Disclaimer: I haven't finished watching this show, but I've read a LOT of fanworks, so characters may be slightly OOC, please don't crucify me. I also don't know how law enforcement or medical care works, and I definitely don't know how much black market organs cost in 2011. There's a reason I write fantasy.

sort of written for Caffrey-Burke day 2022, in that I started writing this before I found out about it but it fits the bill.

This also takes place after an AU ending to season 3 where Neal does end up getting his sentence ended, along with his anklet. Why? That's just how this idea popped into my head, and who am I to deny the whims of my subconscious?

Words: 5191

Warnings, again: contains drugging, kidnapping, and moderately graphic violence.

Neal Caffrey tucked his thumbs into his pockets as he halted at a crosswalk, tilting his face up towards the sun and closing his eyes as he waited for the signal to change.

What a wonderful day to get off early from work.

It was a hot summer day, unusually so. Temps had hit the 90s by 11 AM, at which point Neal (or, as far as his mark knew, 'Nick Halden') had been busy scrounging around in an air-conditioned office building for suspicious files. Once his infiltration had ended, he had rendezvoused with Peter and Jones in their beloved FBI van - which, in this heat, had become a veritable oven.

They were supposed to sit there for several hours, monitoring calls coming in and out of the building, but Peter had had mercy on him after a mere 20 minutes at the sight of Neal plucking at his suit and loosening his tie in an attempt to combat the heat. Neal's partner had assured him that he and Jones (who were both already in t-shirts) had the monitoring under control, and encouraged Neal to head home and cool off. Neal, though he pitied them for having to stay and continue their task, leapt at the chance and was off in minutes. He certainly didn't relish the thought of boiling in the sweat-moistened backseat air of the van.

It was still hot outside, but at least a soft breeze offered some relief from the baking heat. The sidewalks were quiet. Most New York residents obviously had the presence of mind to stay inside. Neal was heading straight home, where he planned to take a shower, crack open a bottle of wine, and finish that painting he had started a few days ago. Nick Halden wouldn't need to appear again until the meeting with Fallon he had arranged in two days time.

The signal changed, and Neal stepped forward, striding across the crosswalk and continuing towards his apartment. He glanced down at his watch, then did a double take at the sight of one of the Bureau's fake Rolexes staring back at him. He must have forgotten to return it. Neal double checked that the one-way radio was off before continuing down the sidewalk. He would return it when he came into work tomorrow.

As Neal strutted down the sidewalk, another man emerged from the space between two buildings and fell into step beside him.

"Hot out, isn't it?" The man spoke up cheerfully. Neal side-eyed him. New Yorkers weren't exactly known for their penchant of striking up conversations with strangers. The man was about his height, with a slightly more muscular build, and he was carrying a tote bag which was bulging with unidentifiable shapes.

"Indeed it is." Neal responded, infusing a similar cheer into his voice. It wasn't hard, he was happy to be heading home.

"A real scorcher. Here." The man reached into the bag, and Neal tracked his hand warily until it emerged with a disposable water bottle. He offered it to Neal, who shot him a winning smile as he took it.

"Roaming the streets in search of hapless citizens in need of water? That's very kind of you." Neal turned the bottle in his hand, ensuring the seal was intact, before he twisted the cap off and took a swig. It was probably paranoia - who would be handing out drugged drinks to strangers? Even though the circumstances were odd, he was happy to receive it. Maintaining his good looks required hydration, after all.

"Well, we all do our part." The man shrugged, patting his bag and smiling. "Headed home?"

"To the park." Neal lied. Knee-jerk reaction.

The man smirked, gesturing to Neal's suit. "In that getup?"

"Why not? All the cute fitness girls will be there." Neal grinned, taking another sip of his water. This time, he paused, looking down at the label. Generic warehouse-store brand. Did he just have too expensive tastes? Why did it taste off to him?

"Suppose you're right." The man continued strolling along beside him. "What's your name? I'm Dale, Dale Emery."

"Nick." Again, he lied. Something in the pit of his stomach was telling him that something was off. "Nick Halden. It's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's all mine." Dale said with a cheerful smile. He kept walking along beside him. Neal's apprehension continued to grow as they made their way down the sidewalk. Why was he still here? Was he one of Fallon's henchmen? Trying to see if he would slip up outside of 'work hours'? But, surely they wouldn't approach him so overtly.

Neal's vision blurred.

