Notes:

Thanks to Opal for pointing out this originally uploaded with completely broken formatting

AN: I started writing fic for the House fandom, so I naturally gravitate toward medical plots. I've also had chronic pain my whole life, and I've written to process my feelings about that with a side of fantasizing about fictional characters and nerding out over medical literature. Recently at 31 everything crashed hard and I ended up spending months in bed and becoming a wheelchair user. But that did lead to finally getting answers for what's been happening to me. So I finally wrote a fic about what I actually have. Points if you can guess what's going on, it only took real doctors 12 years from the first time I had to use a cane XD

Work Text:

1

Peter walked into the conference room, holding a box of files. Neal was where Peter had left him, but he seemed to be asleep, arms crossed on the table and his face in the crook of his elbow. He had taken off his suit jacket and put it on the back of the chair, his vest was unbuttoned, and his tie was loosened.

Peter put the box down carefully. He had been gone longer than expected, almost an hour. However, Neal still had plenty more employee files from the bank that had been robbed he could be going through.

Peter put his hand on Neal's spine, and rubbed gently up and down. His back was tight, knotted up. Neal moaned slightly and raised his head. His hand went to his neck, and he winced.

He sat up and rubbed his face with one hand and his neck and shoulder with the other. Peter kept his hand on Neal's back, "hey, let's go get some coffee."

Neal looked up at him, "okay."

Peter stepped back to let Neal push the chair back. Neal got up and walked out. Peter picked up Neal's suit jacket and followed. Neal was just starting the stairs, going down them inordinately slowly.

Peter watched Neal intently. Neal stopped right before the elevator, and checked his pants, "oh, hold on."

He turned around and went back to his desk. He dug in the drawer, and frowned, looking around.

Peter checked the pockets of Neal's jacket and produced a wallet, "this?"

Neal looked at him, "oh. Yeah, thanks."

Neal tightened his tie, buttoned his vest, and took the jacket from Peter. Then he took the wallet.

"Neal, are you okay?"

"Just tired. Feel like I'm coming down with something."

Peter reached out, put one hand on Neal's shoulder and the other on his forehead, "well, you're not warm. But still, why don't you take the day off."

"Thanks," said Neal.

Peter didn't like how quiet the younger man was, "do you want a ride?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

Peter shrugged, "everybody gets sick."


Jones walked back to his car to leave the scene of the second bank robbery on one street in a week. Neal was sitting in the front passenger seat. He was leaning forward, hands to his face.

Jones got in the driver's seat. Neal started, and sat up, blinking.

"You okay, man?"

"Migraine."

"Oh. That sucks, I'm sorry. Need anything?"

"No," said Neal, leaning back and putting his seatbelt on, then shutting his eyes, "thanks. I'll be fine."


Diana had been on her feet for ages, it was past ten at night. She got on the elevator down to records, leaned down, took off her shoes, holding them in one hand as she rubbed her foot with the other.

The elevator stopped and she padded onto the carpet, and started looking for the right aisle. Neal had been sent for a cart full, but Peter wanted one in particular right now.

Diana saw the cart and walked over to it to ask Neal if he had already pulled the file. Neal was inside the aisle behind the cart. He was on the floor, his back to a pillar. He had his knees drawn up, and he was holding the left one with both hands.

Diana pushed the cart aside, and knelt. Neal jumped when the cart moved.

"Hey, are you hurt?"

"Just twisted my knee. Stupid mistake."

"We're all tired, it happens. You think you need a doctor?"

He shook his head, "no, I'm okay."

Diana stood, and reached down, offering him her hand. He pulled lightly against it, just bracing himself, and got to his feet.


Hughes went into the men's room, some whiteout spilled on his hand. He stood at the sink and washed the white fluid off, scrubbing it with soap.

He turned off the sink and grabbed a paper towel. He went to the door and opened it, but his phone beeped and he stopped to check it, letting the door close.

He heard a soft sound from one of the stalls. Then another. Then a quiet sob. Hughes bent down and looked under the stalls. There was only one pair of legs and they were wearing nice shoes and an ankle monitor.

Hughes's eyebrows came together. The person, Neal, was breathing heavily, shakily.

Hughes opened the door, walked further into the bathroom, grabbed a second towel noisily, and left.

About an hour later he walked by Neal's desk, and saw the younger man seated at it. He was scrolling through the bank's security card timestamps, looking tired but generally okay. His left hand held his right shoulder tightly.

Hughes decided Neal must just have gotten slightly hurt on a case or something and was insisting on being macho. He wouldn't be the first young guy to nurse an injury in the FBI bathroom.


Month 2

Peter knocked on Neal's door, but there was no answer. He knocked again. He tried the knob, and it opened, so he went inside. He was a little surprised, the apartment wasn't always super organized, but it was usually tidy enough. Today not so much.

Peter stepped further in, "Neal?"

