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When Neal gradually stirred awake, it was to pain. He slowly eased himself back to reality, feeling completely disoriented. As lucidity hit, so did soreness, and he grimaced, groaning slightly as he tried to take in his surroundings.

In doing so, the next thing he noticed beyond pain was darkness. He knew his eyes were open, but he couldn't readily see anything. A quick touch of his hand to his face indicated nothing covering his eyes.

He took a deep breath, wincing automatically. His ribs hurt. His face hurt. His hips hurt.

And it was dark.

He sensed he was laying flat. Moving his hand at his side, he could feel the texture of the cot's surface under his fingers. Very little else was obvious. Had Jason put him on the cot?

Part of him then panicked. Flight instinct kicked in, and he knew he had to sit upright. He was met with a wave of intense pain as he did so, and he couldn't help but let out an audible hiss, folding his arms over his stomach impulsively as though it might alleviate the pain. It didn't.

Sitting up, he used his hands to assess his current state. He felt pain in multiple places and strategically ran his fingers over himself trying to gauge whether anything was seriously injured. After that quick self-assessment, he was pretty sure he was just bruised. While that was good, it didn't make it hurt any less.

The scene from his last moment of consciousness came rushing back to him as he briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Neal wasn't a fighter. He wasn't even great at self-defense. When it came to fight or flight, he most definitely chose the latter when an option. That hadn't been an option this time. He vaguely remembered blacking out.

He breathed in and out, with deep breaths despite the painful plea from his ribs to calm down, feeling hatred towards his captor and intense anger over his situation. He felt extreme animosity towards Jason now. Especially now that he had turned the lights out again. That action was like adding salt to the wound.

He slid his legs over the side of the cot to turn and sit on the edge of it, grimacing slightly.

He now regretted not focusing on channeling Willy more forcefully. Willy would have simply painted, regardless of the circumstances. There wouldn't be backtalk. He wouldn't have risked any anger from Jason. Willy was submissive. He kept his head down and did what he was told. Neal obviously wasn't adequately playing the role, and now he was paying for it.

He blinked a few times, darkness remaining despite his wish for light, and he swallowed back the pain. He tried to look around the room, begging his eyes to adjust. It was so dark in the room again that it was again difficult to gauge what time it was. What time had passed.

He started to get to his feet slowly. His jaw hurt marginally and he worked it experimentally as he stood. Most of his pain was radiating from his ribs. He hissed again as he pressure tested his hand against certain parts of his torso once he was standing.

A wave of dizziness passed.

Neal took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

"Dammit," he said out loud.

One day gone. Entering day two.

And now in darkness again. Though his eyes now registered elements of the room, at least to orientate himself, visibility still remained far from ideal.

Neal once again felt angry at himself. Without a connection to Peter or the team, while locked in this room he had little ability to add any value to the case. He couldn't tell them where he was, and he couldn't prove the forgeries. He wasn't gathering any additional information or evidence. If anything, the opposite. He was contributing to them growing their collection again.

He felt like pacing but wasn't sure he was strong enough just yet to manage that. Frowning, he tried to think about what Peter would want him to do in this situation. He tried to channel the conversation, if they had thought of this scenario, what would Peter have suggested? In thinking of this, he could only imagine Peter saying 'I told you so' about the entire thing.

As he silently berated himself for being in this state of affairs at all, he felt a sudden wave of nausea hit. He tried to ignore it, but that was unsuccessful. The urge to be sick started to build, and he pushed himself in the shadows in the direction of the bathroom.

He made it there just in time, locating the toilet desperately and dropping to his knees in front of it just as he lost the contents of his stomach.

It was over quickly, but then he found himself dry-retching for a few minutes, beyond his control. He felt his gut heaving almost in spasm and groaned as it further exacerbated his bruised ribs.

As he eventually calmed down, he scowled at the bitter taste in his month and reached shakily in the direction of the toilet's handle to flush the contents of the bowl, going off of memory given the absence of adequate light. Then he climbed back to his feet, a little unsteadily, reaching out in front of him in the darkness to locate the sink. It was a small room, and he found it easily, turning the faucet on and dipping a hand into the stream of cold water. After a moment of feeling the cool stream, he then leaned over the sink and cupped his hands together, scooping up water into his mouth and then spitting it out in an attempt to wash away the reminder of sickness. He did this over and over again before feeling it was the best he could do. He then swallowed some of the water before scooping more to splash on his face.

