Hearing the soft, sock clad footfalls on her stairs an hour later, El knew it could only be one person so she quickly picks up a magazine off her desk and pretends to read, trying to feign nonchalance in order to assess what's she's dealing with. What she finds is the Neal Caffrey she's seen most evenings since Peter first brought him home. Hair damp, wearing burgundy tapered jogging bottoms and one of Peter's old long sleeve college t-shirts that he seems to have adopted, the clothes alone give off the impression of vulnerability, but coupled with the downcast eyes and sorrowful expression, it's almost convincing.
"Is he still mad?" Neal appears in the kitchen, nervously looking around.
"He's still Peter," El says, tone flat, almost cautious. "Though I recognise him less and less these days." She smiles sadly.
"Me too." Neal looks at his toes. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
"Oh, I think you do." El accuses him, holding up her near empty wine glass in offer and not waiting for his answer. "But right or wrong," she takes a fresh glass from the cupboard behind her, "he's used to you disobeying him, so I know that's not why he's so upset. I think Peter's just not dealing very well with everything that's happened."
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" His tone is suddenly hard, eyes cold, overall expression rigid.
He climbs onto the waiting stool, running his finger up and down the counter, making patterns in the biscuit dust left over from her cheesecake base.
El smiles at him softly. "How are you doing then? Since you brought it up." She pushes the fresh filled wine glass into his fidgeting hands, "and don't lie to me buster."
"I'm alright." Neal mumbles, taking a long sip. El glares at him through her own glass as she lifts it to her lips, making him laugh. "Really." He smiles wider, losing some of the tension in his posture. "I'm sorry for all of this drama, but there's no need to worry… believe it or not, I've been through worse." He chuckles nervously, touching the plaster she can see just under his fringe.
Fearing a repeat of tonight's argument if they don't clear the air, El decides to be blunt. "Neal, I don't know what happened today, but above all else, Peter loves you, you know that, right?"
Neal's suddenly wide eyes and furrowed brow tells her no, he doesn't. Despite everything they've been through, he still doesn't feel loved or wanted or any of the things someone should feel when they have family to rely on.
Eyes narrowing in suspicion, she wonders if it's even possible for him to be this dumb. "Look, Peter may not have changed your diapers or read you a bedtime story," she takes pleasure in the heat that rises in his cheeks with that mental imagery. "But he sees himself as being responsible for you, when you do something dangerous, he gets scared. And we both know how well he expresses his feelings." She waits and looks him over. "Whatever's going on, it's not going to get better by ignoring it. You should go talk to him."
…
Cheeks still burning with embarrassment following his one-sided conversation with Elizabeth, Neal enters the attic where Peter is randomly searching through boxes.
"Knock, knock," he announces, gingerly hauling himself up through the hatch.
He scrambles quickly to his feet to limit exposure to the exposed insulation, brushing dust off his pants before strolling over the wide plinth lining the middle.
"So, I hear you want to read me a bedtime story." Neal chuckles softly, shoving both hands into his pants pockets, peppering Peter with a cheesy grin.
"Huh?" Peter stops rummaging and looks up.
"Nothing." He quickly deflects, rocking back on his heels.
Peter stares at him, gaze assessing and Neal avoids the contact. Instead he flashes him a weak smile that wouldn't fool anyone and turns away.
"El says I worry you and that's why you're so mad at me." He says, running a hand over one of the discarded opened boxes and taking a peek inside.
"El's usually right." Peter closes the gap he's created, flipping over the cardboard lid. "This shouldn't be news."
"El being right?" Neal responds cheekily, taking the hint and shoving both hands in his jogging pant pockets.
"Both." Peter laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Did she send you up here?"
Neal takes a deep breath and nods, deciding not to hold his gaze. "She said I should talk to you."
He's eyeing up a very intriguing picture frame leaning with the glass side against a baluster when Peter answers.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Neal's incredulous, he'd kind of been hoping Peter would laugh it off, say they were good or at the very least be awkward and conveniently find something else he suddenly needs to do.
