The next few days - or maybe it had only been hours - passed Neal by in a blur of pain, congestion and strange fever dreams. His two guards seemed to be on some kind of rotating shift system so sometimes it was Richards at the little window in his door with his tray of food, and sometimes it was Smith. He knew the difference not because he had the energy to roll over and check, but because Richards actually brought him his meals. Smith did not. Just poked his hand through the little window, peered in (or at least Neal assumed he did, he spent most of his time on his side with his back to the door and facing the wall) and then left again. Where he went, Neal could only guess. He was pretty sure he spied some kind of guard station on his way down those stairs the other day. Or was it yesterday? 10 minutes ago? It was impossible to tell.

There was no window in his cell and, judging from the cold dampness that always clung to his dirty mattress, Neal was pretty sure this part of the prison was underground. He also had a sneaky suspicion that this particular area wasn't used that often because it was unlike any other kind of solitary confinement cell block he'd ever seen or heard about before. It was more like some medieval torture chamber, which made Neal wonder how much the warden really knew about what was going on down here. Leech and Smith could have fudged that paperwork, too. It didn't explain Richards though. He could have been in on the whole thing, but Neal wasn't so sure about that. All he was sure about these days was that he'd gotten lost in the system somehow. Wrong name, wrong prison, wrong cellblock, wrong everything.

If it were possible, the congestion in Neal's head and chest had become worse. Three little tan pills had appeared on his last tray, compliments of Richards he figured. They'd turned out to be cold pills and they helped a bit, but it still felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest.

And speaking of elephants, the pain in his arm seemed to be ebbing away, so maybe the break wasn't quite so bad as the initial pain had suggested. It was a blessing, but it also gave the rest of his ailments a chance to catch up. For Neal to realize just how achy and sore the rest of his body really was. Without the intense pain of his arm to focus on, his mind had no other choice than to focus on other hurts. And there were so many other hurts. What had Richards said to him the other day when they'd first been introduced? You better be dead in there? Well he was, he was dead in here.

Neal slept a lot, waking only to drag himself across his cell and pick up his food tray. When it was there, and one handed of course. The light in his cell was as sporadic as his meals, blinking on and off at random intervals and in no discernable pattern. He knew that for a fact. He kept track yet still couldn't decide if it was the work of faulty wiring, or a sadistic prison guard. It was a small matter. He had learned to navigate his small cell in the dark and the light gave him a headache anyways. He lost all track of time until one day, his cell door opened again.

"Shower time," was all Richards would say.

Neal peeled himself up off the floor, his leg muscles trembling but holding him up. He squinted over at Richards under the sudden light that was pouring into his cell from out in the hall. "Have you given any more thought to what I told you the other day?"

He was referring, of course, to his offer to get the man a promotion if he would just put a call in to Peter. Or, better yet, slip Neal a phone so he could do it himself. He had the number memorized after all, a habit Mozzie had instilled in him so many years ago. Mozzie...

"Hands," Richards ordered, acting as if Neal hadn't even spoken.

Neal was no longer wearing his homemade splint and held his arms out cautiously, bracing himself for what Richard's might do to his injured arm. But the guard just snapped the metal around his wrists carefully, and moved aside so Neal could exit the cell. The leg shackles were left forgotten in a corner.

Neal had never been in solitary confinement himself, but he was pretty sure Richard's wasn't following protocol. Any prison movie he'd ever seen before always had the inmates being ordered to face the wall while their cells were tossed and their cavities searched. Richards wasn't doing any of that with him. Sure, he pushed Neal out into the hall with a little more force than was probably necessary, but with no shackles around his legs, he was easily able to keep his footing.

The hall outside his cell was a lot different than he remembered. That might have had something to do with the fact that he'd been dragged down it the last time, nearly unconscious from the pain of his arm and his trip down the stairs. That trip hadn't exactly afforded him much time to get a good look around. Which was weird for him. Normally Neal was a master of his surroundings, missing nothing, picking up on every little detail. The fact that he hadn't with this place only proved just how off his game he was. And if Neal wanted to survive this, he was going to have to pull himself together.

The hallway was short and lit by intense lights that hurt his eyes when he made the mistake of looking up at them. Richards seemed to be in a mood, and grumpily pushed him past a heavily reinforced guard room tucked back behind the stairs he'd fallen down. Neal was worried for a moment that he'd be forced back up those stairs again, but Richards just steered him towards another hall to the left. Sensing that maybe the time was right to try Richards again after his lax treatment back in his cell, Neal plucked up the courage to address the man again.