After, he stood upright, simply standing in the darkness of the small bathroom. He ached. But the physical hurt now at least partially concealed some of the anxiety he had felt earlier. He wasn't sure if one bad feeling overshadowing another was something to feel comforted by. He doubted it.

He carefully left the bathroom, hands ghosting the doorway as he passed it, and slowly walked back into the main room of his solitary confinement. His eyes scanned the darkness, looking for any sort of hint and briefly pausing at that small narrow 'window' which let a dull sense of light just barely infiltrate the room.

Chain dragging along with him, he slowly made his way back to the cot. He knew it was pointless to try to continue exploring the room in the dark. And the pain in his ribs and sides made him want to sit back down more than anything else.

As he settled back down on the cot, he longed to turn back time to the previous day, to the post office, where he could have refused to go along. That moment felt very long ago. But he had choices then. Even before that, when he was on his bike, when he could have simply gone his own way, even turning back. There were many times in his life Neal had desired to turn back time, but in this current moment he really wished for it.

He was thinking about this as he closed his eyes, reclining back onto the cot to lay flat once more. Just for a minute, he told himself.

He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep until he found himself suddenly waking again. Once more he was abruptly gaining consciousness and re-acclimating himself to the present. This time it was to a jab at his shoulder, which stirred him immediately, and he found himself flashing awake once more, struggling to sit upright through the reminder of pain in his abdomen.

The lights were on this time, the first noticeable difference, and he flinched at the shock of that reality as his eyes tried to adapt.

He quickly realized Jason standing over him. He started to brace himself, but the man took a step back now that he'd successfully woken his hostage.

"Will," Jason said, tone somewhat mechanical and without emotion. "You okay?"

Neal frowned, raising his hands to his face to rub at his eyes briefly while trying to yet again orientate himself.

Had Jason really just asked if he was okay? Who was he kidding?

Neal realized he didn't know how long he'd slept for this time. He'd had no idea when he first awoke what time it was, and now again there was yet again a passage of time that was unknown. This frustrated him. Was it officially day two? As though it was groundhog day, he sat up and slid his legs over on the cot to let them slip to the floor, ignoring a sense of deja vu.

"Despite your lack of response, I think you're fine." Jason continued to speak, voice low and gruff. "Listen to me, Will, and listen good. We didn't end yesterday on good terms." He paused, brow furrowing slightly. "I told you more than once that we're under a tight deadline, but it seems you didn't understand that. I can't tolerate that, and I warned you there would be consequences. Now maybe you do understand. But if not, I'm sure I can think of other ways to have you come around."

Neal felt chagrined at the tone and the words, but pushed those feelings aside, channeling Willy. Submissive Willy. Calm Willy. He swallowed and nodded, using the pain he felt as the motivation to bite back the comments he would otherwise want to use in response. "I do," he confirmed, voice slightly hoarse. "I do understand."

"You better," Jason answered. "We chose you for this job because we know you're capable and you've proven to be trustworthy in the past. But you need to be completely onboard. Completely, Will. I know this isn't conventional but this is where we are."

Conventional? Neal wanted to retort back. He bristled at the comment. Instead he stayed silent and nodded again. Inside he felt rage.

"I need you focused today," Jason persisted. "And that means completely focused. On nothing else but the job. If I come in here again, and it's like yesterday, then you will be very sorry. Understand?"

Neal nodded once more. He felt an urge to clench his hands into fists but forced himself to keep his posture lax. Willy wouldn't show any signs of resistance. Willy would never question authority. And Neal had to be Willy. He had to ignore his own feelings for the time being.

He tried desperately to keep his expression void of any emotion as well. He knew he had to put anger aside, and at that moment it was increasingly becoming less of an issue, because more than anything he felt afraid, which trumped anger. This was day two of an unknown engagement and that terrified him. He also was unnerved that he hadn't woken up when Jason had entered the room; he'd only woken when he'd been forcefully roused. That wasn't good.

