
He noticed, too, when he looked in the mirror, that he'd changed to the point where he hardly recognized himself. His eyes had grown dull and faded, his hair had become shaggy and unkempt, and he only shaved when the scruff on his face began to form a full beard. He'd never liked that.
He'd become tame as well. There was no fight left in him. He was pretty sure they could leave all the doors open and the only reason he'd try to run would be because he knew he should. Besides that, no, he wouldn't. There was no point. They'd all forgotten about him by now, probably thought he'd run a long time ago.
Most of his time was spent trying to discern what was real and what was just his damaged mind playing tricks on him. He was disappointed that he never hallucinated actual people. If he was going to go insane, he at least wanted some company besides the cat.
The tally marks on the wall were the only clear thing until about three months past the first year. He went to add another line, then paused. He couldn't remember if he'd already done so today. It was morning, right? He'd just woken up. Then he thought maybe he'd been forgetting, so he added a few more, but then that felt like too much.
He sat down, letting the marker fall from his hand. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes tightly, biting his lip. He was losing it now.
"Mrow."
Cali rubbed up against him affectionately and Neal pulled her into his arms, tears stinging his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. "I just can't."
The admission set off a switch and all of a sudden, the tally marks didn't matter anymore. They were now just black stains on a wall.
He hardly thought of the house as a prison anymore. It was safety. It was home. Hell, he didn't even want to leave anymore. Why should he?
The FBI, Peter, Mozzie, June, New York, it all felt like a dream, like he'd only had insight into someone else's life for a short while. The memories felt faded and foreign. He could hardly remember their faces.
He hardly thought about them anymore, though. Mostly, he just did whatever he wanted when he wanted to do it. Some days were more eventful than others, while some were depressing and dull.
He only hurt himself on purpose one time, and it felt so wrong, he never did it again. But the scar would be there forever on his thumb where he'd let a knife slip in his grasp and cut his flesh. It had bled a lot and he'd watched it do so until he started to get dizzy and realized what he was doing. He'd had to clean up the blood on the counter and the floor as well as the places it had dripped down the wooden cabinets.
He put the knife away and made his dinner without use of it.
After a while, he regretted gutting both TVs for useless parts. He wasn't escaping, and he'd grown bored in his limited space.
The days blurred together until it felt like one long one. He slept at odd hours, ate a little here and there, and spent most of his time staring off into space or talking to people that weren't there. He knew they weren't there, but it didn't matter.
He'd remember the day forever.
September 19th.
He'd been in the kitchen, sitting cross-legged on the countertop next to Cali. They were having a conversation while Neal gazed across the room at the view outside one of the windows.
He broke off when he heard a noise, a quiet one, but it was out of place so he noticed it right away. He'd never heard it before, almost a humming and grinding noise from outside. He glanced at Cali, who had her ears pricked, eyes rounded and wide and she fixed her gaze towards the commotion.
She bolted when there was another, much louder sound, and Neal jumped off the table, instinctively ducking behind it.
Some voice shouted a familiar phrase. Three letters. He knew he was supposed to know what they stood for, but his brain was just trying to comprehend the fact that another person was inside. They had come through the door. Maybe they finally had use of him after all this time and they were coming to take him out of here.
He heard footsteps, several of them, and a couple people shouted, "Clear!" one right after another.
This was familiar. He just couldn't think of a reason why. His heart beat so loudly in his chest, he knew they could hear it, but he stayed frozen, crouched behind the counter as he pleaded silently for them not to find him. He didn't know what would happen if they did, but he knew for certain he didn't want it to happen.
When a figure came into sight on his left, he flinched violently and scrambled away, though there wasn't anywhere for him to go, so he ended up smacking into the cabinets against the wall by the fridge, which startled him even more. From there, he just froze in terror, illogically thinking that if he stayed still maybe they'd leave.
No such luck. Instead, a quiet, gentle voice spoke, also sounding familiar. A girl. She said his name like she knew him and he ever so slowly raised his eyes to look at her, trembling. He'd seen her before.
Her hair was dark and her voice was light. Her skin was a mix between. She held her hands up slowly to show that she meant no harm, then just as slowly crouched down a few feet away, saying his name again. "Neal, it's just me. You remember me, don't you?"
He nodded, though that wasn't entirely true. He only mostly remembered her.
"Diana," she said, helping him out.
That's right. But that had been a long time ago.
Neal almost let himself relax a bit, but then he took notice of the other people, so many of them, all looking at him, and he shrank back against the cabinets again. He didn't know why he was so afraid. All this time, he'd been longing for this, but now it felt terrifying. There were so many of them.
Diana had company, he soon noticed, a man who definitely looked familiar and who was looking at him with such concern, Neal almost felt uncomfortable. This was Peter. He didn't have to be reminded of that.
