(Shoutout to those of you who get the AHS: Hotel reference in here)
"I hope you have a plan for this," Peter said quietly.
They were both tied to chairs in the middle of what looked like it used to be an office, but it was now empty, save for them and their chairs.
Neal didn't answer that. He was being uncharacteristically quiet and Peter hoped that was because he was thinking.
So far, they'd only seen one man, the one who'd caught them both. He was short, but fit, built like a smaller version of Peter. He wore black both times he'd come into the room, and a pair of shades seemed to be permanently pushed up on his head. Piercing green eyes were accented by a thin line of black eyeliner. His hair was a deep obsidian black, gelled back.
His focus had been almost entirely on Neal, who gave away nothing, but Peter had a strong suspicion that they knew each other.
A couple days went by with no demands, no questions. The man in black came in twice a day, saying nothing, doing nothing except giving Peter a little food and water. He offered nothing to Neal.
When he was gone, Peter held out some of the food to Neal, but the other man refused to take it.
"You need it," he kept saying. "There's barely enough for one person."
Peter, of course told him he was being stupid, but no matter how much he argued, Neal didn't budge.
Every day that passed, Neal grew more and more tense. He didn't even appear to sleep, just stared at the opposite wall and occasionally made small talk.
Peter was stunned that he was lasting so long without a single drop of water or a single crumb of food. Five days in, and he asked Neal what was going on, but all he got was a vague answer. Time passed and Neal grew a little paler, a little shakier, but otherwise appeared okay. Peter couldn't understand what was keeping him going.
Then, exactly ten days after they'd been taken, the man walked into the room, smirking.
"Hello, Neal," he greeted as usual, but he entirely ignored Peter. "Such an odd name you're going by now. The last I heard, they called you Donovan."
Neal looked at him coldly, but said nothing.
The other man leaned closer, grinning. "Do you know my name?"
Neal shook his head.
"It's Finnigan. I want you to know it," the man said. "Because when you walk out of here, I want you to know who it was that ruined your life."
Neal tightened his jaw. "I won't let you get that far."
The other man smirked. "You can't do anything." He paused. "Actually, there's only one thing you're going to do here. And it will be you, I promise." With a glance at Peter, he asked, "Tell me, Donovan, how long do you think you'll last without feeding? A few more days, I'd wager."
Peter watched in confusion as Finnigan cut Neal's hands loose. "What are you doing?"
They both ignored him. Finnigan left Neal's feet tied, then retreated with another parting grin. Neal stayed in his chair, eyes closed and eyebrows pinched together.
"Neal?"
"Yeah."
"What was he talking about?"
Neal shook his head and stopped answering, no matter how many times Peter demanded answers.
Two more days went by. Neal's hands shook and he gripped the chair tightly in an attempt to keep them still. His eyes became bloodshot.
It was impossible that he was still alive and Peter was beginning to get scared. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it one bit. And where was the team? It had been almost two weeks. Why weren't Jones and Diana kicking down the door yet?
On day thirteen, Neal was shaking so hard, Peter was sure he was having a seizure or something. He put his head in his hands and breathed quickly, shoulders so tense, Peter could see the outline of every muscle through his shirt, which was soaked in sweat.
"Neal..." he said hesitantly.
Neal tensed even more and made a low, growling noise in his throat. After maybe thirty seconds, he suddenly reached down and tore the rope off his legs, staggering to his feet, but he didn't go over to Peter, instead heading over to the furthest corner away from him.
"Neal, what's happening? Talk to me, please."
Neal panted something over and over, but it was very quiet and Peter had to listen closely to hear it:
"Please kill me... please just kill me..."
Peter tried talking to him some more, but Neal didn't answer him, only seeming to get more agitated.
All at once, Neal's eyes snapped open and he stood, still panting heavily, but now he was looking directly at Peter, his pupils narrowed into slits like a cat. Peter's blood ran cold just to see it.
Neal's expression became conflicted and panicked, and he backed up against the wall, shaking his head. "Peter... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
"What's going on?" Peter demanded. "Come on, talk to me, Neal. Please. Let me help you."
Neal looked away, cringing. "You can't. Y-you can't..." He squeezed his eyes shut, baring his teeth in a wince. He groaned and slowly opened his mouth. Peter watched as two pristine white fangs protruded from his gums, and Neal grunted in pain. He looked back to Peter, his eyes full of guilt and regret. "I'm sorry," he gasped again. "I can't... I can't stop it."
Peter jerked against the bindings on his wrists, eyes wide. "Neal," he warned, "Don't. You can fight this."
Neal suddenly snapped, "I've been trying!" His eyes flashed with more than just rage. In a flash, he was leaning over Peter, his nails digging into the chair. He stayed frozen in that position, desperately trying to fight against the monster Peter now knew he was.
Up close, those fangs looked long sharp and Neal dug them into his lower lip in an attempt to restrain himself. "I'm sorry," he breathed again.
With a crash, the door behind him burst open and Neal spun around. Diana and another agent held their guns out in front of them, and Neal swallowed thickly, shoulders slumping in dread. "Shoot me," he gasped. The shaking had started up again.
"Neal!" Peter snapped.
Diana stared at Neal in shock, taking in his appearance.
"Shoot me!" Neal shouted.
Diana flinched when the agent beside her fired his gun.
-)()(-
Peter stood outside the door for what felt like a long time before he opened it and walked in.
Neal glanced up, then back down, looking uncomfortable when he saw it was Peter.
Neither of them said a word for a moment, then Peter came over to sit beside the bed. "How are you holding up?"
Neal shrugged with one shoulder. "The doctor said I can go home in a couple days."
"It was a through-and-through. The bullet got you in the shoulder, not the chest. But that's not what I meant."
Neal was quiet.
"Look at me," Peter said, and waited for his friend to do so before saying firmly, "Nothing has changed."
Neal blinked. "Why not? I almost killed you, you realize that, right?"
"It wasn't your fault. I know it and you know it. And if you're worried about your deal, it's not a problem. Diana promised not to tell anyone and you know I won't."
Neal looked at him in puzzlement. "What about the other agent? The one who shot me?"
Peter nodded. "He's denying having seen anything at all, even to me."
Neal nodded, looking down at his hands. "Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe he thinks it was a trick of the light."
"No, why are you doing this for me?" Neal asked.
Peter looked at him very seriously. "Because that's what friends do. I know if the situation were reversed, you'd do everything in your power to help me."
"Would I?"
"I would be extremely grateful if you did. So, how about it? What do you say we put this behind us?"
"Can we, though?"
Peter sighed. "Would you just say thank you and move on?"
Neal smiled a bit. "Sure. I can do that."
Peter nodded. "Then I'll see you in a little bit. I'll bring Elizabeth."
As he turned to head back out of the room, Neal called after him, "Hey, Peter?"
Peter glanced over his shoulder expectantly.
"Thank you."
He smiled. "Just looking out for a friend."