Jason hadn't responded to the nodding acquiescence. Instead he was walking away from Neal now, towards the canvas on the other side of the room. Neal slowly got to his feet as well, coaching himself to appear engaged and subdued. He walked towards the man, frowning at the telltale sound of the chain that voiced its existence with each step, dragging along with him.

He felt slightly dizzy, like before, but he ignored that for now. There was no nausea.

Jason's eyes were fixated on the barely started Magritte canvas. He let out a deep sigh. "This one needs to be done as soon as possible, Will. You lost a lot of valuable time yesterday."

"It's oil," Neal started, clearing his throat. He shifted his stance slightly, feeling uncomfortable. "It takes longer to dry then the aquarelle style of –"

"Stop. Enough with the excuses," Jason snapped, turning to face him with a vengeful look in his eye. "Just finish it. Okay?"

"But it's oil, Jason. If you transport it while—"

"We know how to transport it," Jason retorted harshly. "I'd focus on your part of the deal, if I were you. I'll have nothing to transport unless you finish the goddamn piece. You do that, and let us worry about the rest." He kept his eyes focused on Neal for a moment, as though trying to get a read on him, working his jaw. Then he tilted his head towards the table of supplies behind him. "Look, I brought you another sandwich."

Neal swallowed, his eyes glancing behind Jason to find a plate at the end of the table. The sandwich looked suspiciously similar to yesterday's ration. His stomach gurgled slightly, and he wasn't sure if it was hunger or the repeat of nausea from the evening before. "Thanks," he forced out, not meaning it in the slightest.

"I'll be back in a few hours," Jason told him, continuing to study him as though he was trying to gauge Will's commitment. "And I better see progress when I'm back."

Neal nodded automatically. He felt he might as well be a puppet on a string. "You will," he said affirmatively. Standing this long, he felt tired already. His body ached, and he felt weak. But he knew he had to push past that and stood up straight, as though he felt nothing.

Will looked unconvinced but nodded back. "I don't want a repeat of yesterday, Will," he said firmly. "I'm sure you don't either." A beat passed and then he added, "I'll bring you the pencil and paper you asked for as well."

Surprised, Neal frowned slightly and then nodded. "Thanks." He hadn't expected Jason to remember, let alone acknowledge the past request.

"I didn't forget," Jason told him, as though picking up on the surprise. He glanced at his watch. "And it's seven fifteen. Morning." He looked up again, meeting Neal's eye. "Before you ask."

Neal nodded again, more slowly, a little confused at the gesture of telling him the time and offering to provide the previously requested supplies. But he didn't question it and didn't verbally respond.

"Three hours," Jason told him. "And I'll be back."

Neal nodded once more, neck aching.


"Nothing," Peter exclaimed, pacing their small conference room in agitation. "Absolutely nothing."

Seated, Diana watched her boss sympathetically. Day two and there wasn't much more to lead them to a next step. Being physically here in Vermont hadn't helped much. They needed clues and there were few to go on.

She had at least appreciated a good night's sleep. The hotel mattress wasn't ideal, but given the last twenty-four hours, she'd very much appreciated being asleep well before midnight and not being startled by a very early morning alarm.

But the morning hadn't provided much progress. The local field office seemed much more focused on their own cases. In fact, other than the White Collar division insisting a case had crossed into their jurisdiction, they had no indication of this otherwise. So they were cordial and accommodating, but didn't seem inclined to go the extra mile.

"Boss," Diana spoke as she watched Peter continue to pace. She noticed the darkness below the man's eyes, and the pace of his walk.

"Yeah," he responded, tone a bit curt. He didn't stop his patrolling walk around the conference room, the result of nervous energy.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.

"More than an hour?" she challenged.

"Yes," he responded, though his tone wavered just slightly. "I did. I'm fine, Diana," he added. He looked up to meet her eye briefly. "I mean it." He paced away from her towards the window in the room.

"Okay. But your wardrobe isn't," she replied. As he turned and looked up at her with a frown, she shrugged. "Peter… Day two. Technically day three in that suit." As he started to make a face, she continued, "Not that you don't look professional or at your best, Boss, but…"

"The hotel gave me a toothbrush and toothpaste," Peter said, a little defensively.

