Sorry for such a long wait. Blame writers block and my first draft being eaten. I'll try get the next one up sooner. A big thank you to everyone leaving comments, it is really encouraging to a writer. There's still a whole bunch of you that are favoriting and following this work, so thank you, but only a few of you are leaving comments. Can I hear your thoughts on what you think? In return I'll get the next chapter up sooner. Sound fair? Remember this story is also posted on AO3. At the end of the whole fic I'll be updating each chapter one by one - I have a feeling the AO3 version is slightly more edited than this one but I forgot which chapters I made changes to. Anyway Enjoy.

It had just struck the forty-eighth hour into the bedside vigil Peter was holding at the hospital. He watched helplessly as Neal settled back down after a particularly bad awakening. Since his consultant had been brought to the hospital, he'd been so out of it he hadn't once acknowledged the agent's presence, but startled frequently to nightmares, fighting unseen monsters until he settled back down again. He was like that all through the night, and it crippled the agent to see the kid in such a state and not be able to do anything.

Whatever was in his IV was doing a good job at keeping him delirious, but Peter decided that was a good thing because at least then he wasn't in pain. Though Neal hadn't properly woken yet, he'd been restless all night, and Peter didn't want to leave him to wake up again to an empty room in an unfamiliar place. He'd flashed his badge at the nurses, and told them Neal was a top priority flight risk and therefore needed constant supervision. He suspected they didn't believe his white lie any more than he did, but they were kind enough to let him stay.

He studied Neal's face - took note of the paleness of his skin and the way his closed eyes were almost sunken and shadowed. To be quite honest, Peter wouldn't have believed Neal was still alive if it weren't for the machines on the other side of the bed that noisily monitored his existence. Thanks to the same machines, taking naps in between Neal's bouts of conciousness was impossible, the agent noted dryly as he rubbed his eyes for the tenth time that hour.

There were less wires than Peter had imagined, which made the situation look much better than it was. As the knife had missed any vital organs, the only extra support other than the monitors was an IV line, which had stopped transfusing blood and was now pumping him full of nutrients and feel-good medicine.

The doctors had assured him that Neal would wake up when his body was ready, and that rest was key to his recovery.

A lot of people from work had stopped by to wish the conman well, but longer visits had been held off until Neal was lucid and ready for them. Nevertheless, the room was still full of cards and flowers, and a large helium balloon guarded the doorway. Even people from other divisions had left messages. Peter hoped the display would be enough to convince Neal that he was important, and was deeply cared about by a lot of people, even if he didn't believe it. Whatever had happened to the kid in his past - which Peter noted was a topic he actively avoided - it had not only damaged Neal's ability to trust, but also his idea of self worth.

He hoped one day he'd be trusted enough to know what happened to him. But more importantly, he hoped that this nightmare hadn't broken Neal beyond repair.

El had requested - with some amount of force - that Peter went home and changed his clothes, took a shower, and caught up on some sleep. Real sleep - not counting the hours spent only mildly snoozing whilst contorted into all manner of positions in the bulky hospital chairs. Peter had to comply; she was his wife after all, but he had not spent a minute longer than he had to away from the hospital.

Peter couldn't hide from the self-blame, even given the fact he knew nothing he'd done had directly contributed to this. It was his job to keep Neal safe, after all, and he'd royally messed that up. So the least he could do now was be there for Neal when he needed him most. He dreaded him waking up alone and afraid like he had been in the shipping container, so very quickly Peter found himself back in the same uncomfortable chair, in the same morbid hospital, only with a different newspaper with a new crossword. Same day, different distraction.

"Four across..." Peter tapped his pen in an upbeat rhythm against the New York Times. "Five letters. Escape by trickery." He mused aloud to himself to fill the void. Physically, Neal was only a few feet away, but Peter had never felt so alone. With some amount of concentration - if he drowned out the sounds of the hospital - it was just like any other day at the office.

He smiled to himself, before looking back over at Neal. "You'd like this one," he commented, silently wishing Neal would pout or frown in that ridiculous way of his, or come back with some mock-insulted remark. But he got nothing, and tried to hide his disappointment despite him being the only other person in the room. He scribbled in an answer. "Evade," he muttered, just in case Neal wanted to know.

"Oh, what about this one. Nine down, seven letters. An ally or companion." He chewed the end of the pen in thought - a terrible habit but somewhat effective.

"Partner."

It was so weak he almost missed it, but he couldn't mistake that the reply came from Neal - that or he was deluded. He straightened immediately, leaning over the hospital bed with hands hovering uselessly. "Neal?"

There was no other movement from the bed. He gently placed a hand on Neal's shoulder, contemplating whether or not to get a nurse. He'd been warned Neal may talk in his sleep and had witnessed it himself enough times over the last few days to know not to attach hope to unconscious mumbling. "Can you hear me?"

"Nine down...it's partner." Neal's pale, cracked lips were moving, even if his voice was barely audible. The agent quickly realised what Neal was referring to, which meant he was awake. Really awake, and not just trapped in delirium.

As if on cue, Neal's eyes flickered then, squinting a little against the intensity of the lights in the room before locking onto Peter's.