"You want to talk. We'll talk." Peter throws his hands out, shoulders mid shrug.
"Technically I didn't want to – your wife is kind of making me."
"Whatever." Peter dismisses waving his words away. "So…how you feeling?"
Right now, with Peter looming over him, what Neal feels is incredibly small. It's a skill Peter has with a lot of people he's noticed, but one especially effective with him. Anytime he gets in trouble and Peter finds out, which is all the time it seems nowadays, Peter only has to look at him to make Neal feel chastised.
"Good. I guess. Considering." Neal nods, it's not a lie. He could be feeling a lot worse. Head injuries aren't exactly a walk in the park.
"Good. So, you want to tell me what really happened today?"
Neal thinks on it, but looks blankly back at Peter with a shrug. Not trusting his voice all of a sudden. Something doesn't feel right. He's not sure if it's the cold or the musty smell of the attic that seems synonymous with all cold dark spaces, but he has the sudden urge to leave, to run.
"Neal I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is?" Peter's voice fades out to an annoying buzzing noise.
He feels warm all of a sudden. Too warm.
"You spoke to Diana?" Neal asks cautiously, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.
Peter nods and somehow the movement hurts his head. The dull ache he'd been feeling since climbing up here is increasing tenfold, including a full-on pounding behind his eyes.
"She didn't tell me anything, said I should talk to you. Look if there's something you remember, something you think you can't talk to me about…"
He's going to be sick. The room's spinning and it's not stopping. He doesn't care what Diana did or didn't say, he needs to leave-
"Neal?"
Peter's calling his name, but Neal can't breathe, it's taking all his energy to draw one breath in after another, each inhale scraping his throat like sandpaper.
"Neal, Neal, kid talk to me!" Peter's voice. He's scared. Panicked. "What's going on?" His voice is distant again, like he's moved far away.
No. Peter's not moved. He has, he's moved. He's moving. Obviously having already dropped through the hatch, an action Neal doesn't recall making, he finds himself running down the hall towards the stairs. Not stopping he ploughs past El who appears at the bottom and heads straight out the front door, not stopping for his coat, shoes or anything.
Out on the sidewalk, the setting sun casting an orange glow over Brooklyn, Neal comes to a skidding halt at the end of the block. The sound of car horns fading out behind him, he spins around on the spot looking for a way out, a direction to take that's safe. He's made it this far… they can't catch him. He can't let them take him back… Arms suddenly encircle him from behind, lifting his feet off the floor with the force. Neal kicks his attacker in the shin, an elbow to the chest. He has to escape now, if they get him they're going to kill him, once he's done what he wants with him, they'll kill him, and Neal will likely welcome it by then.
"Neal damn it, stop alright! Just stop!"
"Peter?" Neal stops instantly at the sound of that voice.
Looking down he can see the arms holding him do look older and slightly less thick than those of the guards who restrained him before, but it's the wedding ring on the left hand which sells it. Breaking down for the second time in twenty-four hours is not how Neal saw his day going when he woke up this morning, but what with the jumble of confusing memories flashing up whenever they feel like it and after being put through the wringer with the car accident and then his slip in the van, he's feeling exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. Being told off by Peter all the way home was just the icing on his cake.
"It's okay," Peter whispers down his ear. "You're okay." He repeats, over and over, not letting go.
Losing the last of his strength to fight Neal sags towards the floor. "Let me go," he moans when Peter refuses to give him up. "Please Peter, just let me go."
The arms holding him loosen slightly, but only enough to spin him around. "What do you remember?"
Peter shakes him, asks again and again but it's no use. Neal's spent. If Peter wants to carry him back to his house that's up to him. The message seems to get across that he can't, he just can't, not now, and instead of getting angry or shouting at him some more Peter pulls him close, one hand nestling his hair and a warm bristled cheek pressing next to his.
"Alright," Peter squeezes him tight, "alright."