"Uh, sure," she answered with a nod and a smile. "And did they give you clean underwear too?" She'd known Peter long enough that she felt no qualms making the statement.

Peter cocked his head to his side, giving her a cynical look but smirking slightly. "You sound a little like my wife did this morning…"

She laughed. "Don't think that's a bad thing…. But just listen," she continued. "You appear fresh as can be now… I don't mean otherwise. But, Boss, let's be realistic here. You need more than one suit if we're going to be here longer than today. And you need to actually sleep."

"I know…." Peter answered, a tone of disappointment lacing the words. He paused, shaking his head and glancing towards the window again before he regained eye contact with Diana. "I know it sounds stupid, but I was hopeful somehow we could resolve this quickly."

"I know," she responded, sighing gently. "Me too. But none of us have a crystal ball."

He frowned, pausing in his pacing, stationing himself and placing his hands on his hips. "I need to find out where he is," he said adamantly. "I need to put the case aside, and I need to find Neal."

Diana nodded. "I know. "

"He's not equipped for this," Peter continued. He frowned, shaking his head. His arms dropped to his side, and then one arm rose as his hand massaged his temple. "If anything happens to him…" he trailed off, shaking his head. Then he looked up again. "Listen, Diana. You guys see a certain side of him, but—"

"I get it," she interjected.

Peter didn't look convinced. "You think you do…"

"I do," she said. "Trust me."

"I do trust you," he affirmed, expression relenting a bit. "Because you're here."

"Jones too, you know," Diana responded. "He's not here. But he trusts Neal too." She paused and then smirked. "Most of the time." She watched the evolution of Peter's expression and continued. "Really... Boss, I don't see him behind the scenes like you do. At home. But I see him enough. I get it. He's good. He's proven himself to us."

Peter nodded, accepting of that answer. He paused and then said, "Thanks."

"Nothing to thank me for. He's not an agent, but he's a member of this team."

Peter tilted his head to the side. "It's one thing telling me that… But you could make him feel like it on occasion when we're back home, by the way…"

She smirked. "Oh no. That's called hazing. No one escapes that, Boss. Even your pretty CI. Takes a long time before that stops."

Peter nodded, giving a tight smile back in response. "I get it. Maybe you'll have a chance to explain that to him when he is back."

Diana sighed. Before she could respond, she noticed Peter's phone buzzing on the table.

Peter noticed as well and he reached for the phone quickly. Upon viewing the contact, he let out a deep breath.

"What?" Diana asked.

Peter rolled his eyes just slightly. "It's Mozzie," he answered. "He's been sending cryptic messages to Neal's phone since yesterday that I can't even understand, and I guess now he's desperate enough to try me directly."

Diana nodded sympathetically. "Well, maybe he's worried."

"Maybe. But I don't know what to tell him."

"Maybe he can help?"

Peter watched the voicemail notification light up on his phone and paused. "Maybe. Not so sure though… Let me listen to this."

Diana nodded.

Peter flipped open his phone and pressed his voicemail button. He held it to his ear and began to listen. The familiar voice came over the line, low and tentative as though nervous to be leaving a physical message.

"Suit, it's me," came Mozzie's voice. Then he paused. "Haversham." This was followed by him awkwardly clearing his throat. "I'll keep this short," he continued. "But I haven't heard from our friend and… uh…. I'll admit it. I'm worried." Another long pause, for a few seconds. "He, uh…" There was a sigh, then, "Never mind… What I mean is…. If you know anything, let me know, will you?" He paused again. "I'll even resist burning this phone for a little while."

With that the line went dead. Peter sighed.


Magritte. Magritte.

The name repeated itself in Neal's mind.

Brush in hand, he stared at the canvas in front of him. A continuation of yesterday's efforts.

It was essentially an exact repeat of the earlier day. But this time he didn't question it. He didn't get angry, and he didn't get distracted. He focused. His goal was to come up with a plan, and while doing so to also get this painting done. He refused to be beaten again.