He walked over to where he could see Neal's bed, and found the consultant asleep there. He had kind of propped himself up with many pillows, and there was a heating pad behind his neck. He was wearing sweatpants and no shirt. His hair was messy and unwashed, and he seemed not to be sleeping particularly peacefully.

A bottle of ibuprofen stood next to his bed, as well as a tube of a topical pain cream, antacids, Gatorade.

Peter sat on the edge of Neal's bed, and reached over, gently rubbing Neal's shoulder. Neal pulled away, distressed, and opened his eyes.

"Hey, you weren't answering your phone," said Peter, "now I see why. You're sick?"

Peter gestured to the array of medicines on the table.

"I'm sorry I didn't answer," said Neal, sitting up, "I'm just so tired, I must have just slept through it."

"You should take better care of yourself," said Peter, gently, "this is the second time in just a couple weeks, right?"

Neal shrugged a little. He seemed out of it, fatigue weighing heavily at him.

"Okay, well, take the next couple days off. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks, Peter," said Neal.


Jones paced the halls, searching for Neal. He was supposed to take Neal to interview the security teams, but that only worked if he could find the guy.

Finally, he located Caffrey sitting on the floor next to one of the ladders down in records.

"Hey. Did you…fall off the ladder?"

"No," said Neal, sighing, "I twisted my knee the other week and it didn't like climbing up. So I was waiting for it to stop hurting."

Jones reached out and offered Neal his right hand. Neal took it awkwardly with his left hand, the file in his right hand, and let Jones haul him to his feet. Jones steadied him as he failed to straighten his left leg all the way.

Neal slowly swung his leg in place, stretching it further and further toward straight each time. He placed his foot carefully, and his leg seemed to hold okay. He tried to act like it didn't hurt, but his hands tightened at his sides, crumpling the file in the right one slightly.

Jones clapped Neal lightly on the back, "hey, want to go tell a bank how bad their security is?"

Neal brightened up, "yeah."


Diana climbed into the back of the van, and looked between Neal and the probie sitting next to him, "anything interesting happen?"

"Unfortunately this park seems to be a meeting place for lots of transactions," said Neal, "so far we've seen three handoffs, but the most interesting one was for a bucket of salamander eggs."

Diana snorted as she sat down. Neal swiveled his legs to make room for hers, and reached across the van for his coffee. He gasped, and grabbed his shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head, "just pulled something the other day."


Hughes walked into Peter's office to drop off a warrant that had come through. Peter wasn't there, but Neal was.

He was sitting at the side of Peter's desk, reading through a file. He barely seemed to be staying awake.

"Late night?"

Neal raised his head, and then rubbed his eyes as he refocused them farther away, "just a bunch of long days in a row."

"Take a break, get some coffee."

Neal nodded, then winced and rubbed the back of his neck.


Month 3

Peter's phone buzzed with a text, he waited until a stoplight to read it. Neal was running late, apparently, but he had made some of June's coffee. Peter decided that was a fine tradeoff.

He let himself in when he got to June's, since Neal had said he still had to shower. Peter came in, and looked around. It was tidier than the last time he had seen the apartment, some of the furniture had been moved around.

Peter didn't hear the shower running, so he called out, "Neal?"

There was no answer. He was probably in the bathroom drying off or something. Peter poured himself coffee, and got half and half out of Neal's fridge. He was surprised to see more ready food than fresh ingredients. Well, Neal had been pretty run down lately, and they had a heavy case load.

Peter got half and half out, and put some in his coffee. He put the carton back in the fridge. He walked out the open door onto the patio, and was briefly startled to find Neal sitting out there.

He was still in pajamas, just sweatpants and a short-sleeved undershirt. He was sitting on a lounge chair with his feet drawn up and knees folded to the side. He was holding his left knee.

Peter cleared his throat, as he walked further out onto the patio. Neal turned to look at him, "oh, hey. Sorry, I just feel like crap today. I'll get going."

Peter put a hand on Neal's chest, gently pushing him to lay back in the chair, "nuh-uh. You're taking a week off. I need you healthy. Can't keep your deal if you're too run down to do your job, right?" He joked.

Neal gazed up at him, face neutral, and then chuckled, "yeah, okay. I'll take the week off."


Jones got out of the car by Neal's apartment, annoyed that the consultant wasn't answering, but only slightly since meeting Neal in person usually meant a cup of coffee.

He knocked, June answered.

"Here for Neal," said Jones, lightly.

June frowned, "Neal? But he's out of town with Peter, isn't he?"

Jones's chest tightened, "shit. No, he's not."

Jones pounded up the stairs to Neal's apartment. In the middle of the floor he found two objects: a lead box with a note taped to it, and a transmitter sitting on top of a currently stationary Roomba. He opened the box and found the cut anklet inside it.