He halted in his tracks, overcorrecting and taking a hasty step back to balance himself. The sidewalk before him split in two, and it took all of his effort to keep from tilting over. What the h### was that?!

"Hey, hey, Nick, buddy, you okay?" Dale stepped in front of him, reaching out to steady him by grasping both his arms. The movement caused Neal's grip to loosen involuntarily, and the bottle slipped from his hand, hitting the sidewalk and sending water splashing over his shoes. He frowned down at them.

"Got the- not feelin' too good." He managed, his words beginning to slur together. He'd drugged him. The water was spiked.

"Dizzy? Unbalanced?" Dale was saying. "Sounds like heat exhaustion- don't worry, I've got my car parked nearby. I'll get you cooled down." Grip tightening on his arms, Dale began to lead him down the sidewalk, and Neal was too stunned to protest.

"Wait, wait, no, I gotta-" Peter, he had to call Peter. Maybe this was only heat exhaustion- he was hot - but he needed Peter here to make sure. There was no way he was going with this man blindly.

Neal jerked his hand away, fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

"Here, let me help you." Dale offered, and Neal tried to pull his phone away, holding it tight against his chest. "I'll call your emergency contacts for you, how about that?" Dale held out his hand, an easy smile on his face. Neal contemplated how real it looked.

The next thing he knew, his phone was in Dale's hand. Neal cursed quietly, though it came out slurred. He hadn't drank that much - how potent was that stuff? Now he was really feeling dizzy, wavering where he stood on the sidewalk while this stranger looked through his phone.

"Just one contact, eh?" Dale grinned, lifting his phone a bit. "Alright, c'mon, easy now." And he was being led down the sidewalk again. Neal wished he could snatch his phone back, but his reflexes were next to nothing by now. The alarm bells in his head, though muffled by whatever drug he had inadvertently ingested, were ringing at full force. There was no way this man was really going to call Peter, he didn't know what his plans were but they couldn't be any good. Neal had gotten heatstroke before, and the symptoms felt nothing like this - a sudden onset of dizziness, blurred vision, and nausea that was even now lurking in the pit of his stomach. This was poison.

For the first time in his life, Neal wished he was wearing the anklet. At least that miserable piece of hardware would have alerted Peter if he went outside his radius, and maybe the senior agent would have chanced to check his position and seen that he was in an odd place, come to check him out, maybe saved him from- from- whatever this man planned for him. As it stood, the next time Peter was likely to see him was dead in a ditch somewhere, just a corpse in a suit and a fancy wa-

Oh, right. There was a way that the FBI could track him.

"Wait!" He exclaimed, jerking his arms out of Dale's grip. The man turned around, one brow raised, as Neal bent over his watch and muttered, "what time is it." It was a weak cover, but Dale didn't stop him from activating the watch's hidden radio, transmitting any further conversation straight to Peter and Jones in their FBI van.

"It's just after two." Dale was saying as he straightened up. "Now, come on, we need to get you cooled down." He was still smiling, but Neal could swear that the expression got more predatory the longer it was on his face.

Neal couldn't argue, his words becoming more slurred every time he tried to speak. Nor could he resist, every ounce of energy going into putting one foot in front of the other, and his mind was too sluggish to think of another way out. He'd just have to rely on Peter and Jones to think of one for him.

"Hey, Peter." Jones's voice made him jump, and Peter Burke looked up from the sheet of paper he had been trying not to sweat all over. "We sent Caffrey home, didn't we?"

"Yeah, why?" Peter leaned over, trying to see what had caught his fellow agent's attention.

"He just reactivated his radio." Jones pointed to the new audio source on his screen. "And his GPS is on. He's heading the wrong way, and there's someone else with him."

"What?" Peter frowned deeply. "Patch me in."

"Hang on," Jones tapped on his computer as Peter grabbed his headphones, lifting them onto his ears, and almost immediately he heard Neal's voice.

"Wai'- wait, let me get m' seatbelt-"

"Fine, Nick, just make it quick."

"Where're we goin'-?"

"Back to my place."

"I was tryin' to- had plans-"

"Well, now you've got different ones."

Peter and Jones shared identical looks of horror.

"Doesn't sound like a friend." Jones said lowly.

"No, and something's very wrong with Neal." Peter grit out, leaning over to Jones's screen to look at the GPS map. The little dot that represented his wayward CI was moving in the opposite direction of Neal's apartment. "Get up to the front, Jones, go. I'll call for backup to meet us there."