Neal had always been a fan of Magritte, and he found his artwork to be timeless. His work in surrealism easily transported Neal to other channels of thought. Magritte challenged perceptions of reality. Neal wanted to challenge his perception of this room. But he didn't. He knew if he strayed from the painting, it would mean trouble. His only detour from Magritte so far was to discreetly mark the passing of another day in the corner of the room as he had the previous day. He could continue to futilely explore the room once the painting was complete.

So with a focused mindset, he painted. Completely engrossed in the canvas and driven to make sure he didn't have any problems with Jason that day. He was determined to have significant progress whenever Jason returned.

He still felt stiff and his ribs objected to each movement with a recurring wave of pain, but other than an occasional wince that he couldn't control, he ignored the physical discomfort to focus on the task ahead.

While he hadn't been thrilled at receiving an identical sandwich to the day before, he'd eaten it after Jason had left him. One meal a day was less than ideal, but Neal knew eating something was necessary. It wasn't strenuous work, but he did need to keep up his strength to be able to make it through the day.

As he painted diligently, his mind wandered. While it was a forced effort to paint, once he got into the rhythm, the familiar motions became almost therapeutic.

He soon found himself find himself in a zone, and the work started to materialize with little effort.


"Perfect…" Jason mused a few hours later, reviewing the canvas with close scrutiny and a slight smile.

Neal watched Jason's appraisal, standing cautiously a few feet away and urging himself not to move. He knew if there was any noise of movement, which was hard to avoid with current conditions, it would potentially change the mood in the room.

"This is good work, Will," Jason continued. He leaned in towards the signature on the corner of the piece and then nodded. He then turned away from the canvas to face Neal. "You're done, right?"

Neal nodded. "Yeah." He was tired. He'd spent the last few hours on his feet.

"Good," Jason responded. "I'll take it with me." He paused. "On to the next. You remember the next one?"

The next one. Neal's heart sank in despair, and he felt his heart start to beat faster as dread washed over him. This incessant painting wasn't going to be sustainable. He tried to keep the surprise and dismay off his face, but couldn't completely respond with compliance. "Can I have a small break?" he asked tentatively, almost cringing as he asked it. He was apprehensive of the man's reaction, but knew he had to try.

"Name the next one," Jason answered stiffly. "Then I'll decide."

Neal swallowed. The next one that had been presented to him on the jet had been mentioned right after the realization dropped that Jason wanted fifteen of these paintings in two days. His mind blurred slightly but as he watched Jason's face and saw the frown that began to evolve, he knew he had to speak quickly. And fortunately it all rushed back to him. "Corot."

A look of relief seemed to pass over Jason's face. "Yes."

Neal cleared his throat. Then he added cynically, "Did you know that Corot painted three thousand canvases, and ten thousand of them have been sold in America?"

Jason's brow furrowed at the comment. "What?"

It was clear the comment had gone over Jason's head. Neal resisted rolling his eyes. "He's probably one of the most forged artist," Neal clarified monotonously instead.

"Good." Jason's voice was clipped. "Then you shouldn't have any issues."

"It's actually kind of interesting, if you think about it. He would let his students copy him, or even borrow some of his pieces. Not only that, but when they came back to him, he would touch up and even sign student copies." Neal shrugged. "Hence the abundance of fakes."

"Fascinating…" Jason responded dryly, voice indicating he felt it was anything but. He eyed Neal for a moment, and then turned to take the current canvas off of its easel. "I'll be back with a copy of the piece and a new canvas." He paused, turning towards Neal again. "What kind of break do you need?"

Neal was hopeful Jason was even receptive. "Half hour," he said after a brief assessment of might seem reasonable.

Jason seemed to think about it for a moment. He then answered, "Fifteen."

"Huh?"

"You can have fifteen minutes," Jason replied. "And then it's back to work. And if I come back in here and you're up to no good, you'll pay for it."

Neal nodded, swallowing again. Up to no good, he repeated in his mind. "I just need a short break. That's all."

"And you've got it. Fifteen minutes. Not a second longer."

Neal again nodded. He stayed stationary as he watched Jason leave the room. The sound of the lock clicking back in place made him sigh.

He had to get out of there.


