Peter stood up, stretched his tired back, and tried to focus his eyes. It had been four hours since the medication keeping Neal unconscious had been discontinued and just under two since Agent Hughes had suggested he go home and sleep until the hospital called.

Well, truthfully, it hadn't been a suggestion. It had been more of an order.

Neither of their exchanges today had gone particularly well. If his temper had flared during their first conversation, it had burned white-hot less than two hours ago. He'd tried to chalk up Hughes's lack of sympathy during the first one to the fact that he'd sprung the news on him at 6:30 in the morning. He had to admit his first reaction to the news Neal had been assaulted in Vinegar Hill hadn't been exactly charitable. And the verbal description of his injuries in no way compared to seeing him in person. However, when Peter had checked in at lunch with no new information to report, Agent Hughes had still shown a marked lack of concern. He revisited his initial idea of ending the agreement between White Collar and the NYDOC, pointing out that Neal was currently unable to uphold his part of the agreement anyway. He could recover in the prison infirmary while the NYPD conducted their investigation. He'd followed that cold-hearted statement by saying it would be better for the Bureau to have already distanced themselves from Caffrey before any incriminating evidence was uncovered. At that, Peter had erupted, even more violently than he had the first time. His tirade was followed by yet another moment of tense silence. Then, instead of reprimanding him for insubordination as he had every right to do, Hughes had ordered him to go home and get some rest.

It was an order he'd chosen to ignore. But now, as Neal continued to show no signs of waking and time continued to drag, he was beginning to have second thoughts. The nurses who came to check on Neal periodically insisted his vitals were good. His lungs were clear. His incisions looked good. There seemed to be no complications from the surgery. They gave him sympathetic smiles as they left to finish their rounds. At first, he'd stayed because he was afraid something terrible would happen and he wouldn't be there. Then, as the likelihood of emergency surgery diminished, he'd stayed because he wanted to make sure he talked to him before the Detectives arrived. But it was more than just that. Wide straps immobilized Neal's arms because, as the nurse explained, he would likely wake disoriented and afraid. Instinctively, he'd pull at the ventilator, which could lead to damage to the esophagus. He didn't like the idea of Neal waking up scared and confused alone, or worse yet, with an armed guard in the room. And so he'd stayed.

And stayed. And stayed.

A little out of boredom and a lot out of impatience, he'd called the Precinct to speak with the Detectives investigating the incident. They had no new information, but they did have a lead. From what they'd gathered from various security cameras in the area, the suspects had split up after fleeing the alley. None of the cameras got good views of faces, but one did catch one of the suspected assailants getting into a cab two blocks away. They were presently trying to locate said cab and its driver to get whatever information they could to identify the fare. That is all they needed. One person would lead them to the other three. It was just a matter of time until the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. He frowned at Neal, again wondering what had led him to that alley and why he'd been so brutally beaten.

He was contemplating taking a trip to the vending machines when Neal's eyes flew open. Well, one of them did; the other was mostly swollen shut. He'd been warned he'd wake in an agitated state, and he had. His wide eye was awash in fear and confusion, and he began to gag on the tube in his throat. As predicted, he immediately tried to raise his hand, but the restraints prevented it. Finding his movements restricted only increased his panic. Hoping his presence would provide some reassurance, Peter moved quickly to his side.

"It's okay, Neal," he said, placing a hand on Neal's uninjured arm. "Try to calm down." His words didn't seem to register. Neal's head was held in place by the neck brace, but his eyes darted frantically around the room. He continued to grunt, gag, and pull against the straps. "Neal," he insisted, hoping his tone would cut through the raw panic on Neal's face. "You need to calm down."

The nurse from earlier rushed in, closely followed by the doctor. Peter hadn't realized the alarms on Neal's monitors were blaring until the nurse switched them off. Relieved Neal was finally awake, and reinforcements had arrived, Peter stepped out of their way.