Diana walked into Peter's office, carrying two coffees. She put one down on Peter's desk. He looked up at her, eyes red, under eyes purple from exhaustion.

"I don't know where he is, Diana. I can't find him. He ran, and I can't find him."

Diana put her hand on his arm, "I'm sorry. We'll keep looking."


Month 6

Hughes looked up as there was a knock on his office door. Peter was there, holding a sheet of paper. Hughes nodded and Peter came in.

He placed the paper on the desk, "the bakery that makes Mozzie's preferred brand of gluten free bread has been shipping a large order to Cape Verde every month since Neal ran."

Hughes sighed, "Peter, you know I can't authorize you to…what, go to an island where you have no jurisdiction and interrogate the port staff about bread?"

Peter deflated somewhat.

Hughes stood, and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, "we'll find him eventually. In the meantime try and get some rest, Peter."

Peter swallowed, looked down, then looked up and met Hughes's eyes.

Hughes sighed, "go take a vacation."

"Thank you, sir."

"I can't protect you, Peter."

"I know. It's okay."


Neal laid on the warm sand on a towel. He breathed with the sound of waves crashing over the sandbar, then gently lapping up the beach and receding.

A breeze traveled over his skin, burning. He opened his eyes and looked at his arms, triple checking that he wasn't actually sunburned. He was under an umbrella and he had been wearing a shirt until Mozzie had left for the bar maybe ten minutes before. His skin looked fine.

He laid his arms back down and closed his eyes again. He relaxed in the warmth and the peace for a few minutes.

He got bored, so he sat up gingerly, but not too stiffly as the sand was both firm and hot and had done his back good. He picked up his book on Degas, and started reading.

Maybe ten minutes later he heard shoe steps crunching in the sand. They didn't sound like Mozzie's. He looked up.

To his right approached a man in a straw hat, linen shirt, bermuda shorts, leather man sandals. They were tall, and the hat shaded their face.

Neal got from sitting to kneeling with an effort, and watched the person come toward him. But then he relaxed, at least a little, and sat back down, legs folded to his right side. It was Peter. It had only taken three months.

Peter came up to him and pushed the hat up. The brim was too wide and flopped down into his face. He took the hat off, and squinted down at Neal in the bright sunshine, "it was easier to find you here than I thought. Once I figured out the island."

Neal patted the towel next to him, Peter sat down, sharing the shade.

"How did you find the island?" asked Neal.

"Mozzie's been flying in gluten free bread."

Neal laughed, "oh, do not tell him he was the reason you found us. He'd die."

Peter snorted. He looked Neal over, and then drew him into a tight hug. Neal was stiff in surprise for a moment. Then, slowly, he relaxed into Peter's embrace. Tears pricked his eyes.

He had missed Peter so badly, and while Mozzie had helped him physically a lot, he wasn't physically affectionate. He didn't hug Neal and make Neal feel like nothing mattered outside his arms.

"I'm sorry I was such an idiot," said Peter, softly, "I'm sorry I didn't see you were sick."

Neal chuckled, letting go, "figured that out, too, huh?"

"I retraced your tracking data on foot going back months. Found you'd gone to a few doctors a bunch of times. Put things together. Couldn't sleep for a week, I was so disgusted with myself."

"I hid it."

"You hide everything, but you'll let someone see if they're looking. I'm supposed to be looking."

Neal leaned his head on Peter's shoulder, letting himself believe that the older man really understood. Peter's hand came up, large and heavy and soft on Neal's bare back.

"Are you taking me back to prison now?"

Peter stiffened, "no, Neal. You're not going back to prison."

"How? I ran."

"I'll figure it out. I won't take you back until I do. I promise."

Neal sighed, some of the stress and worry he had carried for months finally leaving his body. Tears welled up again and that time he let them fall.

Peter pulled him back into a hug.

"I've got you," murmured Peter into Neal's ear, "everything will be okay."


Later that evening, Mozzie came back. Neal was laying inside on the couch, blankets piled over him. He sleepily watched Peter sweep up sand they had tracked in.

Mozzie froze when he saw Peter, then looked at Neal. Neal gave him a tired smile, and murmured, "it's okay."

Peter turned around, and waved at Mozzie, "hey. Neal said you might show me where to get fish to grill."

Mozzie stared at Peter, "why aren't Neal and I in handcuffs, suit? What's your angle?"

Peter sighed, "I'm not here as an FBI agent. I'm here as Neal's friend."

Mozzie hesitated. But he did finally nod, and gesture to the front door, "yeah, we can go to the marina. We get from a guy who sells his catch off the back of a boat. Fresh as it comes."

"Great," said Peter.

Neal pushed the blankets back, and sat up. A wave of burning pain and bone deep exhaustion hit him, he hugged himself around his middle and hunched forward.

Peter immediately came to sit next to him, Neal leaned against the older man. Peter put his arm around Neal's back, and squeezed him gently.