"Yes sir." Jones was up in an instant, hurrying to the front of the truck and fumbling the key into the starter. As Peter reached for his phone, intending to call Diana to bring a team with them, Neal's voice crackled once more through his headphones.

"'S a nice ride." He commented. "Navy blue- what is it, 2004? Ford Focus?"

"2005."

"Riiiight. It's nice."

Whatever was going on with Neal - likely drugged, if he was concussed he wouldn't be so friendly - he still had the mental capacity to try and slip them clues to help them save him, Peter thought with grim pride.

Jones pulled out into traffic as Peter's mind whirled. Who was this man? He had called Neal 'Nick', was he someone from their active case? What was he doing with Neal, how had he gotten him into such a state?

"Which way?" Jones shouted from the front, and Peter checked the map.

"West, head west!" He shouted back, remembering his previous task and once more reaching for his phone. A quick call to Diana later, a task force was on its way to Caffrey's location, not far behind Jones and Peter in the van.

Through his headphones, Peter heard the car stop.

"We here?" Came Neal's voice. "I don't think it's heat 'xaustion- feelin' pretty cool but not any less dizzy-"

"Come on, out you get."

"Hey- oh, I've been here before. It's th' little neighborhood on Hartson street, one with th' rock bridge. House is pretty, like th' blue-"

"Quit your reminiscing and let's get inside." The other man snapped, and Peter heard a small grunt from Neal. The agent became suddenly aware of how tightly he was gritting his teeth.

"They've arrived." He called hoarsely up to Jones in the driver's seat. "Hartson street." Jones nodded tersely, and Peter communicated the address to Diana's team as well. Of course, the GPS would lead them there anyway, but it was good to have a concrete target in mind. Neal's dot had stopped moving.

"Nice place- can I have some water?"

"Oh, you won't be needing it."

"Wht's that mean- why're we goin' down in the basement-"

"It's real cool down here."

"I'm ac'shully kinda cold now-" Neal's voice cut off with a grunt, and Peter heard a thud. "…alright. Guess we're done pre'tendin' we're buds."

"Yeah, we're done."

"Jones, how close are we?" Peter snapped.

"With traffic, I can't say, but we're under ten minutes away." Jones called back. Peter forced himself to stay focused. It would have to be fast enough.

"So who're- who are you with?" Neal was asking. "Fallon? Could've called, has my number-"

"I don't know who you're talking about." Neal's captor interrupted. "You make a lot of enemies, Nick?"

"…w-well then, Keller? Friend of Adler's?" Neal's voice trailed off. "You're… you really…?"

"I have no idea who you are." His captor's voice was indifferent. "I just like to watch pretty boys squirm." A moment of stunned silence, then Neal forced out a strained laugh.

"Well that's awfully forward've you, Dale, I don' swing that way but mayb' buy me dinner an'-"

"Man, one would think you're used to being locked up in basements." 'Dale' interrupted, and Peter heard echoing footsteps. "Up, come on." Neal grunted, and Peter heard an all-too-familiar click.

"Handcuffs. Classic." Neal commented. Peter knew his CI could get out of cuffs as easily as he could breathe, but today? While drugged? He couldn't be so sure.

"Hey, quick, easy, and convenient." A shuffle. "There now, don't you make a perfect picture." Peter heard the click of a camera's shutter, and he ground his teeth. Neal was debilitated, bound, and locked in a stranger's basement with, as far as his captor knew, nobody looking for him. Peter was a white collar agent, but that didn't mean he didn't know his way around violent offenders - if this man wanted to kill Neal quickly, he would've already done so.

No, he'd taken him home and locked him up where he assumed no one would find him. It was a d### good thing that Peter would.

Neal's head was swimming.

With his wrists fastened firmly behind his head as they were, he couldn't even prop himself up to get a good look at his kidnapper as the man set his camera aside, approaching him. It was dark, but even in the dimness Neal could see the sadism on his face. Neal swallowed. Unless Peter showed up in the next 12 seconds, he wasn't getting out of here unscathed.

He felt horrible. Whatever poison he'd been tricked into drinking had caused him to break into a cold sweat, and the cold concrete floor he'd been tossed down on did nothing to help his uncontrollable shivering. He'd succeeded so far in not throwing up - he didn't relish choking on his own bile, incapable as he was of getting up. Somehow, he'd managed to keep his stupid carefree smile on his face thus far, but it was probably about time to put that away before it provoked his captor into further violence.

