Now – Peter
To say Neal suddenly looks terrible is an understatement. He's breathing hard and gripping the conference room table like it has replaced gravity.
"What's wrong?" Peter asks around the panic that's threatening to make his throat close up.
"Boss, should we—"
"I remember who attacked me," Neal says. Then he collapses forward with an unnatural grunt, smacking his head on the edge of the table on the way down.
Jones catches him a second too late. He and another agent lower Neal to the ground.
"Neal!" Peter cries out, pushing his way over to his CI. Blood from the gash on his forehead curls around his eyebrow and down his temple. "Someone get a first aid kit!" He puts his hands on Neal's shoulders, but the younger man doesn't open his eyes.
"Muscles are rigid," Jones says. "I think he's going into a seizure. Get these chairs out of the way. Help me get him on his side."
Other agents dive into action, but Peter stands frozen in place, heart pounding in his throat as Neal starts shaking. But that's not the right word. Shaking is what happens when you're cold or nervous or laughing. This is something more intense, something violent and electric and terrifying. All Peter can think about is a scene from an old movie where they stuck a thick leather wallet in an epileptic's mouth. He can't remember the title of the movie, just thick southern accents and salt-and-pepper hair. The wallet thing is more urban legend than first aid, but hell if Peter can get that image out of his mind and replace it with something useful.
"Peter, give me your jacket," Jones says, already balling his own suit jacket under Neal's head to cushion the repeated blows against the floor.
That simple direction is enough to snap Peter out of his trance. He removes his jacket and places it on top of Clinton's, wincing when his fingers brush against the too-tight muscles and tendons in Neal's neck. "Did someone call 911?"
"Ambulance will be here in less than ten," Diana says.
Jones loosens Neal's tie, and Peter nods. He hovers helplessly, wanting to comfort Neal, but knowing touch won't help right now.
"Has he had seizures before?" Jones asks.
Dr. Schneider mentioned the word "seizure" back in the first few days after the attack, but those conversations also included "cerebral hemorrhage" and "cerebral edema" and other words Peter didn't want to think about. "After the attack or after surgery. Maybe both."
Someone offers to meet the paramedics downstairs. Someone else drops off a first-aid kit, but Neal is convulsing too much for them to do anything about the head wound right now. Soon it's just Peter and Jones and Neal in the room. Peter starts silently counting the seconds, just to have something to focus on other than the brain-melting panic. When he reaches 100, he starts counting slower because the large numbers are terrifying rather than calming.
"There we go," Jones says when the convulsions start to slow.
Relief floods Peter's veins. "Caffrey?" he asks as he removes gauze from the first-aid kit and presses it to his cut. There's no response other than residual grunts and snorts for breath. Neal doesn't open his eyes.
"He's okay." Jones has two fingers against the pulse point in Neal's neck. "He'll probably be out of it for a little while, but he's okay."
"I called El," Diana says when she re-enters the room. "She's calling Neal's neurologist and will meet you at the hospital."
"Thanks, Di."
"You're welcome, Boss."
Neal's eyes open and he thrashes a few times, maybe trying to get up, but Jones calms him and keeps him still. His eyes fall shut again.
"You knew exactly what to do," Peter says.
Jones shrugs. "Had a cousin with epilepsy. Learned young."
Peter lifts a corner of the gauze, but the wound is still bleeding pretty good. "I think he's going to need stitches."
Jones makes a "tsk" sound. "Caffrey, Caffrey. You've really outdone yourself this time."
The paramedics arrive, and Peter tells them everything he can about Neal's history and medication. They put an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and lift him onto a stretcher. While they're strapping him down, Neal's blue eyes open for longer this time, dazed and unsteady.
"Neal?" Peter says. The CI blinks hard, but doesn't focus. "You had a seizure, Neal. They're taking you to the hospital. El and I will be there."
"He's secure," one of the paramedics says. "Let's roll."
Then Neal is wheeled down the hall. Peter takes a few seconds to pull himself together before following.
"Hey, Boss," Diana says before Peter can get very far.
She has two blood-stained suit jackets draped over her arm and is holding out two other items in her hands.
"These were on the ground where Caffrey was lying."
Peter takes both items. The first is a pen. He has no clue what the second item is, or at least he doesn't until he realizes that the first isn't just a pen. It's a transmitter. And the small, oddly-shaped item is an in-ear listening device. Not one he recognizes from the FBI, though. Damn.
He fits the device into his ear and holds the "pen" up toward his mouth. "Mozzie?"
No response.
"Mozzie, I know you can hear me."
A familiar voice comes through. "I'm only speaking up because I'm worried. What happened to Neal?"
"He had a seizure. We're on our way to the hospital. I suggest you meet us there, too."
###
"We're going to admit him for tests and observation," Dr. Schneider says. She, Peter, and El are standing in the ER hallway just outside Neal's room so their conversation won't wake him.
El nods. "When I got here, he was so disoriented. Even more than normal." She worries at the handle of her purse and glances back at Neal.
"That's to be expected following a seizure. The confusion, headache, and drowsiness should pass. But we'll keep a close eye on him."
Peter drapes an arm over his wife's shoulders and pulls her close to his side. "Will there be any lasting effects, either from the seizure or the blow to the head?"
"Most likely not." Dr. Schneider shifts the small laptop she carries from one arm to the other. "While seizures are scary, they don't usually cause damage. We just want to make sure nothing caused the seizure other than stress. And while Neal's wound bled a lot, I think it's more superficial than anything. But we'll do all of the relevant tests just to be safe."