"His notes are good," Jones said over the phone to Peter as he slowly walked around the warehouse. "I knew that from the minute I started reading them yesterday, but today I'm actually kind of impressed."

"Good as in informative or there's something there to give us a lead?" Peter answered. His voice was a little impatient, but Jones knew it was the situation causing that reaction and didn't take it personally.

"No lead so far…" Jones answered slowly. He glanced over the works surrounding him. "It's well organized. Except…"

"Except what?"

"Except there's one small group of paintings that don't seem included in what he's cataloguing," Jones responded. "And it's not like they're their own style or period. They are definitely a mix of pieces I would have easily classified in one of his other groups."

"He had to have a reason."

"I'm sure he did. But even so, I'm not sure if that's going to give us the lead we need."

Peter's sigh was audible over the phone. "Keep going through the notes. Did you read everything?"

"Not yet," Jones admitted. "I'm getting through it. Your boy can write, did you know that?"

"Write?" Peter echoed.

"Yeah," Jones answered. "He's detailed as hell. About every piece. Reads like a brilliant op ed."

Peter was silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, as though unsure of what to say. Finally he said, "Ironic. He hates paperwork."

"Well, this ain't exactly paperwork, Boss."

"Keep reading," Peter answered, tone a little softer. "I'll call you back in a couple hours."

"You got it." Jones paused. "Oh yeah, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"What's it with the cameras here?" Jones asked.

"What do you mean?"

"So twice now an agent has made a comment to me… Anything I need to know about?"

Silence came over the line at first, and then the sound of Peter's chuckle, low and melodic. Jones had to admit he was a little relieved to hear some emotion from his boss. "What is it?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it," Peter answered. "Neal…. was Neal. I took care of it."

Jones frowned, feeling less appeased than before and more curious, but he accepted the response. "Alright."

"Thanks. Keep at it. I'll call you in a couple hours."

"Talk to you then."


New canvas. New ask.

Neal knew he couldn't get discouraged or resistant and that he had to acquiesce. But he was having trouble curbing his feelings and his instincts. He tried to channel Willy, desperately tried to channel him, but it was difficult.

Sometimes he loved blank canvas. It was representative of opportunity. Anything could take place next.

But this time when he stared at the blankness, it caused heartache and angst.

A fifteen-minute break wasn't enough to clear his head and to refocus. It was barely enough time to wash his hands, get a drink of water, and just sit for a brief moment. Then Jason had been back. All business, direction, and force.

Now Neal had to calm himself and focus. As anxiety rose and he started to feel an urge at his core of erupting, he knew he had to resist. And he did. He knew he had to do this without question.

This piece was a landscape. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the brush in his hand.

He again didn't know what time it was, except it was probably afternoon.

He looked down at the paints at his disposal and took a deep breath.

It was time to get started.

He took a deep breath and focused.


"You're good at this," Jason said, staring at the completed landscape piece later that evening.

Neal didn't respond, seated on the cot a few feet away. He felt exhausted. He was relieved he'd finished, signature and all, before Jason had returned, but in doing so felt like he'd drained himself completely.

"But of course you're good at this," Jason continued, moving a little closer to the canvas with a critical eye. "That's why you're here." He paused and turned to look at Neal. "You did this in less than five hours," He said. "You see what happens when you actually work?"

Neal felt disgusted at the comment but found himself tiredly nodding. "Yes."

"This gets us slightly back on track…" Jason responded. He turned back to the canvas. "You're done, right?"

"Yes," Neal answered, feeling as though that circular conversation was getting old.

"What's next?"

Neal felt a pang of emptiness inside of him, and desperation. He couldn't paint again tonight. He really couldn't. He would go crazy. "Right now?"

"Right now," Jason persisted. "Which one is next?"

Neal shook his head. Why was it always a pop quiz? He started to feel a bit desperate. "Jason. Please. Not another one now."

"Will," Jason persisted. He took a step towards the cot, turning his attention to Neal. "Let's not reverse the progress we made today. I told you we're under critical time constraints. It seemed like you were finally understanding."

"I know," Neal said while trying to keep his tone even and calm. "I do understand. And I'll do it, I promise, but I can't do it immediately. One after one after one." He swallowed. "I can't."