Mozzie sat on the arm of the couch, watching Neal work on getting up. He seemed to be holding his tongue about something.

Finally Neal got to his feet, and shuffled to the front of the house, Peter's arm still around him protectively.

They got in the car, Mozzie drove it to the marina. Neal stayed sitting in the front passenger seat, watching Mozzie and Peter head down the docks to the right boat. A man with a sun wrinkled face chopped up fish for them, handing over large yellowfin tuna steaks wrapped in brown paper.

Once back at the beach house, Neal got out of the car. Unfortunately, that wave of pain was even worse, and he fell against the side of it, swearing quietly, legs shaking under him.

Mozzie quickly reached for him, as did Peter. He looked between the two of them, sheepishly, and mumbled, "I'm okay."

He pushed off the car and shuffled toward the house. Mozzie let go but Peter didn't. Neal stopped walking and looked at Peter, "really. I just needed to take a second."

Peter let go of Neal's arm. Neal saw Peter look at Mozzie, worried, for confirmation. Neal sighed, and finished going inside. He sat down on a stool in the kitchen, as Mozzie unwrapped the fish on the counter. Peter came up to Neal, and absently brushed his fingers over Neal's arm. Neal winced away.

Peter withdrew his hand, looking upset.

Neal sighed, reached out, grabbed Peter's hand. He squeezed it firmly, "Peter, stop freaking out. It's just stupid nerve stuff. I feel like crap but I really am okay."

Peter nodded, though he still didn't look happy. Mozzie showed Peter where the grill was out back, Neal seasoned the fish while they got a fire lit.


Peter woke up in the middle of the night. Mozzie was standing over him holding a flashlight.

"Jesus, Mozzie!" Barked Peter.

"Can you come to Neal's room?" Asked Mozzie, ignoring Peter's startled response.

"Uh, oh. Yes?"

Peter got out of bed. Mozzie stopped by the door into the hallway, "he told me not to get you. But he needs you."

Peter nodded. He followed Mozzie to the single bedroom on the ground floor. Mozzie opened the door and ushered Peter inside.

Peter stepped in. The ceiling light was off but the table lamps were on. Neal was curled up on a full bed, shirtless, tangled completely in multiple blankets.

He was crying, holding his left elbow and his right shoulder. A heating pad laid between his neck and the pillow his head was on.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, and very lightly placed his hand over Neal's on Neal's shoulder.

Neal opened his eyes and looked up at Peter, then raised his head to glare at Mozzie, "I told you not to wake him up!"

Neal's voice was hoarse, and it broke as he yelled.

"I'm glad he did," said Peter, quietly.

Neal shook his head, which clearly hurt him to do, "you don't need to be here for this."

"I needed to be here for you for the last six months, and I wasn't. That ends tonight."

Neal shut his eyes and turned his head away, upset but almost physically unable to keep arguing.

Peter started to untangle Neal's blankets, gingerly, without jostling him at all. When they were sorted out, Peter covered him back up with the softest one.

Peter sat back down, and stroked Neal's hair, sweaty and messy from tossing in pain. Neal whimpered, rolled to face away from Peter and hid his face in the pillow, his body shuddering with stifled sobs as he wrapped his arms around each other.

Peter rubbed his back, lightly, just brushing his fingers over Neal's bare skin, muscles tense and shaking under his touch.

Eventually Neal rolled back over, and looked up at Peter, eyes watery and red, "why am I not in prison? Why aren't you taking me back? I can't do anything for you."

"Because you didn't let me down. The system let you down. I let you down. Doing what's right by you is more important to me than my job. And what you can do or can't do has nothing to do with it."

Neal stared up at him, exhausted, overwrought.

Peter leaned forward and kissed Neal on the forehead, "try and rest?"

Neal let out a soft puff of air and closed his eyes. Peter scooted the rest of the way onto the bed, his back to the headboard, and started gently teasing apart the tangles in Neal's hair.

Mozzie sat down on the chair beside the bed, where he had been presumably sitting before deciding to get Peter.

They sat with Neal, as his body gave him endless greif.

T

Peter lay awake, staring up at the ceiling fan, as Neal moved around in the bed for the fifteenth time in an hour, the younger man whining slightly in frustration in the back of his throat.

Peter sat up and looked at him. Neal was crying, silently, face wet and puffy, circles dark under his eyes. He held his thigh with one hand, and upper arm with the other. No matter how he laid he seemed to be in too much pain to get even a moment's rest.

Peter gently placed his hand on Neal's ribs, "can I get you anything?"

Neal gave a quiet, strangled sound. He turned over and buried his face in Peter's chest, starting to sob. Peter held him like he might fall apart if Peter didn't hold him together.

t

Peter woke in the morning, to find himself still in Neal's bed, still with the younger man beside him. Neal was completely insensate, pale, except for his cheeks and eyelids, which had a patchy red rash basically everywhere tears had run the night before.