That makes Peter breathe a little easier. "Thank you, Dr. Schneider."
She smiles. "You're welcome. I'm heading up to see a few more patients, but I'll be by to check on Neal once he's settled in a room. Let the nurses know if you need anything before then." She peeks in Neal's room one more time and heads down the hall.
El lets her head fall against Peter's chest. "He's going to be okay."
He kisses her temple. "Yeah. He will be. But I'm glad they're doing tests as a precaution."
"I'm going to go sit with him. Do you need to call work or get a cup of coffee or anything?"
He's about to say no, that he's fine and will join her, but then he spots Mozzie down the hall, shiftily studying a "Cover Your Cough" bulletin board in both English and Spanish. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"
El squeezes his hand before heading back into Neal's room.
Peter walks to Mozzie and faces the bulletin board along with him. "Let me guess. Neal's memory isn't really back, so you were listening and feeding him what he couldn't remember."
Mozzie's gaze drops to the shiny floor, where he scuffs the toe of his shoe against the linoleum. "If I would have known it was going to cause a seizure, I wouldn't have let him do it."
"I should hope not," Peter all but growls. "What were you thinking? How long did you two seriously think you could keep this up? And why would Neal lie to me? Why would he tell me he's fine and ready to go back to work when he so clearly—"
"Because if he didn't go back to work, the Marshals would have put him in jail," Mozzie says. "He can't go to jail, Suit. You saw what happened after a morning at the office. Can you imagine what would happen after even an hour behind bars?"
He can't imagine. Or at least he doesn't want to. "Wait, how did you know about the Marshals?"
"Neal told me."
Peter waits for a continuation, but doesn't get one. "And how did Neal know?"
Mozzie sighs and turns to face Peter, arms folded over his chest. "He overheard you talking to Mrs. Suit."
Oh. Neal knew. It all makes sense now. The "missed" pills and the desire to return to work and the mysteriously returning memory. It was all Neal's effort to delay or appease the Marshals. It was a con. But at what cost? "Damn it, Mozzie, he needs you to be a voice of reason right now, not an accomplice! If he comes to you with some dangerous and illegal plan, because yes, listening in on private FBI conversations is illegal, you need to—"
"He wanted me to help him leave."
The rest of Peter's sentence tumbles to the floor, unsaid. "What? Leave?"
There's pain in Mozzie's blue eyes. "Leave the Marshals and the FBI. Leave New York. Leave you."
The words are a punch to the gut that leave Peter speechless.
"That's the only reason I agreed to help him," Mozzie says. "Because he didn't see a way out from the Marshals besides leaving, and I couldn't bear to let that happen. Not now. I gave him another option."
Peter nods slowly. "Thank you. For keeping him here."
"Sorry it didn't work out as planned."
Something twinges at the back of Peter's brain. Maybe Neal and Mozzie's plan didn't work out as they intended, but maybe it can still be salvaged. They have a clue about Neal's attack, and so does Mozzie. Maybe the clue can be used to put whoever did this behind bars for good. To prove Neal's innocence. If the Marshals knew for sure that Neal was innocent in the attack, they'd have to back down at least a little. Wouldn't they? He checks to make sure no one in the hall is tuned in to their conversation and leans in toward Mozzie. "Do you know about those diamonds? Do you know who attacked Neal now?"
"The diamonds mean nothing to me. I still have no clue."
The honesty behind the words makes Peter's stomach sink. "And since Neal's memory isn't actually back and he didn't write anything down before the seizure, he's not going to know, either."
"Right. But if you bring up the case again and say the same things to him that you said before—"
"What, you mean the things that stressed him out enough to send him into convulsions in the middle of our conference room floor? Yeah, I don't think that's happening anytime soon."
An employee pushing an empty gurney walks past, wheels whining against the floor. Mozzie sighs and scratches at the top of his head. "Let me listen to the details again. See if I can deduce anything. Ask around."
"Oh, so you recorded private FBI conversations?"
Mozzie rolls his eyes. "Calm down. Most of the conversations I recorded were about football, and I could not care less. Do you want my help or not?"
How long will it be before the Marshals find out Neal is still unable to work? Probably not very. As much as Peter hates to admit it, he doesn't know what to do next. He needs Mozzie's help. "Okay. See what you can find out. But as soon as you're finished, delete all instances of those recordings."
"Consider it done. But Suit, if I find out Neal isn't innocent…"
Peter hardens his jaw. Neal can't go back to jail. He can't. "I saw how terrified he looked when we talked about the case. There wasn't any guilt behind that fear. I have to believe he's innocent."
Mozzie hesitates for a second before nodding. "Can I see him before I go?"
"Of course. He's sleeping, though."
"I won't wake him."
Peter motions for Mozzie to lead the way into the room. Neal is still asleep. The eye beneath the thick, white bandage on his forehead is already starting to bruise.
"Mozzie?" El whispers. "What are you doing here? Did Peter call you?"
"Something like that," Mozzie says. "How's he doing?"
El quietly relays the information Dr. Schneider gave them. "He's going to be okay."
Mozzie nods. "Good." He pinches the stray end of Neal's hospital bracelet between two fingers. "He doesn't wasn't to be a burden to you two."
"He's not," Peter says immediately.
"Can you blame him for feeling that way?"
There's not much Peter can say to that.
Mozzie pats the bed, and Neal doesn't stir. "Be well, mon frère."