As a side note, the chapter name was not meant as a reference to the lyrics, which don't really fit this story. I picked that title because it sounds cool, and it sound right for this, and – without the lyrics – it does fit this story.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
- The Waking, by Theodore Roethke
As soon as he was out of prison, Neal hit the ground running. Apparently, rather than trying to give him even more time to recuperate, they'd decided to try to keep him busy; keep his mind off of everything. Neal was grateful; it made it easier to pretend that he was completely sane when he had something to focus on. If he really thought about Kate, thought about revenge, in front of them... he wasn't sure that he'd be able to hide it.
It didn't matter that he was an amazing liar, that he had pulled off cons no one would ever believe possible – he had never been able to lie to Kate, to lie about Kate.
Neal wasn't used to grief, at least not the kind that you saw in movies, or TV shows, or plays, or read about in books. He wasn't used to wallowing. He wasn't the kind of person who could beat his chest, or tear at his hair, or curse the world and everyone in it who was happy. Not only was that low drama, but he just wouldn't – he couldn't. And yet he had fallen back to this in prison, and it surprised him. It undermined him; it took away another core part of who he was, and Kate's death had already taken so much from him. He would not let himself wallow in despair anymore.
He overcompensated with the charm and humor that came naturally, to cover everything underneath. He didn't really understand how else to deal with it. The only way he understood life in general was to take action. It was why the idea of revenge, though it was dark and even more destructive than his grief, was what had pulled him back into himself. It was the reason he threw all of his energy into solving the new cases Peter presented to him. It was the reason that sitting around in prison with nothing to do but think had nearly destroyed him – twice.
He was a liar at heart, and the only way he knew to actually deal with pain was to distract himself from it. To do something about it, or force himself to forget that it was there. He was good at it... most of the time.
He rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for the newest case file.
"You always tell me such beautiful lies."
"I've never lied to you, Kate."
"See? There you go again."
Neal turned away quickly, pressing his lips tightly together. If Kate had seen the moment of pain on his face, then she didn't ask.
Neal put aside a large sum of money that had a dye pack poorly hidden beneath the first bill and returned to grabbing more stacks of cash and throwing them into the briefcase. It had been so easy to get in here that it was almost pathetic; though he'd needed to do a little bit of ground-work first, he had been able to walk into the vault completely unhindered. Peter would be disappointed, but not unsurprised.
He was into a good rhythm before the briefcase was even a quarter of the way full, and he didn't even think about what he did; his movements were precise, almost mechanical. Automatic. Even if it wasn't his usual con it still came as naturally to him as breathing, as his heart beating; he didn't have to think about it to make it happen. His world had dissolved into that small room, and nothing else mattered. He opened his mouth – automatically – to tell Kate to hurry up with what she was doing, to come help him.
The words stuck in his throat, and he paused. His eyes were wild for a moment as he glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings - where he was, what he was going here. He grabbed another couple stacks of hundred-dollar bills and shoved them in the suitcase before stepping out of the vault without looking back.
"I hope you're not planning on walking with that." Peter said as Neal walked past with the large suitcase containing the large amount of stolen money.
Neal grimaced, turning back towards the fed. "There's no law against thinking about it."
"It's good to have you back." Peter was grinning widely, but Neal only smiled politely in response.
"It's good to be back."
"Neal?"
Neal blinked, looking over at Mozzy. He was holding the Bordeaux bottle cradled gently in his hands, and he wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been sitting on the couch like that - or when he'd even picked up the bottle and moved over here.
"Mozz?" Neal had trouble disguising the feverish tone in his voice. "Did you find anything?"
Mozzy frowned, "What? Do I have to have an excuse to drop in on a friend?" But his expression didn't quite match up with what he was saying; he was guarded, concerned. Neal didn't answer, but he looked down at the bottle in his hands so that Mozzy wouldn't see the gleam in his eyes. When had lying - keeping up a simple deception - become so hard? When it started to involve Kate, he answered himself bitterly. He heard his friend sigh, but he still didn't look up. "No, I haven't found anything, yet. But Neal–"
Neal looked up at the way Mozzy said his name, "What?" He voice was sharper, angrier than he intended it to be. Because he knew what was coming... that, and as ridiculous and unreasonable and selfish as it was, he was upset with Mozzy; that they still didn't have anything to go off of.
"Are you..." Mozzy seemed to be struggling with the word. "Okay?"
Neal didn't even flinch. And he didn't try to hide the ice in his voice when he said, "I'm fine, Mozzy." It was curt, cold. "Tell me when you've got something worth my time."
Neal set the card up so that he could see it, and started copying it across his sketchpad. The Architect.He moved the pencil down the length of the 'A', sketching in the gaps. Keep busy, keep moving. It was his mantra; he thought it over and over to keep himself functioning.
There was a heat flash that traveled through him, a vivid memory of fire and pain. He wasn't constantly burning, the way he had been right after her death, but the heat would roll over him for a moment, leaving him helpless. This wasn't the first time it had happened.
His hand was shaking, and he couldn't control it, he couldn't hold on to his pen. It fell to the paper, and he brought his hands up to his face, clasping them in front of his lips and trying to hold them steady. He took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the pen again, slowly, as if it, too, might burn up before his eyes. He tapped the pen against the paper softly, steadily, nodding his head at the same time, trying to get back into his natural rhythm. Trying to force the cold hatred back into his veins, in place of the burning fear.
Keep busy, keep moving.
He held the pencil poised above the paper, trying not to think about Kate leaning over his shoulder, pretending to have any kind of advice and criticism to offer for his forgery.
"I will find out who killed you, Kate," he said softly to himself. "I promise."
He repeated his promise first thing every morning when he woke up. He reminded himself of his reason for continuing on even though Kate was dead; he couldn't give up until he'd found her murderer. He wasn't certain what would come after that, but right now it didn't really matter. He would find out who killed her, and he would find a way to avenge her murder. There simply wasn't any other option.
And yet he still wasn't any closer to getting his revenge than he had been when she died.
Sorry that it was so short, and that Neal didn't make much progress. I really wanted to use more dialogue from Withdrawal, but since the second season isn't done yet, and therefore I don't have a copy of that episode, I don't really have access to that dialogue right now. In the future (once the second season is over and my story has probably gone AU), I might come back and add little bits and pieces.
But for now, here it is! For your entertainment... or not, if you don't like it. PLEASE review! You really don't have to, but reviews make me endlessly joyous.