"So." Dale said conversationally, walking past him and out of sight. "Have a lot of enemies, hmm?" Neal shifted, hoping to every and any deity out there that Peter was hearing all this.

"Sure do." He confirmed. "Alleg'dly committed a lot've crimes. Nothin' too bad, jes' a few thieveries an' forgeries."

"So you've been a bad bad man." Dale came back into view, and Neal's fingers began unconsciously working at the cuffs. Some models could be popped without use of his picks… "It almost," Dale laughed, fidgeting with the knife now held between two fingers. "It almost makes it less fun. But I'm sure," He knelt down next to Neal, hungry gaze traveling up and down his body. "I can make it work."

The handcuff burst free, and Neal jerked, swinging his arm around and slamming the remaining cuff into his captor's face.

Dale shouted, cringing back, and Neal scrambled away. He tried to get to his feet, but the world spun around him and he crashed to the ground again. A second try only resulted in the same failure, and a third attempt barely got him to the stair rail. He gripped the banister like his life depended on it, trying to get his foot on the first step.

A strong arm wrapped around his neck, jerking him back, and Neal was helpless to free himself. He could barely walk. "Handcuffs not doing it for you, huh?" Dale hissed into his ear, turning around and shoving him to the ground again at the foot of the beam. Neal grunted as he hit the concrete again, disappointed with his failure, but at least he was stalling. Dale grabbed his arm, his grip strong, and Neal's eyes flickered open as his hand was fitted over a plank that lay on the floor nearby.

The knife flashed over Dale's head, and Neal's eyes widened in realization moments before it jammed through his hand and into the plank.

Weirdly, the thing he was most aware of as he screamed was that he hoped he hadn't blown out the receiver on his hidden radio, which was now pinned firmly to a board with the killer's knife. Second was the pain, of course, which radiated hot and merciless throughout his entire body. He jerked, trying to drag his hand away, but Dale had planted a foot on the board and trying to move his hand only caused more agony. Neal's chest heaved as he gasped for breath, vision darkening, and he found himself mouthing Peter's name.

Peter, where are you?!

"Well, now, it's a good thing I carry several of these." Dale remarked, lifting another knife. Neal reacted instantly, trying to hide his other hand, and his captor laughed. "No worries, Nick, I'll leave your other hand be." He paused. "For now. I like to keep a little piece of my victims with me- usually a finger. Do you have any preference on which?" The edge of the knife ghosted over his pinned hand, and Neal's fingers seized involuntarily.

The ex-con pinned his eyes shut, sucking in air and trying to calm himself. Panicking wouldn't help him, he'd been through s### like this before, all he had to do was wait him out and Peter would come and save him-

A weight pressed down on his chest, and Neal's eyes flew open to find his kidnapper kneeling over him, straddling his waist.

"Yeah, I said victims." Dale hissed softly, reaching down to trace Neal's chin with the point of the knife. No matter of struggling and cringing away would let him escape his reach. "You're far from the first, Nick, and you won't be the last. The difference between you and the first is, I've definitely learned how to make the whole process more… enjoyable for myself." A knee pressed down on his chest, and Neal wheezed harshly, the air forced from his lungs.

"Pet'r-" He gasped out.

"Peter?" Dale echoed. "No one's comin' for you, Nick." The voice was mocking, and Neal gritted his teeth. His heart was hammering in his chest, as if trying to make up for the missing blood that was now pooling on the floor beneath his hand, and his thoughts were only getting more and more muddled.

Peter, you'd better be on your way.

Peter had nearly broken his headphones when Neal screamed.

Jones had almost swerved off the road, too, demanding to know what the sound had been, but Peter had just snapped at him to keep driving. They were only a couple minutes out, and Peter was going in the moment they arrived whether their backup had appeared or not.

He could hear Neal's every pained breath, every threat hissed at him by the lowlife who held him prisoner. Gone was Neal's carefree banter, he hadn't said a word other than Peter since his scream. Scared was not an attribute Peter often associated with his playful CI, but he could hear it clearly in every sound that Neal made, breath sounding increasingly strained as his captor taunted him.

"You know, if I really put my mind to it I could make a killing off your insides." Peter heard a quiet snap, and Neal whimpered. "$500,000 for your heart, $120,000 for your kidneys… each." A small laugh. "I don't have the facilities for that… maybe someday."

The van jerked to a halt.