"You what?" Jason retorted irritably. "Can't?" He shook his head. "You can and you will." He walked further towards the cot, essentially closing the gap between them. "Do you even remember the next one?"

"Rubens," Neal spat out. He glared at Jason. Why should completing two works today have brought him any sort of relief? He felt angry again and try to temper it. "Peter Paul Rubens, okay?" He knew his tone was pushing insolent.

Predictably, Jason's hand flew up to slap Neal on the side of the head. "Watch your tone," he said icily. "I do not want this turning into yesterday. You got me?"

Neal winced, hand rising instinctively to rub at his skull where he had just been hit. It smarted but it wasn't as bad as the other aches he felt. He didn't respond verbally but took a deep breath.

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Will. Answer me."

"Yes," Neal forced out, refraining from a 'tone' as much as he could. "I got you."

"Good." Jason continued to watch him and crossed his arms over his chest. "You can have fifteen minutes again, but then you need to start," Jason answered. He paused as though waiting for a response, which Neal didn't supply. His raised his eyebrows. "Anything else about this piece you want to remind me of?"

Neal was tired and his head hurt. It was hard to think. He swallowed, trying to consider what Jason might be getting at. "About the artist?" he asked. He knew plenty about Ruben as well.

"No," Jason responded stiffly, his impatience seemingly growing. "The piece itself. The one I showed you on the plane."

Then it clicked. Neal nodded. "It's not on canvas."

"That's right," Jason answered. He smirked slightly. "I thought you'd tell me that right away."

I don't care, Neal thought to himself, remaining expressionless. "It's a wood panel."

"That's right," Jason answered. "Lucky for you we have one."

Neal again didn't respond. He stared beyond Jason tiredly.

Jason turned from him, heading towards the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If—"

"I'm hungry," Neal interjected, looking up. He wasn't. He was nauseous. But after hours it was a reasonable request and distraction. Maybe it would buy him more time.

Jason studied him. "You want another sandwich?"

Neal didn't. He hated the sandwiches. They were disgusting. But he nodded. "Yes."

Jason gave Neal a wary look. "Okay. Fine." He paused. "I'll bring you that. And you can have fifteen minutes. But then I need to see that you're making progress."

Neal felt a hollowness inside but nodded. "Yes."

He watched Jason leave and then got to his feet, taking a deep breath. He glared down at the chain as he walked across the room and tried to think hard about his next steps, literally and figuratively. He ran both hands through his hair and could sense them shaking just slightly. He was starting to fear the situation more and more. What was going to be the endgame? Certainly Jason couldn't expect that they would just go back to normal after all this. That they'd return to New York like nothing had happened?

The thought turned his stomach. Jason's words from when he first brought him here came rushing back to him. He had specifically said, 'Without the painting, you're disposable.'

A jolt of anxiety hit Neal, harder than before. Neal needed to figure out a plan. Peter always found him but this time he didn't see how he could. There were no clues. The post office was a dead end. He had no way of contacting him.

A quick list of ineffective plans ran through Neal's head.

He could attack Jason when he came back. Find something, some sort of tool, and stab him with it. Maybe break the plate that the sandwich came on over his head. Maybe he could get him unconscious and maybe there would be a key of some sort in his pocket.

Jason was big. That could backfire big time.

He could try to blind him first. Maybe throw paint in his face.

He could try to start a fire. Jason would rescue the paintings but would he bother helping Neal?

And start a fire with what tools?

Neal's mind was all over the place and consequently he paced.

What Neal did know is that he couldn't be rash. If he made a decision to act, it had to be well thought-out. Otherwise, he was only going to get himself hurt, and he wasn't ready to be subject to another beating just yet if it could be avoided.


Day three.

Neal painted the roman numeral onto the corner wall in a daze.

Another night of darkness had passed.

He stood back up and stared down at the crude record of time passed. His hand rose to his jaw, rubbing at the stubble that had formed.

Three days.

He then turned back towards the rest of the room, to the next canvas in front of him. His ribs ached less today.

He'd behaved beyond the extent he thought he was capable of the night before. He'd resisted all urges to prematurely act on Jason. He'd forced himself to start to paint on the wooden medium subsequently provided. He even ate the additional sandwich that had been provided, despite cringing through each bite and cursing the existence of ham. Then he kept his head down and painted.