"You know I'm not Dominic Sanchez, right?" He glanced over his shoulder at the guard who was leading him from behind.

"Eyes forward," Richards snapped. "And head down," he seemed to add for good measure.

Neal obeyed, but wasn't ready to give up the fight quite yet.

"Why do you think they rushed me through intake so fast? Why am I the only one down here?" That last part was a guess, but Richards didn't need to know that. "I didn't even get my head shaved."

They'd reached an open door by now. The room inside was bedecked from floor to ceiling in white tiles with a row of green running the perimeter of the room for added flare. The color was not one anyone with a discerning eye, or pride in their work, would ever choose. It was the color of gangrene and old bruises. Richards shoved him towards it with an angry exhale.

"What part of eyes forward and head down do you not understand, Sanchez? Speak out of turn again and next time we do this I'll bring the clippers myself."

Ignoring the guard who stood just inside the door with arms crossed, Neal undressed and left his clothes and shoes folded neatly in a pile on a nearby bench. Like during intake, the shower was freezing cold. Neal turned what he could only assume was the hot water knob all the way over and then forced himself under the spray. It was awful. Like getting beaten up by Smith all over again. The pressure was still way too high and there wasn't even enough warmth to help with his sinuses or massage his tired, aching muscles. He spent as little time as possible beneath it, soaping up quickly and then letting the ice cold water wash the pink tinged lather away. Forced himself to stay put under it until the swirling pink water at his feet eventually turned clear as it disappeared down the disgusting drain. When he was finished, Richards passed him a towel and a clean jumpsuit without comment. Neal dried off as best he could with one arm, actually feeling more like himself than he had in days. With the cold pills and the shower, he almost felt human.

Well, almost.

As soon as Neal was alone in his cell again, he collapsed down onto the metal bed frame that had magically appeared in his cell while he was in the shower. The lightbulb above his head had been fixed as well and no longer flickered. There were even a few rolls of toilet paper hidden beneath his toilet. Neal thought about getting up again and going to that little window of his to see if Richards was still around to thank him, but couldn't really bring himself to move. Yelling his appreciation of the small gestures crossed his mind, but with his little window closed, he doubted the guard would even hear. Besides, he was pretty sure his vocal cords couldn't take the abuse. His bronchitis symptoms were quiet for the moment - probably thanks to the pills on his tray - and he didn't want to reawaken the beast. He fell sideways onto his disgusting pillow that was now inside a less disgusting pillowcase and just laid there.

The new light did a much better job of illuminating his space. Not that there was much to illuminate. Just his toilet and a sink that didn't really work. The extra items from his prison "fish kit" and the mark he started trying to make on the wall when he decided he needed a way to tick off the days he spent here. He'd given that up for two reasons. One, the paint was too hard and wouldn't come off, even under his nail. And two, he couldn't tell how many days had passed. Not with the fever that kept sneaking up on him. The one that was either from being sick, or due to some infection that was beginning to incubate inside of him, thanks to his dive into the East River.

The memories of that time seemed so distant to him now. He was pretty sure he'd only been here a couple of days at most, but it still felt like a lifetime ago. The bridge, his interrogation room, the transport bus. Even his trip down the stairs seemed like it happened so long ago, and in another life. A life that wasn't measured by meal trays and how much better his arm felt when he woke and accidentally jostled it. And speaking of arms…

Neal pushed himself up from the mattress with his good arm and searched for his threadbar blanket. It had ended up in one corner of his cell. Probably thrown there by whomever had delivered his bed. Using his one good hand, he attempted to tear a strip of fabric from the blanket lengthwise. It tore easily enough, but doing it one handed proved almost impossible. He considered using his teeth for a moment, but the idea of putting that blanket anywhere near his mouth horrified him. In the end he used his toes and soon, the fabric was tearing away. When he was done he was winded and wheezy, but he had two nice long strips of cloth. He tied both ends of one together, trying his best to gauge how much room he might need before slipping it over his head and under one arm. He slipped his broken arm through, tightened the slip knot he'd made with the ends and wrapped the remaining strip around his torso a few times for good measure. He didn't stop until the arm was secured tightly against his chest. It was crude and it barely worked, but it seemed to stabilize whatever it was that was going on in there.