But there were still so many people and it was all overwhelming and Neal thought his heart was going to explode from the way it beating so hard and fast.
Peter's voice spoke again, not addressing him this time, and Neal watched tensely as the other agents backed off, walking out of sight.
He breathed deeply, then realized he was being spoken to again.
"What?"
"Are you okay?" Peter asked.
Neal nodded. What now? When were they going to leave? They couldn't stay here forever. Plus, he'd like his solitude back now. He flinched again as Peter inched closer, holding out a hand as if approaching a wounded and cornered animal. Neal glanced down at himself briefly. No, he wasn't an animal. That was good.
No one said anything anymore, but Peter continued to come closer until his fingers brushed Neal's leg. Neal slowly drew it back. Peter came even closer.
Before he knew it, his old friend was right next to him, one hand resting on his. Neal looked down at it almost numbly. He didn't dare speak, lest the hallucination end. He was sure that's what this was.
"Come on," Peter said, still with that gentle tone in his voice, "Let's go home."
Home? Neal glanced around, brow furrowed, but then Peter said, "No, not this. This isn't your home, Neal."
It felt like it, but he didn't argue. He didn't get the chance anyway because Peter was tugging on his hand, and Neal stood up, but stayed pressed against the wall.
Diana had disappeared somewhere but now she came back, talking to Peter when she said, "Everyone's clear. Think you'll get him in the car or should we...?" She left it at that, so Neal wasn't sure what she'd been about to say. He didn't worry about it.
"I can handle it," Peter said, then beckoned to Neal. "Come on, let's go."
He took a few steps, then waited for Neal to follow. He did. The pattern continued until they reached the entry way and Neal froze when he saw the door wide open. It was never open, especially not like that. A warm breeze floated in through it, and he smelled the fresh scent of the outdoors.
Peter let him take his time, but Neal suddenly remembered something and he took a step back, shaking his head. "Wait, no, I can't leave without her."
"Without who?" Diana questioned.
Neal didn't give her an answer to that. Instead, he stepped back again, then turned to go downstairs. He found Cali in the crawl space under the stairs where she liked to go when she was scared, such as when it stormed. She hated storms.
Neal gathered her into his arms and crawled back out, then came back up the stairs, holding her so she couldn't run. She didn't try, pressing herself close when she saw the two strangers in their house.
He kept her close as he stepped hesitantly and shakily outside after Peter. He was trembling again, which made him stumble a bit as he walked to the car. He hesitated when he saw it and the open door on the passenger side. He ignored that one, crawling into the back seat instead where there was more room and he didn't have to sit next to someone.
He curled his legs up against the seat in front of him, and let Cali go once all the doors were shut and Peter started the car.
Neal flinched yet again as the car started to move and his eyes darted this way and that, watching them leave the house behind. He felt like a child being kidnapped from his home and he sank further into his seat, miserable, but saying nothing. He heart rate refused to slow down and he was beginning to feel sick from it. The motion of the car didn't help.
He threw up once, but Peter didn't seem mad about it. By the time the car stopped he felt a little better, but that was quickly replaced by panic when he realized they were at a hospital and there were people literally everywhere. He refused to get out of the car no matter how much Peter pleaded with him. He couldn't do it. He could hear all the noise already and it was too much.
Diana came by, saying, "At least hand me the cat. I can take her to the vet to make sure she's okay, then I'll give her right back to you. How's that sound?"
Neal nodded and reached down under the seat to bring Cali out. She was scared too, but Diana promised to keep her safe. Once they were gone, Peter crouched outside the open car door and said, "I'll be with you the whole time, I promise. Please, Neal, just try for me."
Neal took another glance at the people on the sidewalks and driving in cars and walking in and out of buildings, and he shook his head fiercely, though he inched slightly closer to Peter. It only took couple minutes for him to be convinced, and then he found himself stepping out of the car and onto solid ground.
He very nearly dove back into the car, but Peter had a firm grip on his arm now, so he had no choice but to walk with him, pressing close since he had no other source of familiarity or comfort.
His legs were shaking so bad he thought he was going to fall, and his heartbeat was through the roof. He was sweating by the time they got inside where it was at least a little quieter. That didn't make everything suddenly okay. He was feeling sick again, but luckily Peter led him to a smaller room where it was quiet and it was just the two of them and some other lady who had a sweet, quiet voice.
Everything after that was hazy. He remembered getting so tired sitting there with Peter while the quiet lady left to do something. He didn't realize he'd curled up and fallen asleep on that weird bed in there until Peter was nudging him awake. The lady had returned with a slightly older man, who spoke just as quietly, as if someone had told them to do so. Peter might have, come to think of it.
