AN: Haza! First White Collar fic. Based on tonight's episode, "Forging Bonds" (S02,E11). Don't think there are any spoilers (except for the title). Just thought I'd put this out there and see where it takes me. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the television series White Collar. I do not own the characters of the television series White Collar.
My Heart is Fine
"You've been lying to me."
Neal laughs, the sound more of a wheeze than anything. The cannula tubes wrapped behind his ears and pumping oxygen up through his nostrils press harshly against his pale skin. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips and fingertips tinted an unhealthy blue. "You'll have to be . . . more specific."
Peter frowns, shifts in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the hospital bed, and looks down at his tightly clasped hands. The young man can't speak without taking a breath every few words. It's unsettling, considering how well he seemed mere hours ago—how well he's seemed for years.
"Pete?" Neal asks tentatively, breathing deep.
No one calls the FBI agent that. Not even Elizabeth. Peter doubts that Neal even meant to. Shorter words, shorter names, seem easier for the former art thief at the moment.
"You should have told me. About...this." Peter awkwardly gestures to the hospital room, as if it is to blame for what has happened, for what will happen.
"Oh, it didn't...seem pertinent." Neal attempts a smile, but it comes across as a grimace.
Okay, screw the shorter words theory. The young man is just trying to screw with him. "This isn't funny, Neal," the agent reprimands. "You're sick."
"That so?" The young man's eyebrows rise high on his forehead, the skin below his hairline creasing. "Thought this...was a vacation." He wiggles his tracker-free ankle for emphasis. "Feels good...Just need...a sunny beach...a cold drink...a pretty girl..."
Peter sighs and rubs a hand down his face. "How long has this been going on?"
"The beach fantasy?" Neal asks, coughing harshly and closing his eyes against the pain that erupts in his chest. "Long...long time."
"Stop it," Peter demands curtly, standing abruptly and pacing in front of the hospital bed. "Neal, you need to stop screwing around and tell me what the hell has been going on." His shoulders hunch, his jaw muscles ripple, his knuckles whiten as he curls his fingers into his palms. "How did you keep this from us?"
"No hospitals means...no medical records," Neal explains simply.
But Peter shakes his head. "You were arrested. You were taken to jail. All inmates are required to have a physical upon entry to a penal facility." He's in Special Agent Peter Burke mode, talking like an employer, like the man who has had to keep tabs on Neal's every move for the past eight years, rather than the friend he has become over the last two.
"Prison health records..." Neal says tiredly, his eyebrows drawing together, "...are easy to misplace." He shakes his head when Peter stops at the foot of his bed and grips the plastic guard. "I don't exist, Peter...I try to...make it a habit."
The agent swallows hard and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "So you aren't even on any transplant lists? No medication? No treatment at all?" Neal shakes his head slowly, and Peter curses under his breath. "How long have you known about this? About your heart?"
The young man has to think a moment—not a comforting sign. "Too long, I think," he replies absently. "Thought I'd be...dead by now."
Peter returns to the plastic chair, his lower back protesting immediately. "Does..." He falters, shakes his head, grinds his teeth. "Does anyone know about this?"
Neal breathes carefully for a good ten seconds before he opens his mouth. But his attention is drawn to the door, where an awkward figure stands, one foot inside the room and the other indecisive one in the hallway. "Mozzie," Neal whispers, and Peter turns.
"You," the agent says, his tone accusing as he stands again and whirls on the conman. "You knew about this?"
Mozzie looks back into the hallway longingly, knowing that if he runs, Peter will only chase him. And with the number of suits lining the waiting room walls, it will be rather difficult to dodge the agent. Not knowing what else to do, he shrugs and fiddles with the strap of his messenger bag. "Well...Yeah, sure. I knew."
"He told you?" Peter points to Neal, the sick man watching the two of them with mild interest—but mostly with exhaustion.
"No, not...outright." Mozzie, again, glances into the hallway, his wayward foot retreating fully into the hospital room in defeat.
"Then you figured it out for yourself?" the other man asks incredulously, shaking his head and scoffing.
"Yes," the conman replies indignantly, straightening just enough to puff out his chest. "It's kind of hard to miss the signs when you've read as many medical journals as I have."
Thank God he doesn't quote them, Peter thought. "One of you needs to start talking. And since it very obviously can't be you—" The agent jabs a finger in Neal's direction, cutting the young man short of protesting. "—Mozzie had better-well have a damn good reason for keeping this from me."
Neal looks at his fellow conman imploringly, having only enough energy to shake his from side to side twice. Mozzie looks torn. Under normal circumstances, Neal would take precedence—especially over a suit. But Neal is sick, and the suit, however annoyingly upfront about the situation, seems to have good intentions.
With a sigh, Mozzie frowns at the floor tiles and says, "Sorry, Neal." He looks to Peter with a firm confidence—mainly so he won't have to see Neal's hurt and betrayed expression. "Sit down, Suit. This may take a while."
AN: Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.