After a few hours of this, anxious as to whether Jason would return, the lights had gone out abruptly.

It angered him then, that there was this sort of timetable they were forcing him to, and at that moment he'd resisted a number of urges, including destroying the work he'd done so far.

Instead he forced himself back to the cot, to lay down, and to rest. The wise part of him knew that one night of true rest and rehabilitation was more valuable than acting out on the anger or trying to cause a scene without a full plan. And despite the need to curtail anxiety, anger, and fear while lying on the cot and staring into the darkness, he knew he was doing the right thing.

Because of that he woke feeling more like himself. Less fatigued but still tired, achy, and frustrated. Better equipped to manage the anger.

He convinced himself that today, day three, was the day. Today he would figure out how to get out of this place.

The problem was that his plans, the fleeting efforts of escape that formulated themself in his mind, were still basic and riddled with problems. But he was running out of time.

Jason had already been by once that morning, confirming to him that it was six in the morning, and committing to be back in an hour. Their exchange was cordial. After all, Will was being very submissive and pieces were being delivered. He'd finished the piece started the evening before as well.

The current focus of delivery was a piece by Kazimir Malevich and Neal was somewhat comforted to be back in an abstract form of art. He was reminded of a quote of the artist. 'Art does not need us, and it never did.' Neal felt in contrast to that now. This art needed him, because Jason and Messier needed it, and in return was the reverse. He needed the art.

So Neal focused, and focused, and focused.

But he was also acutely aware of his promise to himself.

So when Jason returned to the room later that morning, whatever time it was, presumably an hour but maybe three, Neal pushed Willy to the side for a moment to attempt his own con.

"This is looking good," Jason commented, reviewing the canvas.

Neal glanced at the canvas himself, at the recreation of a piece titled 'The Wedding' by Malevich, and was silent.

His heart pounded. He felt on edge, waiting for the right moment.

"How much more time do you need on this one?" Jason asked, turning to view Neal.

They stood just a couple feet apart. Neal's anxiety spiked while he attempted to keep his composure externally.

"A few hours," he said slowly. Then he forced himself very gradually to start to waver a bit. "Uh… Sorry…" He paused "Jason…"

Jason frowned at him, viewing him with slight suspicion. "What is this? What's wrong with you?"

Neal continued to be a bit unsteady on his feet. He tried to be subtle at first. "I don't know," he said earnestly. He stumbled forward just a step. "Sorry. I just feel a little weird."

"Weird?" Jason echoed skeptically. He raised his hands. "Listen, if you're trying to play some game here or –"

"No," Neal objected. He put a hand on his head, trying to avoid appearing too dramatic. "Sorry," he repeated. "I just suddenly feel a bit dizzy…"

"Why?" Jason demanded. As Neal stumbled forward again, he grabbed him by his shoulders. "Listen, you have water, food, and everything else. What is it?"

Like he had everything he needed, Neal thought wryly. At the same time, he forced another stumble and strategically placed his hands on Jason to brace himself.

"I think I just need to sit a few minutes," he said, voice tentative. "I'm sorry. It'll pass in a minute."

"Okay. So sit," Jason responded back stiffly. He started to push Neal back towards the cot.

Neal allowed himself to be pushed in that direction, trying to refrain from revealing any facial expression response that might hint at succeeding with the current con. "Thanks…. Jason. Really. I'm sorry."

"So take a small break," Jason told him. He pushed him down onto the cot, a little hard.

Neal braced himself as he was forced down onto the seat and settled down onto the cot. He nodded his head, staying silent. He folded his arms across his middle, forcing an unwell look.

"It's early today," Jason started. "Get over whatever this is, and then we need to make more progress."

Neal nodded. "Yes. Yes. Sorry. Just need a few minutes." The repeated apologies seemed to be working.

"Fine." Jason frowned at him. "Take ten. I'll be back."

Neal nodded again. He watched as Jason left the room, staying completely still. Once he heard the door lock, he straightened his posture and unfolded his hands and arms.

He now had a cell phone.


TBC