"Mr. Caffrey," the doctor's voice was firm. He placed a hand on Neal's shoulder and leaned down to capture his attention. "Calm down," he instructed. "Take slow, even breaths." The doctor's calm instructions must have penetrated Neal's disorientated mind because his struggle slowed and then ceased. "That's it," the doctor nodded encouragingly, keeping his face in Neal's line of sight. "Slow and easy. You're on a ventilator," he explained, his voice clear and patient. "I know it's uncomfortable and feels like you aren't getting any air, but you are; just relax and breath slowly."

Peter could tell it was working, but then there was a grunt, another gagging sound, and the look of panic returned to Neal's face.

"Don't try to talk," the doctor told him. "I need you to listen." His tone was firm, authoritative. "While you were unconscious, we used the ventilator to make sure your airway stayed clear. Now that you're awake, we can remove the breathing tube." He unfastened the neck brace and placed it on the nearby steel shelf. He turned back to Neal. "Are you ready?"

Neal gave a quick nod.

"Good." The doctor nodded to the nurse. Standing on the other side of Neal, She unhooked the tube from the machine. "All right, Mr. Caffrey," the doctor said, gripping the tube near Neal's mouth. "When I say go, I want you to breath out hard, okay?" Neal nodded. Not wanting to see what came next, Peter diverted his eyes just as the doctor said go.

Peter heard Neal expelling both air and tubing.

"Good," the nurse encouraged over the sound of intermittent gagging. "Keep still...almost done..."

"There you are," the doctor announced, signaling the task was complete. "Okay, breathe..." Neal was no longer gagging. Instead, he was coughing, sputtering, and gasping for breath. "You're okay," the nurse encouraged. "Relax... Breathe... Take it easy. That's it."

When Neal's breathing had regulated, Peter stepped back to the bed. This time, Neal's eyes immediately found his.

"What happened?" He croaked. His throat sounded raw.

Peter watched as the restraints were removed. "I hoped you could tell me."

Neal glanced down, brow furrowing at the sight of his freshly cast arm. "Don't you know? You were there."

Peter frowned as the nurse elevated the head of Neal's bed and adjusted a pillow behind him.

"I was where?" he prompted.

"In the car." There was a tone of impatience and irritation in Neal's raspy voice. He raised his hand to his face, his fingers exploring first his bruised cheekbone and then his eye. His frown deepened as he looked up at them. "Was there an accident?"

Peter didn't answer but studied Neal, trying to determine if he was truly confused or just playing a part. If he had been doing something he shouldn't have, he'd be all about damage control. He'd prevaricate, stall and buy time until he found out who knew what and exactly what he was up against. Neal was a skilled con artist, and that made him a very talented actor.

Peter was by no means an expert yet, but he'd spent the last several weeks watching Neal, trying to discover his tells and learn how to read him. If they were going to work together, it was a skill he had to develop. Granted, expressions and micro-expressions were hard to read in a bruised and battered face, but Neal's confusion seemed genuine.

"What is it?" Neal asked, his gaze shifting from him to the doctor and back. The fear that had subsided was making a return. "What's wrong?"

The doctor responded to his rising anxiety in a calm tone. "You suffered several injuries, Mr. Caffrey," he explained. "Including a serious concussion. You've been unconscious for almost sixteen hours." He paused as Neal processed the information. "Varying degrees of retrograde amnesia is not uncommon," He looked at Peter briefly before posing the question they both, for different reasons, wanted to be answered. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"Being in the car with Peter," Neal replied. "He was irritated because I made him wait." He dropped his gaze. "He...he said he didn't like my tie."

He almost sounded hurt. Peter recalled that he had made a remark about the tie, but it was because Neal's decision to change into it had made him late getting out to the street. He'd had no problem with the tie itself.

But he had called it ridiculous.

The doctor sent him a questioning look, bringing him to the matter at hand—Neal's memory. Or rather lack thereof.