Peter frowned, gently touching the younger man's cheek.

"It's just an allergic reaction," said Mozzie's voice, quietly, "to the salt from crying."

Peter raised his head. Mozzie was in the armchair, seemingly just waking up himself.

"What do I do?"

"Just wipe his face off. He probably won't even wake up."

Peter nodded, carefully got out of the bed, covered Neal back up. He went to the kitchen and ran the tap. Mozzie followed him out, and made himself a mimosa while Peter waited for the water to get warm.

"I'm glad you're here," said Mozzie, softly, "even if you are a suit."

Peter met his eyes, "me too. And I'm glad you've been there for him."

Peter took a soft towel off the oven door, found a bowl, wet the towel.

Peter re-entered Neal's bedroom. He picked up the warm, damp cloth from the bowl. He sat down on the bed, and gently used the towel to wipe Neal's face.

Exhaustion had taken Neal hard, he slept like the dead. Even when Peter gently dabbed his eyelids. Peter wiped his neck and chest, as well, seeing some pink.

Mozzie came back in, and sat in the armchair with his drink and some cheese.

"He'll probably sleep all day," said Mozzie, "if not longer. He needs a lot of rest and he didn't sleep well last night either."

Peter nodded sadly. He adjusted the blankets, made sure Neal was well covered. Neal slept on.

Peter looked at Mozzie, "so…I need to get Elizabeth here without any record of it."

Mozzie raised an eyebrow. Peter shrugged.

"I can get her here. But what's your plan?"

"Still working on it. But I know I need El to figure it out."

Mozzie nodded.


Neal started to wake. He was laying in his bed in the beach house, he could hear the waves outside. There was a hand over his right hand, bigger than his, warm and heavy. Peter's hand. There was another hand, though, and that was what had woken him.

The second hand stroked his arm, and chest, and Elizabeth's voice spoke, "I've never seen him so still…"

He had to be dreaming, thinking he had woken, but within a dream. Elizabeth wasn't at the island.

"Me neither."

Elizabeth's dream hand moved to his face, the backs of her fingers against his forehead briefly, then brushing ever so tenderly against his cheek and jaw.

Neal opened his eyes.

Peter, Elizabeth, and Mozzie were there. Mozzie in the armchair, Peter standing beside the bed, Elizabeth seated on the edge of the mattress.

"Elizabeth?" murmured Neal, "am I still dreaming?"

"I flew in overnight. You've slept a long time."

Neal slowly sat up, against the pillows and headboard. He looked between the three of them, uncertain.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you," said Neal, clearing his dry throat, "but what are you doing here?"

Elizabeth looked at Peter briefly, then back at Neal, "I'm here to help plan."

Neal tried to sit up a little more, but his body seemed to fail to make the energy to do so successfully. He grunted slightly, and then laid back. Elizabeth reached out, and gently put her hand on his chest, "honey, please rest. We're going to take care of everything. In the meantime, you need to take care of yourself."

Neal grumbled but didn't try again. He coughed a little again.

"Can I get you some water?" asked Elizabeth.

"I guess."

Elizabeth got up and went toward the kitchen. Neal looked at Peter, "you know this island is full of real criminals, right?"

"Yeah I'm not really worried about Elizabeth," said Peter, "might be worried about the other people on the island."

Neal chuckled tiredly. He must have slept for almost a whole day, but he was still so fuzzy and exhausted.

Mozzie poked Neal's left shoulder lightly with one finger, "hey. You need a shower. You already got a rash while you were asleep and you sweated through even the blankets."

Neal made a face at Mozzie, "thanks for putting it so delicately. It can wait."

Mozzie met his eyes, frustrated, daring him to make Mozzie remind him how uncomfortable he could get if he didn't wash off. Neal dropped his eyes before Mozzie did.

"Fine, I'll take a shower."

Neal pushed himself up to sitting mostly using his arm strength. His abs clenched up, and he had to arch backward to stretch them out and encourage them to stop. After a moment he shakily swiveled his legs off the side of the mattress.

He stopped. His thighs felt like jelly, his calves were already burning, his feet ached and flexed uncomfortably as he tried to put weight down. His back started clenching too from the stretch to help his abdominal muscles.

He let out a frustrated snort, and shut his eyes, riding it out. He had to get up. He got to his feet.

His back muscles simply would not hold him up properly, he quickly leaned forward and to the side, bracing himself with his hands on his hip and thigh. He refused to look at either Peter or Mozzie. His legs were shaking under him, he didn't know how long he could push before they refused to hold.

Peter stepped in front of him. Gingerly, he pulled Neal's left arm over his broader, taller shoulders. Neal's knees felt like they were made of rubber bands, he fought to keep them straightened but not overextended. His back muscles had all clenched or given out, the cramps starting to spread to the muscles around his ribs and sides as he tried to use them to hold himself up.

