AN: Just a tiny update to prove that I'm alive and haven't abandoned this story. Thank you for reading!
Now – Neal
The image Neal has of himself doesn't match the image of the man who stares back from the mirror. The mirrored man is too thin. Too pale. Too weak. For everyone else, these changes have been a slow progression since the injury. For Neal, it's a shock each morning when he wakes up and doesn't resemble the man he was before the attack, the only version of himself he remembers.
Now, he forces that shock aside and focuses on the in-ear transmitter in his right ear. His hair isn't even close to long enough to cover it, but it's still well hidden. He fiddles with the pen-shaped device in his pocket.
"Testing, testing, one, two, three," he says.
Mozzie's voice appears in his ear. "Loud and clear, my friend."
"Good." He takes a deep breath and tightens his tie. "This is going to work, right?"
"It worked yesterday, didn't it? We conned the suit. Now we're just conning a few more suits. And the Marshals. And the Department of Justice."
"Right." Neal straightens his jacket. "Moz, welcome to your first day at the FBI."
Mozzie makes a noise. "Sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little."
Neal ignores the comment and walks out of the bathroom into the FBI offices. There are no "welcome back" donuts this time, but everyone is glad to see him. He makes the rounds, says his hellos, and pours a cup of coffee before heading to his desk.
Peter approaches almost immediately and replaces the mug he just poured with a different one.
"What are you doing?" Neal asks.
"Decaf," Peter says.
He scoffs. "Peter, come on. My memory's back! Don't you think we can lessen the restrictions a little?"
In Neal's ear, Mozzie says, "Don't you dare. Your memory isn't back. One wrong move and I will pick up the phone and tell Peter the truth."
Neal bites back the "traitor" comment he can't make.
"No can do," Peter says. "Memory or not, you're still healing."
Neal sighs, takes a sip, and makes a face. "Mmm. Decaf," he says, more for Mozzie's benefit than anything. "Hot brown water."
"Enjoy. Hey, speaking of memory, do you remember what I did with the note I printed out from Dr. Schneider?"
Neal doesn't remember. He doesn't have any clue what note Peter's talking about or where it might be, and only knows Dr. Schneider's name from a glance through his notebook this morning. Thankfully, that's what Mozzie's here for.
"In the glove box," Mozzie says.
"It's in your glove box," Neal echoes.
Several expressions cross Peter's face in rapid succession – surprise, discontent, something unidentifiable – leaving him looking vaguely constipated. Does Peter suspect something? Probably. Peter always suspects something. But Neal will just have to avoid being suspicious.
"That's right," Peter says. "I'll have to get it out of the car when I take you home at lunch. In the meantime," Peter taps his toe against a box next to Neal's desk, "this is for you."
"What is it?" Neal asks.
"Your task for the morning. Some old files. I need you to go through and pull anything dated more than five years ago to be scanned into long-term storage."
"Peter, that's clerical work."
"No, it's non-stressful work that will keep you away from your computer and from having to remember too much. Trying to prevent a repeat of what happened last time you came to the office."
Mozzie's voice appears in his ear. "Take it, Neal. The Marshals just need you to work. They don't need to know what kind of work it is. This will be easier on you. And me."
Neal sighs. "Fine."
"Good." Peter motions to an empty box. "You can put the old papers in there. How's your head?"
He considers. His notebook suggests that he's been having some headache-free days lately, and today is one of them. "It's good. No pain."
"Great. Let me know if that changes, okay?"
"Will do."
Peter claps Neal on the shoulder once and heads up to his office.
A few seconds later, Mozzie's voice comes across. "My morning tai chi practice beckons. Cough once if you need me to pay attention to something. Cough twice if you sustain a life-or-death paper cut."
Neal coughs three times just to annoy him.
"Funny," Mozzie says. "For that, I hope you do get a paper cut. From card stock."
With an eye roll, Neal gets to work. It's tedious, monotonous work that makes time stand still, but it doesn't make his head hurt. He's not even half way through the box when Peter calls Jones and Diana up to the conference room for a meeting.
Neal immediately looks up. A meeting would be such a welcome break right about now…
"No," Peter says in the same tone he uses when Satchmo's been digging up the yard. "Do not give me those puppy dog eyes. You have work to do and don't need the stress of this case."
"Aw, come on, Peter. Just let me listen in. I won't even take notes or anything. It'll be like listening to the radio. It'll be good to give my eyes a break." He doesn't mention that it's not so much his eyes that need a break as his attention span.
"Your eyes? Is your head starting to hurt?"
With that, Neal knows he's winning this battle. "Just feels like I need a little break, that's all."
Peter sighs. "Fine. But leave your notebook there."
After a Mozzie-alerting single cough, Neal heads to the conference room and happily takes a seat.
###
Jones delivers the details of the case. It started with a bunch of diamonds, stolen right out from under the distributors. They were fenced to a shady jewelry storeowner, but stolen again from him almost immediately. The storeowner reported them stolen, but not until weeks after they'd disappeared, probably hoping his missing diamonds wouldn't be connected to the first theft. Clearly the guy didn't give the FBI enough credit.
"Could it have been the same thief twice?" Diana asks.
"No way," Mozzie says in Neal's ear. "Everyone knows you don't touch the same goods twice."
Neal doesn't repeat the information, trusting that his colleagues will arrive at that conclusion on their own.
Sure enough, Peter says, "Always possible, but not likely." He flips through a few pages in the file. "They had completely different MOs and were in completely different areas."
"What about the fence?" Jones asks. "He'd already know where they were. If it seemed easy to lift them and sell them again to someone else, it'd be twice the pay-out."
"Hmm," Mozzie says. "Could be brilliant or suicidal, depending on the fence. Or this could all just be a coincidence."
Something nags at the back of Neal's brain. Not pain. Not the blankness that plagues him when he tries to think back to the details written in his notebook.
A memory. A warehouse. A female voice whispering in his ear, breath warm on his neck. A jolt of panic. A metal crowbar in strong hands, lifted high over his head.
"Neal? Neal!"
It's enough to snap him back to attention. And even though it was Mozzie's voice in his ear, all eyes in the room are on him.
"Neal, what's wrong?" Peter asks.
It's only then that he realizes he's gripping the edge of the table, heart trying to make an escape from his rib cage, breaths coming too fast and shallow.
He should tell Peter that his head hurts. That he can't feel his fingers and there are bees buzzing around his brain. Instead he says, "There were thirty-six diamonds."
Peter doesn't look at the file. Doesn't stop staring at Neal.
But Jones checks the papers and says, "That's right. Three dozen."
"Hey, I didn't feed you that," Mozzie says. "What do you know? What aren't you telling me, Neal?"
"What's wrong?" Peter asks again. Demands.
Neal tastes something metallic, like he's been chewing on pennies, and swallows hard. "I remember who attacked me."
Then everything goes dark.