"Peter, which building?" Jones shouted back, and Peter tore his eyes from the console in front of him to consult Neal's map.

"First one to the right of the corner!" He shouted back, voice hoarse. "Is Diana-?"

"She's not here yet." Jones shut off the van, grabbing his handgun as he slid out of the van. Peter hesitated, gripping his headphones for a moment longer, before abandoning them and jumping out the back of the van to join him.

"Come on." Peter urged him, dashing across the street to the named house. The siding was blue. He headed straight for the door, trying the knob. "Of course he locked it." The senior agent backed up, tucking his gun away, and rushed forward to slam his shoulder into the door. All he gained was a spike of pain through his arm.

"Peter!" Jones hurried forward, scanning the front of the house for any other entrance. "The windows, could we-" Peter didn't wait for him to finish, drawing his gun as he dashed for one of the ground-floor windows. Rearing back his weapon, Peter slammed it into the glass, shattering it, and he lifted a foot to shove away some of the exposed shards before climbing through with Jones at his heels.

"Basement." He gasped out, batting the curtains aside. "They're in the basement." Without another word, they split up, searching the first level of the small house for the basement door.

Peter threw open a door and was met with a flight of stairs.

"Jones!" He bellowed, but didn't wait for him to respond before storming down into the dark basement. "FBI, get on the ground!"

The basement was dim, and it took him a moment to see what he was actually pointing his gun at. The only light came from the upstairs behind him, and a small window mostly choked out by weeds. It wasn't until his eyes adjusted that he saw Neal's kidnapper, looking up at him in shock from where he knelt on top of Neal's prone form.

"Get off of him." Peter snapped, gaze not leaving the scoundrel as he descended the rest of the staircase. The man didn't move. "Now!" The agent had almost made up his mind to shoot when his target finally obeyed, backing off from Neal. "Drop it." Peter gestured with his gun, and the man let the knife in his hand clatter to the ground. "On your knees, hands behind your head." Jones was hurrying down the stairs behind him, and Peter let him deal with cuffing the man as he turned his attention to Neal.

Neal was pale, breaths shallow, and it didn't take Peter more than a moment to find out why - a knife through his palm pinned Neal's hand to a piece of wood. It was clear now what had caused the scream. Peter was at his side in an instant, reaching down to pat at his face. "Neal!" The action had his CI jerking, a small cry escaping him as he jarred his trapped hand. Peter cursed.

"D#####, Neal, hold still." He fumbled his phone from his pocket, leaving his right hand resting on Neal's shoulder as he clumsily dialed medical services with his left. As he waited for them to pick up, his gaze swept up and down Neal's body, looking for any further injury. His button-down shirt had been cut open, but he seemed unhurt other than a small scratch on his exposed chest.

Peter got the call over with as quickly as possible, setting his phone aside and casting a glance over at their culprit. Jones had cuffed his hands behind his back, and now pinned him to the floor with a boot on his back as he listed off his rights. Remarkable restraint, Peter could tell that Jones wanted to rearrange the man's face as much as he did.

"Peter." Neal croaked, drawing his attention back down.

"Hey, Neal." Peter's thumb rubbed at his shoulder anxiously. "Paramedics are on their way."

"M' hand-"

"I know, bud, I see it." Peter stole another glance at the knife, and he was quick to look away. At least, if the damage was too great, at least it was his left hand. Neal was blinking up at him now, blue eyes glassy with pain. "Neal, talk to me. What happened?"

"Was walkin' home." Neal slurred, vision unfocused. "He… off'red me a bottle've water… drugged. Followed me 'till it kicked in." Peter pressed his lips in a thin line. He should think that Neal of all people would know not to accept a drink from a stranger on the street. But there would be plenty of time for scolding him later.

"Alright," he patted his shoulder, then started to remove his hand, but Neal's good hand shot up to grasp his fingers tightly. He said nothing, only looked up at him imploringly, and Peter sighed and adjusted his grip.

"Got Dale?" Neal rasped.

"We got him." Peter confirmed. "I'm just glad he wasn't interested in your watch." Heavy footfalls sounded above them, and Neal stiffened until Diana appeared on the stairs.

"Caffrey! Oh God."

"Diana, get him out of here." Peter jerked his head in the direction of Neal's captor. "EMS is on the way."

"Right." Diana rushed to assist Jones, hauling their perp off the ground. The man was tight-lipped, not saying a word as he was dragged up the stairs. Neal's unfocused vision followed them until they disappeared, clinging tightly to Peter's hand.