He ducked his head, pulled his arm away from Peter, and fell semi controlled to sit on the bed again. He leaned forward, tears of frustration burning his eyes and his cheeks.

He wrapped his arms around himself as pain sizzled through his nerves and skin, burned in his muscles, tore and ached in his tendons and ligaments.

"What would you usually do now?" Peter asked Mozzie, trying very hard to hide how upset he was, but largely failing.

Mozzie didn't tell Peter that the answer was usually body wipes or crawl to the bathroom. Mozzie couldn't lift Neal, Neal couldn't stand, they had gotten a clunky folding wheelchair but there were two sets of three steps each between the bedroom and the shower–it had been an office before they had moved in.

Neal looked up at Peter, trying to control his body and facial expression, "I don't know what–"

Elizabeth reappeared, having taken much longer than expected to get a glass of water.

She had found the wheelchair, and pushed it in. Piled on it were swimsuits. She was wearing a one piece suit with a sarong around her waist. She also held a tall glass with ice and coconut water and crushed mint and a wedge of lime on the lip of the glass.

She sat down beside Neal, gently eased one of his hands off his own arm, and put it around the drink, "here. I got the hot tub opened up and turned on. Let's just have a nice afternoon soak."

There were no steps between the bed and the hot tub, Neal realized. The swim trunks were all Peter's, but since they were ancient baggy drawstring things they could easily be tied for any of them.

Neal stared at Elizabeth, sincerely unable to figure out how all he felt. Impressed, grateful, and embarrassed were definitely in there, though.

"Thanks," he wound up saying in a small voice. He sipped from the drink, to cover being overwhelmed.

Peter and Elizabeth left him to get changed. Neal lay on his back on the bed, truly uncertain he could get up long enough to do so.

Neal finally looked over at Mozzie, who was watching him.

Mozzie yanked Neal's his sweats off and replaced them with the swim trunks just as unceremoniously.

"Thanks," whispered Neal

Mozzie shrugged, "I'd rather do that than see you push yourself more."

Neal rolled over, got up, fell into the chair, and hunched forward immediately, his breath catching as dizzying pain and exhaustion bloomed throughout his body.

Mozzie's hand rubbed his good shoulder gently, "does hurting yourself to spite me really make you happy?"

Neal didn't answer. He felt sick. He put his hands on the wheel rims and pushed himself out of the bedroom, panting embarrassingly halfway across the house. A wave of fatigue so heavy it felt like gravity had suddenly doubled hit him and he dropped his hands from the wheels and then dragged them into his lap.

He sat there for a few moments until he felt like he could lift his arms again. He pushed forward two more times. His arm muscles burned. His wrists and shoulders ached fiercely. His fingers panged in pain.

"Neal," said Mozzie, quietly, gently, "come on, man."

Neal looked up at the shorter man, wincing as his neck hurt, and gave a grudging nod. Mozzie pushed him out to the porch.

Elizabeth had set up a drinks station, Peter was sitting on the edge of the hot tub, waiting.

Neal shakily got down to sit on the porch, and scooted to the edge of the tub.

Peter stood there, his northern, city complexion bright in the tropical sunshine. He reached out, offering his hands to Neal.

Neal reluctantly took them, and Peter steadied him while he got down into the water.

The heat burned against his skin, made him feel feverish, but it soothed the muscle and joint pain so much that he made an involuntary, shaky moan.

Peter's arm wrapped around his back, pulled him close, Peter's face buried in the top of his head. Neal let Peter hold him, he was barely staying upright, and the solid body of his friend helped him stay that way.

Elizabeth got in, and Mozzie. Peter moved himself and Neal until Neal was sitting on a seat molded into the side of the tub. Neal looked up at Peter, Mozzie, and Elizabeth as Elizabeth handed the two older men drinks.

Neal leaned back in the seat, letting the water help hold him up, letting his hands float beside him and the bubbles massage his forever straining muscles.

He only lasted about five minutes, though, before he started to feel sick and overheated.

He tried to get out, but outside the near weightlessness of the water he could barely move. He got stuck with his arms and upper chest on the deck and everything else still in the tub.

Gently, an arm slid between his waist and the tub. The arm gripped him tightly around the top of his hips, and boosted him, another arm gripping his leg when he got further out of the tub and doing the same. He managed to crawl out onto the deck, but his body was shaking, and pain and intense muscle fatigue made him lay down where he was. Water splashed over him and then hands were on his back.

"I'm okay," he said into the deck, "just give me a second."

After a few minutes he managed to roll over, dreading the looks he would see on their faces.

Only Elizabeth and Mozzie were there. He blinked in confusion.

"Peter got upset so I made him go make lunch," said Elizabeth, "he'll come around. He just doesn't know what to do with himself when something goes wrong and he can't fix it."

"He's here…that's all I could have asked for. I'd rather he just be here than try to fix anything."