Utterly exhausted by this point, Neal laid his head back down again and drifted. It felt good to be up off the floor. Warmer somehow, even though he suspected that had nothing to do with his new elevation and everything to do with the fact that his body was starting to heat up again after his shower. And cranking up the furnace on his fever. Well, whatever the reason, it was enough comfort that he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Or at least he tried to. The sonic boom of his door being thrown open wasn't exactly conducive to good sleep.

"You motherfucker!" Smith bellowed, dragging Neal off the bed so that he crashed heavily onto the floor, still stupid with sleep. "Didn't I tell you what would happen if you made any trouble for me?"

Richards must have said something. It was the only explanation Neal could come up with for why Smith was so mad. But had the guy just made some offhand comment about Neal's phone request, or were they working together? Passing information to each other in some good cop/bad cop con to keep him disoriented and in line? He knew he was off his game, but that much? Enough for two sadistic prison guards to pull one over on him? A con he had pulled off so many times himself, he could do it in his sleep? It couldn't be possible.

Smith grabbed a handful of Neal's wet hair, forcing him to sit up. He tried to grab for the guard's wrist and bend the bones until the bones broke, but he missed. Smith was just too fast and soon a fist was connecting with the side of Neal's face. The force of the blow sent him back to the floor, blood dripping from his split lips as he tried to stop himself with his good arm. Smith reared back to hit him again, but stopped suddenly mid punch.

Neal wasn't exactly sure where it came from, but he had started to laugh. His voice sounded positively wrecked, but it was there, gravely and hoarse. It was also a pretty reckless move, he realized a little too late. But whatever. It was enough to get Smith to lower his arm and let go.

Neal rolled towards the wall, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor as he used his good arm to sit up and prop himself against the wall. Meeting the eyes of his guard at last, Neal smiled up at him with blood stained teeth.

"You think this is funny, Caffrey?" Smith practically growled. Warning bells were going off in Neal's head, but he was too far in to stop it now. He would play this out, regardless of the consequences.

"Someday, Smith," he began, wiping the blood from his chin, "someday someone is going to figure out that I'm down here. And when they do, I'm going to be the one visiting you in a cell like this."

"Not if I kill you first,' the guard answered darkly.

"You won't," Neal pushed, despite the growing storm behind Smith's dark eyes. Despite the hands the guard was once again forming into fists. Neal's jaw throbbed painfully in the place where Smith had struck him, right in time with his heart. But his heart wasn't racing like it had been for the past several days. It was calm inside his chest, elevated only slightly due to being hit. He was cool as a cucumber, even as the soulless guard stared down at him. "You can't, not if you want to stay on Leech's good side. Otherwise, you would have done it by now."

Smith stalked forward, straddling Neal's outstretched legs as he went in for another blow. This time Neal was prepared, and shifted his head at the last second. The guard's knuckles missed his face entirely and went careening into the wall beside Neal's head. The guard let out a howl, and danced away, his hand clutched close to his chest.

"Motherfucker!"

Neal scrambled away, knowing instantly that he was in very serious trouble now. He needed something to protect himself with. Something to keep Smith at bay. But none of the items in his cell were going to be of any help to him now. Not one armed and helpless as he was.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins anyway, pushing aside all the pain and exhaustion, leaving him some room to think. In one last desperate act he went for the bed frame, but who ever had installed it had bolted it to the floor. It was no use. He was a dead man.

Smith, even more pissed off than he was before, recovered quickly. He issued a noise Neal could only describe as a snarl as he charged.

Neal tried so hard to protect himself from the onslaught that followed. To make a break for the door to his cell with only one arm. Reach that little window and call for help… But Smith seemed to have gone feral and did not stop with his fists, even the one he'd just sent into the wall, until Neal was a bloody, wheezing, barely conscious mess on the floor.

Tears that had nothing to do with emotions and everything to do with pain slid down his cheeks. Pain that was now slowly fading away. How could it not when Neal was now back in that happy, detached place that felt like home and smelled of the summer air that often blew into his apartment through the balcony window?

When it was over, Smith stood over him panting. Neal barely registered that the blows had stopped. He was too far away now to care. There was no reason to stick around. No leverage or sly words he could use to defend himself against the likes of Smith. Nothing he could do against the kind of violence the guard seemed to carry with him everywhere he went.