"That was yesterday morning," Peter offered as clarification. He looked at Neal. "So you don't remember getting to the office?" Neal shook his head. "Lunch at Andres? Going for coffee?" Neal responded the same for all.

Again, he found himself studying the man before him. Had he truly lost the entire day? Did he remember none of it? Not what happened on the coffee run? Not what sent him to that alley or who he'd planned to meet with?

Neal's anxiety grew at his perusal. "What happened, Peter?" His voice shook with uncertainty.

"You were assaulted," Peter told him, watching his response to the information. "You were beaten by four men in an alley in Brooklyn." At Neal's blank look of confusion, he leaned in, his tone changing into a more authoritative one. "Who were they, Neal?" he pressed. "What were you doing there?"

"I don't know," Neal insisted, his voice rising in panic. Again his gaze flittered between the room's occupants. "I don't remember any of that!"

With a glance at the screen displaying Neal's rising vitals, the doctor stepped in. "There will be plenty of time for questions and answers later," he said."Right now, we need to examine you and get some lab work done. Dr. Norris, the Neurologist, will want to meet with you, too. We'll get you into a step-down room now that you are conscious and no longer on a vent. They are more private and much more comfortable. If you'd like to come back in a couple of hours, Agent Burke, he should be finished with the evaluations and be settled in his room." He was being dismissed. "He will be able to have visitors then, as long as he stays quiet and calm."

"If I'm going," he looked at Neal, who still looked somewhat shaken. If he was acting, he was doing a bang-up job of it. "There is the matter of supervision to deal with." He directed his attention to the doctor. "Can he wear the tracking device? Will that be an issue?"

The doctor shook his head. "It shouldn't be. You take care of that, and I'll step out and page Dr. Baker."

A moment later, he and Neal were alone. Peter retrieved the anklet and raised the blanket tucked around Neal's legs. He put the monitor in place in silence; neither he or Neal said a word.

"Okay," he said as he re-covered Neal's leg. "I'll let the marshal service know its back. They'll probably set the radio to the hospital for now."

When he looked up at Neal, he found he was the one being studied now. "You think I'm lying about not remembering, don't you?"

"Are you?"

"No," he answered. This time, there was no mistaking the hurt in his tone. "I don't lie." Peter raised an eyebrow. "I don't lie to you," he amended. "I don't know what happened, Peter. I'm telling you the truth."

Peter gave a weary sigh. "Let's hope your memory returns, or at least the part about what you were doing in that alley," he said. "Once the NYPD finds the people who did this to you, they are going to get their side of the story. You can't give yours if you don't remember what it is."

It was true. And they both knew in the world of legalities, the story told first set the tone going forward.

Again, there was a moment of silence before Neal spoke.

"Do you believe me?"

Elizabeth had reminded him that his opinion mattered to Neal, and Officer O'Malley had pointed out he was as close to family as Neal seemed to have. He looked so uncertain, so vulnerable that Peter felt it center chest. His agent's skepticism, his personal doubts, would hurt him. And he looked as if he'd been hurt enough.

He knew Neal's past and knew his record was against him in this. He could think of no good reason he would have been at that bar on Water Street. His attack hadn't been a mugging or a robbery, it had been some kind of personal reprisal. Eventually, whether Neal took part or not, the truth would come out. Until then, he would try to do what Elizabeth had said and have a little faith.

"Yeah, I do," he said, giving Neal's leg an awkward pat of support. "I believe you don't remember what happened." He hadn't planned the qualification but it came anyway. "We will get it all sorted out." He hoped to God he wasn't lying. "Do what the doctor says and I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Peter saw lingering doubt in Neal's face but some of the tension eased from his frame and he leaned back into his pillows. Instead of a verbal response, Neal just nodded in understanding. With that, Peter left to make yet another dreaded call to his superior. Agent Hughes had agreed to wait to get answers from Neal but now it appeared none were coming.