Neal endured their touching, and he was beginning to calm down. Noise wasn't so scary, and people weren't either, though he was still rather wary about their presence. Even Peter's, though that was more because Peter had dragged him here in the first place and who knew where he'd drag him next? But he was also very tired, which probably added to his increasing lack of regard for his surroundings.
Having Peter there with him was making him remember things he'd stopped thinking about so long ago, and he felt better for it. He knew he was where he was supposed to be.
"Mozzie?" he questioned once.
"Safe," Peter assured him. "Worried about you, but he's okay."
Neal let himself smile wistfully at the sudden remembrance of his friend, whom he hoped to see soon. He'd forgotten his face.
He'd forgotten a lot.
-)()(-
It took a while for Neal to slip back into a more normal state of mind. He stayed at the hospital for a week that he knew of, most of which was spent anxious and tense.
When he did get to leave, he didn't balk at the car or the people, though he still eyed them in suspicion.
Peter and Elizabeth had decided that he was going to come stay with them for a short time, just to help him get adjusted back to his old life. It was strange, Neal thought, because it had seemed like so much more than a year and a half. It had felt more like a lifetime to him.
Peter told him that a few days after his disappearance, he'd received a video, and the threat of harm to his CI if he tried to do anything.
"Why?" Neal questioned.
It was someone with a grudge, Peter explained, someone who wanted Neal to suffer. "They sent me pictures of your broken arm once," he said. "I wanted to kill them all right then."
"They didn't do that," Neal said, not sure why he was leaping to their defense, but he felt the need to make it clear that it had pretty much been his own fault.
The subject made him edgy, though, almost like if he thought too much about it, he'd wake up there again all alone and back to square one. Peter tried not to bring it up again.
Progress was made. Elizabeth even offered to cut his hair for him, and he agreed, sitting in the kitchen with a towel over his shoulders while she smiled away, making small talk all the while.
When she was done and Neal got a look at himself, he was startled to see his face looking exactly as he'd remembered. It was like no time had passed at all and nothing had even happened.
"You should buzz it," he found himself saying. Actually, that was a good idea. He liked it. He'd never had buzzed hair before.
"Are you sure?" Elizabeth asked, running a hand through the dark locks.
"Yeah," Neal smiled. "New beginnings, right?"
She smiled as well. "New beginnings."
Peter came home not long after they'd cleaned up the kitchen and he stumbled to a halt on his way inside, blinking with wide eyes.
Neal grinned.
"Hon, what did you do to him?" Peter exclaimed.
"Hey, it was his idea," Elizabeth said, hands up in innocence. "I only did what he told me to do."
Peter pointed at her. "It's that kind of attitude that'll get you into trouble, just like Neal." But he was smiling. "Come here," he said to his newly shaved friend. "Let me see."
Gradually, Neal smiled more often, and went on walks with Satchmo, usually accompanied by someone else though because he still startled easily at the unexpected. In New York, the unexpected was everywhere.
Mozzie hung around a lot, and when he did go back to June's, the little guy moved in right along with him, promising Peter that he'd keep a close eye on their charge.
Neal felt safe for the first time since being rescued.
-)()(-
"You sure you're up for this?"
"Yeah," Neal smiled. "It'll be good to get back to work. Believe it or not, I missed the smell of this place."
They stood in the elevator together, having already gotten their coffee fix, and were headed up to the 21st floor. The movement of the elevator didn't feel strange as he thought it might. Instead, it felt familiar and brought back more memories.
"Just let me know if you wanna call it a day at any point," Peter said. "Alright?"
"I won't."
Neal was excited to get back to work. It was better than sitting around like he'd been doing for a year and a half, and it meant he could finally get back out in the real world, see if he still knew his way around a case.
He had no doubts about that, but everyone else seemed to think he was going to crack at every new situation they introduced. He was looking forward to proving them wrong.
The bureau was exactly the same, even his desk, which he stopped beside to run his hand along and give the little Socrates bust a pat on the head as he always did. It all felt so surreal.
The other agents welcomed him back with open arms, even the ones who had previously hated his guts. Some things had changed then. He wasn't about to question it.
The banter in the conference room, the friendly jokes passed around, and best of all, the double finger point Peter gave him from his office. He'd missed it all so much without even realizing it, but now it was all back and he could continue where he'd left off, with a few new changes, of course.
June had fallen in love with Cali when they'd brought her back from the vet with a clean bill of health. By the time Neal had moved back in, she'd become part of the household, and Neal was allowed to keep her. Peter didn't object. He knew how important the cat was to him.
Neal started coming over to the Burkes' every Friday night, a sort of unspoken tradition. He and Elizabeth took turns making dinner, each trying to one-up the other in a friendly competition. They were closer now as a family more than ever, and Neal wouldn't trade it for anything.
He took a relaxed breath and picked up the file on his desk. Mortgage fraud. He'd never been more happy to see those words.