"…can y' get m' hand out-"

"No, Neal, not until the paramedics get here." Peter told him, voice stern. Neal groaned, tilting his head back and scrunching up his face.

"'s cold."

"I know." Peter rubbed his thumb in the center of Neal's palm, wishing he hadn't left his jacket in the van. "Just- hold out for me, we'll have you out of here before you know it."

"Did I say anything strange while I was under?" Neal asked, reclining back against his sterile hospital pillow.

"If you're asking if you admitted to any crimes, the answer is no." Peter responded, subduing a smirk. "But I didn't ask."

"Well, I appreciate that." Neal's eyes were bright again, charming grin shining once more from his face. If not for the IV strapped to his arm and his hand wrapped firmly in bandages, Peter could almost imagine that he hadn't just been kidnapped and nearly murdered.

Peter had followed the ambulance back to the hospital, and roamed the various waiting areas anxiously until he was called in to see his partner. Neal was sleeping when he arrived, and a surgical assistant had told Peter that the damage in his hand was, fortunately, reversible. The wound, though alarming, had missed any major tendons, and they expected him to make a full recovery.

They'd tested his blood to try to find out what exactly Emery had put into his system, but hadn't come up with a clear answer yet. The assistant told Peter that they suspected it was a combination of several fairly common sedatives. Until they found out what it was, they weren't willing to put Neal on any pain medication, for risk of triggering an adverse reaction.

Neal had been rather unimpressed with this when he'd woken up, but got over it quickly enough. Peter discovered early on that his memories of being kidnapped were fairly hazy, hence the question about confessing to any serious crimes.

"Find anything out about the b######?" Was Neal's next question.

"We did." Peter shifted, glancing at a folder on the nearby table that Jones had dropped off not long before. "The neighborhood we found you in has been seeing a rash of murders over the past few months, I just got the file from violent crimes. The bodies, when found, were all in various stages of…" Peter trailed off momentarily. "…violence."

"And now you have someone to pin them on." Neal nodded.

"Even if we can't pin him for those, attempted murder, and… whatever he was trying to do to you should put him away for a long time." Peter said grimly. Neal nodded, eyes straying down to his bandaged hand.

"Right."

"Only you," Peter remarked, following his gaze. "could get yourself kidnapped and stabbed while not even on the clock."

"It's one of my many talents." Neal shot him a winning smile. "Did they find out how he drugged me?" Peter gave him a look.

"You accepted a drink from him, I think it's pretty clear."

"Yeah, but the bottle was sealed." Neal protested. "Unless he re-sealed it somehow, how did he spike the water?" Peter frowned.

"Maybe he injected it through the plastic."

"Maybe." Neal set his jaw, looking annoyed. "Well, remind me not to do that again."

"I'll try to."

"It just seems like such a complicated way to kidnap someone." Caffrey complained.

"And how would you kidnap someone?" Peter leaned back, lifting a stern brow. "Give them a wink and tell them to meet you at your place at 5?"

"Hey, it works." Neal shrugged, only to hastily backpedal when Peter's stare intensified. "I mean, it's worked for other things. I've never kidnapped anyone."

"Not even allegedly?"

"Not even allegedly." Neal assured him.

The pair lapsed into silence, and Peter paged through the case file. It now included a profile on Dale Emery, featuring his new mugshot. 28 years old, single, electrical worker and active in his community. One would never think that this man was a killer.

"Neal." He broke the silence. "They're going to want you to give a statement." He lifted his head, closing the file. "How much do you remember?" Neal looked down at the sheets covering him, gave a small shrug.

"I remember being stabbed."

"Anything else?"

"Walking down the street, accepting the water bottle from him." Neal mimed taking a drink. "Started feeling strange, tried to call you, but Dale took my phone and herded me into his car. Don't remember much after that, being pushed down in the basement and having my hand stabbed." Peter frowned, chest constricting a bit at the thought of Neal's form of communication being taken away from him. If he hadn't forgotten to return his watch…

"That should be plenty." He said at last. "Especially since we have the recorded audio from your watch." Neal's eyes widened a bit.

"Right, of course. You probably know more than I do." He grinned again, catching Peter's eye. "The thing with the watch was pretty clever though, right?" Peter smiled, giving him a pat on his good arm.

"Very clever." He agreed. "Next time, don't get kidnapped."

"Yes sir."