Elizabeth nodded, "he'll figure that out eventually."

Mozzie snorted, as though he wasn't certain she was correct. El gave him a gentle smack.

Neal slowly sat up. The rush of heat was dissipating, and the brief time in the tub had loosened some of the constant tension. He moved his right shoulder around, wincing slightly as he stretched muscles that were otherwise always clenched, fighting to keep the joint together.

"Want a shoulder rub?" Asked Elizabeth.

Neal hesitated.

"No pressure," said Elizabeth, "just an offer."

"Pressure is actually the thing," said Neal with a little laugh, "it's just really sensitive, I was worried it would hurt more than help."

"Light touch," said Elizabeth, "got it. And I'll stop the second it hurts, just tell me, okay?"

Neal grinned at her, "okay."

Mozzie went and made himself another drink at the outdoor mini bar, and sat on the edge of the tub with his feet in it.

Neal sat with both legs folded to the right, and El knelt behind him. She was extremely gentle, she only used her finger tips, and more pulled than pressed.

Even more of the tension released, and he felt something between a sob and a laugh bubbling up in him. He held it in, but he must have made some outward sign, because Elizabeth paused.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No," said Neal, "I was just laughing at how you don't realize how many little muscle groups you have until they're relaxing one by one. Lesson in anatomy. Good for drawing."

Elizabeth was quiet, her hands still on his shoulder. Neal was about to turn around to look at her when she finally started on his muscles again.

Neal laughed internally. He realized Elizabeth was just as emotional about these events as Peter. She was better at hiding it, and she was better at handling things that took "a light touch." She also didn't seem to think it said anything about her, which made her concern much easier for Neal to stomach.

Elizabeth kept working for a while longer, but Neal's body didn't want to sit up any more. His stomach muscles started to feel like he had just done crunches to exhaustion. He leaned forward and braced himself with his hand on the boards.

"You need to lie down?" Asked Mozzie, neutrally.

Neal nodded reluctantly. Mozzie got up and brought the chair over. Neal got into his hands and knees, and then gripped the armrest. Slowly, every joint protesting, his muscles burning far out of proportion to the task, he got up and into the chair.

He pushed himself forward and walked with his feet. His knees didn't like that so he put the footrests down and pulled his feet up onto them with an effort. He went the rest of the way inside and crawled from the chair onto the sofa.

He laid there, panting embarrassingly hard, as he waited for the sick burning sensation to subside. Elizabeth gently put her hand on his arm, "Neal, can I get you anything, or just sit with you?"

He looked at her, uncertain. Then, finally, relented, "just stay?"

She nodded, and knelt beside the couch. She put her hand on his, "later tonight you should show me the island. I've only seen the airport and this place. There's a marina?"

Neal nodded and smiled at her, fuzzily. Exhaustion battled with pain and he fought through all of it to focus on her, as she continued to talk to keep his mind off his physical discomfort.


Peter came into the back area, holding a tray of sandwiches. Mozzie was seated in an armchair reading a book. Elizabeth was next to the couch, holding Neal's hand. Neal seemed to be asleep.

Peter handed the sandwich on gluten free bread to Mozzie, then handed a regular one to Elizabeth.

Mozzie took the sandwich, stared at it for a second, then looked at Peter, "how did you know this was for me?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, "between you and the kid who bakes his own bread to impress dates in the morning? Yeah, it's you."

"It was away in a cupboard. Neal's bread was on the counter. You had to have looked for it."

Peter sighed, "yes, Mozzie. You caught me. I remembered you don't eat gluten. Don't let it make you think I like you."

Mozzie snorted.

Peter sat down beside Elizabeth and took a bite of his sandwich, watching Neal sleep.

"I thought the hot tub would make him feel better," said Peter, sadly.

"It's the heat," said Mozzie, with a sigh, "the tub is nice and the water helps, but the heat makes things worse. I think even just the weather here makes it worse."

Peter looked at Elizabeth, she met his eyes. He nodded, and asked Mozzie, "so it would be better for him to go back to New York than to stay here?"

Mozzie frowned, "why do you ask?"

Peter shrugged, "El and I talked. We were maybe just going to stay. Leave the FBI, leave New York. Stay here with Neal."

Mozzie stared at him, for a long moment.

"I think it would be better for him to go back. New York is definitely home, to him. It's cooler, his friends are there. But…he should find out you were willing to leave everything behind for him. He's actually bounced back a lot since you got here. He needs you. He needs to know nothing's broken between you."

Peter looked at Neal, so pale for living on an island. His voice broke a little when he started so he cleared his throat and started again, "I need him too."

Elizabeth patted Peter's arm.


Neal woke up. Everything hurt, to the point where he was aware of every individual toe because of the pain in the tendons and nerves. He was on the couch in the back living area. It was dark out.

Peter was next to him, sitting on the floor, his upper body leaned against the couch. He was dead asleep.

