Neal wasn't sure what was going on, or where he was. He could feel his body, and he tried to move, but he didn't think it was was working. He was surrounded in a thick, black darkness that seemed to press against him from all sides, while at the same time avoiding him entirely.

Then Neal heard a voice. He couldn't place it, but it sounded familiar, comforting. He moved towards the voice, wanting to tell it he was there, wanting it to help him escape the darkness.

The voice spoke again, and this time Neal heard some of what it was saying. "...open your eyes... for me... open."

Nela thought that sounded like a good idea, so he opened his eyes. A flash of light hit him so hard, he shut them again quickly.

The voice spoke again. "That's it Neal, come on."

The voice was so familiar, Neal thought. And then he realized who it was. Peter. Of course it was Peter.

So Neal tried again for Peter, forcing his eyes open. This time, the light settled into colors, and Neal was Peter looking down at him.

Neal looked up at Peter, and he knew he was okay. Even as a bolt of pain shot through his chest, he was able to ignore it, as he kept his eyes focused on Peter.

He wanted to say something, but found there was something in front of his mouth blocking the words from getting to Peter. He reached up to take off the mask in front of his mouth, but his fingers didn't seem to want to cooperate. His hand glanced off the mask. Frustrated, he tried again, but he couldn't get his fingers to open properly and grab the mask.

Peter reached up and took his hand, lowering it back down to the bed and holding it gently. His eyes showed worry, but his voice was smooth. "It's okay, Neal. Just wait until the doctors get here."

Neal didn't want to wait, but he didn't see another alternative at the moment. People in scrubs and lab coats came into the room, and they started checking monitors and prodding Neal and checking things like his stitches and his reflexes. Neal let them poke and move him around, and kept his eyes on Peter's face, letting Peter stabilize him.

Finally most of the doctors left, and there was just one remaining.

"Tell me good news," Peter said.

The doctor looked down at his clipboard. "Mr. Caffrey is conscious and aware of his surroundings. His physical wounds are healing very well, and his incision shows no sign of infection."

Neal tried to interrupt, annoyed that he was being spoken about as if he wasn't in the room, but then remembered the oxygen mask. He took his other hand, the one Peter wasn't holding, and tried to remove it. His fingers opened up slightly and he got a small grip on the mask before they slipped off, falling back to the bed. Neal looked down, ashamed.

He felt the mask being slipped off. Peter.

Neal looked back up at the doctor. "Mr. Caffrey is right here," he said, injecting as much sarcasm into his voice as he could. His words came out scratchy and low, but he ignored that for the moment. "And I know I'm awake and aware. What I want to know is what's wrong with my hands."

The doctor nodded. "It's possible that due to the lack of oxygen to your brain before and during surgery, you could be experiencing a disconnect from your brain to the small muscles in your fingers that control motor skills. But you're young, and your reflexes look fine, so I'm optimistic that with time and some therapy you'll regain full motion again." Then he left the room, leaving Neal and Peter alone.

"Optimistic?" Neal said, looking down at his hands. "Peter-"

"Neal, relax," Peter said. "You're awake, you're okay. So it might take some time to get your hands back to normal, but you're alive. That's all that matters."

Neal looked up, his eyes bright and wide. "Peter, my hands are my life. If I can't paint, if I can't-" He broke off, and Peter could almost see his mask forming again, locking his emotions in and everyone else out. Neal started again. "Lack of oxygen to the brain. How did that happen?" His tone was lighter, light enough to be talking about the weather, not about his own near-death experience.

Peter cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat before meeting Neal's eyes. "You, um, crashed. In the ambulance, and in the hospital. You stopped breathing, your heart stopped. They were able to revive you, but it took some time."

"Wow," Neal said, and again he spoke only with a mild curiousity, as if it happened to a stranger. "How long was I out?"

"Five days," Peter said.

Neal gave a low whistle, accompanied with a soft smile.

There was silence for a moment, and then Peter spoke. "Neal, I am so sorry."

"Sorry?" Neal asked. "For what?"

"For- for all this," Peter said, hands flailing around the room in general.

Neal wasn't sure what he meant, so he stated something that was bothering him. "I don't remember how I got here. You said something about an ambulance? The last thing I remember was trying to get to the prison infirmary."

Peter swallowed. "Well, you must've gotten there, because that's where I saw you. I went to visit you, but while I was there you- you... uh, you passed out. They called an ambulance and took you here, and then rushed you into surgery."

Peter's face had gone white, and Neal wondered what it must've been like to see him like that. Suddenly remembering why everything started, he asked, "What ever happened with Wilkes? Did you catch him? I assume you did, as I'm not cuffed to the bed right now."

For some reason, that made Peter more uncomfortable. "Yeah, we got him. Confessed to blackmailing you, which cleared you."

Neal smiled, not with his I'm-conning-you megawatt smile, but the honest one that Peter first saw after they broke their first case together. "Thank you, Peter."

Peter shook his head. "You shouldn't be thanking me for anything. You took a beating for me from Wilkes, then I put you in jail and you got beat up again. Neal, you could have died."

"But I'm fine," Neal protested. "And you got Wilkes. What else matters?"

"The men at the prison, Neal. They matter. You're out now, you're free. They can't hurt you. Tell me who they are, they should be punished for what they did to you."

Neal shook his head. "I get the feeling we've had this conversation before."

Peter looked down at his hands for a moment. "Yeah, but you were on lots of pain killers." He looked up, and made eye contact with Neal so strongly that Neal almost flinched. "Tell me, Neal. You deserve justice for that."

Neal shook his head. "Justice doesn't live in the prison system, Peter, as ironic as that sounds. My answer hasn't changed. You got Wilkes, now let it go."

Neal could tell Peter didn't want to, but he let it drop.