The man in question bent over him, grabbing his hair once again, but before he could do or say anything else, a buzzing noise in his pocket seemed to draw his attention. He dropped Neal's head. Having no more energy or strength to keep it up, he collapsed back onto his side in front of his bed, blood collecting beneath his cheek.

Smith backed up and fished a cell phone out of his pocket. For one brief moment of lucidity Neal got this crazy idea in his head to somehow pull himself up off the floor, rush the guard, take the phone and dash out into the hall to call Peter. Smith had left the door to his cell cracked open a few inches, but Neal's body no longer possessed the capacity. He was done. At the end of his rope. His body wasn't built for this. Hewasn't built for any of this.

"You are so fucking lucky," Smith said after spending a few moments typing into his phone. He lifted it up and suddenly Neal's cell was illuminated further by the flash of a camera.

"Smile for your friends, Caffrey" the guard laughed, sending the photo off to its intended recipients. Leech, most likely. Maybe even Peter.

A moment later and the man was looming over his prone form yet again. "You try anything like that again, and next time I'm bringing a friend."

Neal barely registered the words, though the threat of them seated itself deep in his brain for retrieval later.

He assumed it was over then, but Smith was apparently saving his best torture for last. Neal couldn't see much out of the eyes that were trying to swell shut on him again, but he didn't miss it when Smith drew back his boot. He would have moved if he could, tried to avoid the blow he knew was coming, but he couldn't. Smith kicked out with as much force as he could muster, and sent one steel toed boot directly into Neal's broken arm.

He really did scream then. The force of it tearing something apart in his throat, reopening all his wounds, past and present. It echoed around in his cell, lingering long after Smith had left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Neal wasn't sure how long he laid there on his side on the floor, the tattered edges of his blanket hanging off the side of his bed and tickling his cheek. How long it took for his limbs to go numb or the blood to stop gathering in a puddle beneath his cheek.

Smith should have just finished it.

What if this was it? What if this was his life going forward? He'd been holding on so tightly to the idea that Peter would come and find him, but what if he didn't? What if his handler couldn't put the pieces together, figure out what Leech was doing and come looking for him? That thought about his body not being built for this, it was true. He wasn't going to survive a place like this. Not with people he hadn't been given the opportunity or the means to manipulate yet. And how would he ever? With the constant beatings, never ending pain, and the sickness that weighed him down, muddled his thoughts, and stole his literal breath away...

So what? They were just going to leave him in this cell to rot? Come back for him after the flesh had been picked clean from his bones by the rats. Collect his remains and dump them into some unmarked grave behind the prison? Neal was young and relatively healthy, or at least he had been up until the river and the drugs. If Smith and his own body didn't kill him first, was he just supposed to live out the remainder of his days in this place? No one could possibly owe Leech that big a favor. So would the warden transfer him to another prison to start the process all over again? There had to be an end game, though Neal wasn't sure he wanted to stick around to find out what that might be.

"Lots of questions," Peter said in his head.

"And no answers," Neal replied, not sure if he'd actually spoken the words or just thought them. His hallucinated handler sat himself down on the concrete floor near Neal's head, legs crossed.

"Go away Peter."

"I will when you're ready."

Neal could almost feel Peter's hand on his head, brushing through his damp hair. It was a funny hallucination, considering he was fairly certain the FBI agent would never, ever do such a thing. But it reminded Neal of gentler times, so he went with it.

"If you don't get here soon, I think that guy might kill me," he said after a while.

"Probably."

"Are you coming to rescue me?" he asked, smiling weakly as he imagined Peter with a sword and shield.

"What do you think?

"I think that you aren't and that I'm on my own."

"Now, now, Neal. Don't talk like that."

"Why not?"

"Because we're the great Neal Caffrey and we can talk our way out of anything."

"Not in this place we're not," he said aloud this time. He was sure of it because he was suddenly alone in his cell again and his throat was on fire. Peter's hallucination had gone.

Neal shivered and reached his good hand up to pull the tattered remnants of his blanket down off the bed. Throwing it over himself as best he could, he fell asleep like that. On the cold prison floor. Wondering if the nightmare would ever end and what Peter, the real Peter, might be doing in that moment.

He didn't dream. Or if he did, he couldn't remember them. There was nothing left to dream about anyway. Just cold and blood and pain.