The agent looked down at his crossword and scoffed, setting it down beside him as he fumbled for words. "You always were better at them than me," Peter managed eventually, his face flooding with relief at seeing the younger man awake. "Hey..." He didn't know what else to say, but it must have been right because Neal smiled weakly.

"Hey yourself. Where..." Neal had to pause to catch his breath, not quite understanding why he was so weak.

"Hospital." Peter finished for him, seeing how much effort it seemed to take for just a few words. He imagined whatever drugs the hospital had him on were doing a good job of slowing him down, so he briefly filled him in, skipping some of the more you-nearly-died details. "You've been here a couple of days. But the doctors said you were lucky - you're pretty banged up but you're gonna get better."

It was Neal's turn to look relieved - very, very relieved, but it was a sluggish gesture which Peter secretly thought looked quite adorable. "So that's two of my nine lives gone..." he muttered, wincing a little as he shifted marginally on the bed to seek out a more comfortable position.

Peter chuckled but quickly sobered when his brain double checked the meaning of those words. His humour dissolved into a questioning frown and he straightened up. "Two?"

Neal opted for playing possum, not having enough of his brain on his side to stealthily con his way out of an explanation. But Peter was persistent. "Hey, you said two-"

"You don't know about that."

Peter smirked at Neal's slightly slurred voice. He must be getting tired. "I don't?"

"No. Oh wait...that would make it three then, if you count that time in-"

Peter threw his hands up, shaking his head. "I don't think I want to know."

Neal's eyes were closed again now, and his breathing was evening out. "No. You don't."

Peter sighed to himself, knowing he'd eventually bring that up one day, just not now. Now, Neal needed sleep, and time to recover. He picked up his paper, struck by the realisation that Neal really was going to be okay, and despite nearly losing him, everything would work out okay. His finger traced the newspaper ink absently, while he watched his consultant's eyes flicker. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

There was initially no reply, and Peter thought he'd already dozed off. But a small voice spoke up, "Thanks...partner."

The next time Neal woke up, Elizabeth had replaced Peter in the tacky hospital chair. Neal looked around for the agent, not doing the best job at disguising his disappointment, which he blamed on the drugs and not his near-death experience making him clingy.

She must have interpreted that disappointment, because she set her Kindle down and leaned over to squeeze his hand. "Hey, you. Peter still hasn't come back yet, but it shouldn't be long."

"He left?" Neal's response was childlike - brief and slightly higher than he'd intended. He realised how young he sounded, but words weren't doing him much favours and his brain felt like porridge. What he didn't miss was the brief flash of concern on her face, that was quickly replaced by the same motherly expression he'd seen when Peter had brought him home after the bomb case.

"A few hours ago, sweetie. You woke up just before he left. He told you he needed to sort a few things out at work but then he'd be right back."

"Oh." When Neal tried to force himself to remember he could feel the onset of a headache, so he accepted defeat.

"Don't worry, you're still recovering, Neal. So things are going to be a bit patchy at the moment, but you're getting better. That's all that matters."

Elizabeth wished she could make things better for him, but there was only so much she could do. Peter hadn't given her all the details of what had happened. He just said it was bad, and that Neal had been alone through it. Peter rarely hesitated when he was talking about a case, even the grim ones. She couldn't imagine what Neal had been through and wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Yeah," Neal muttered eventually, but his heart wasn't in it.

He closed his eyes then, hoping that feigning sleep would allow him to just think for a while, without having to make an attempt at conversation. He felt a little selfish - they only wanted to be there for him, but right now he needed some time to work things out before they overwhelmed him. This lack of control was something he'd never wanted to revisit.

Elizabeth left a while later but Peter hadn't come back in, so he presumed she'd gone to get coffee or a snack.

"That was a close one," another rough voice drawled not long after.

Neal's eyes bolted open, the voice taking him back to the storage container. Though he was still in the hospital, he could feel the coldness of the steel floor, and fiery pain in his chest like something was trying to burst out of it. It was the same voice, the one that had filled the hours of silence, made him question what reality even was to him anymore.

He didn't realise the pain in his chest was actually because he'd pulled himself upright until he heard how abnormal his breathing was, and suddenly realised he was surrounded by nurses. But he didn't want any of that, and tried to move to look around them to find out where the voice was coming from. He had to know.

He barely felt a needle in his arm, but he did start to feel really, really heavy. Looking down, he noticed he'd pulled his IV line out, and he numbly watched the miniature bead of blood race down his arm like it wasn't quite his.

He remembered, back in that dreadful container, thinking about how he'd feel to learn this wasn't actually his reality - that perhaps he wasn't really awake. Or, that he'd dreamt this entire alternate lifestyle up for himself as a result of his unstable mind, and was still nowhere other than Sunnydale. Suddenly that didn't seem all that impossible with the way things were going for him here. He started laughing, not fighting the hands that were manoeuvring him back into bed, and reattaching the things he'd pulled out. Maybe they just weren't real. A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't follow it.

He didn't remember closing his eyes until he could no longer hear his laughter.