Very, very slowly, Neal sat up. He turned to put his feet down, and then even more slowly got up. He couldn't stand up straight easily, his lower back was killing him.

He shuffled to the bathroom. He peed, and washed his hands. He had to lean on the counter to stay standing as he did so.

He held himself up on walls and doorways as he went to his bedroom. He crawled into the bed, turned on the heating pad on his pillow, curled up, and tried to relax despite the pain being too intense to ignore. He dragged a book off his nightstand and tried to read it, but he couldn't focus.

There was a soft knock on the door. He looked up. Peter stood there, "hey, I'll let you rest. I just wanted to check if you needed anything."

"It's okay," said Neal, dully, "I can't get back to sleep. Hurts too much."

Peter came into the room and sat on the bed beside Neal, "do you want me to stay with you?"

Neal blinked at him, then, despite himself, nodded. Peter kicked off his shoes and sat against the headboard. Neal curled up with his upper body in Peter's lap. Peter's hand rubbed in a slow, gentle circle over Neal's back.

"You want me to read that?"

Neal hesitated, "I…guess?"

Peter took the book, and held it in one hand. He started reading out loud, his other hand still lightly rubbing Neal's upper back.

Neal turned his face to press into Peter's shorts, as tears stung his eyes. He needed this so badly. He could feel his body reacting to the closeness and care, his heartbeat slowing down and his muscles relaxing enough that it actually made the pain a little better.

Peter kept reading. Neal was too tired and foggy to really take in the essay, but he kept listening to Peter's voice. It helped him avoid focusing on his discomfort, and it reminded him of being back at the FBI, back when things had been normal.

Maybe an hour later Elizabeth and Mozzie came in, and followed the sound of Peter reading. Neal looked up at them, and murmured, "hi. Where did you two go?"

"Just paid our bills for the month," said Mozzie, "let Dobbs know we had two more people."

"He's quite the charmer," said Elizabeth, dryly.

Neal chuckled, "yeah he's not great."

Elizabeth sat down on the bed beside Neal and Peter. She lightly combed Neal's hair with her fingers, and smiled down at him, "we got some food. You up for dinner?"

He nodded, and slowly started to sit up. His right elbow protested, and he used his other arm more. He started to try to get to his feet, uncomfortably aware that three pairs of eyes were watching his every move. He made it, and straightened up, but no part of his body was happy about it. He glanced at the wheelchair, then quickly looked away.

"You don't need to avoid using the chair on our account, honey."

Neal gazed at Elizabeth, who had stood when he had. There was no pity in her face, just concern. He bit his lip and looked at the wheelchair, then back at Elizabeth.

"I can do it, it's okay," he said.

Elizabeth took his hand, and squeezed it lightly, "but it hurts, and you can't do as much. Right?"

Neal deflated, and mumbled, "yeah."

Mozzie brought it over, and Neal reluctantly sat down. He felt better and more confident immediately. He hated it.

Elizabeth put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head, "life might look different now. But the most important things haven't changed."


Elizabeth woke up to her quiet phone alarm. She was in bed with her husband on the upper floor of the beach house. Peter was sound asleep, on his back wearing just boxers, the covers pushed back in the warm night.

Elizabeth smiled and kissed his cheek. She got out of bed, put her robe on over her pajamas, and walked down the stairs.

She heard labored breathing, and silently followed it. She saw the wheelchair in the doorway to the kitchen.

Neal was lying on the floor just past the chair. He had his phone beside him, open to Peter's contact page, complete with Peter's awkward smile in the photo Neal had snapped for it years ago. She wasn't sure if he was struggling with calling for help or just looking at the picture. Either way it broke her heart.

Neal was holding himself around his torso. He was sweating, and he stayed utterly still, pain crossing his face with every indrawn breath.

Elizabeth padded into the room, and knelt beside him. She laid her hand very gingerly on his arm, "hey honey. Anything I can get you?"

Neal looked up at her, and then closed his eyes and laid his head back down on the floor.

"Enough bourbon to knock me out for a day?" He mumbled.

She patted his back, sadly, "I'm sorry it hurts so bad."

Neal closed his eyes and moved his body slightly towards her touch.

"I'll never understand how something that isn't actually killing me feels so much like dying," he whispered, "makes me scared I'm not going to wake up. Obviously I always do. Sometimes I'm not that glad about it."

Neal tried to sit up, but it clearly hurt him too much. Elizabeth scooted herself around to sit beside his head, and when he tried again she moved in, so he thumped back against her chest when his body gave out.

He seemed surprised, but not upset. Elizabeth put her arm around him at the bottom of his ribcage and he let his head tip back to rest on her shoulder. She repositioned herself until he was lying comfortably against her.

"Do you think about changing that?"

He was silent for a moment, then answered, "not really. Not seriously, not as a real option. Just...all I'm doing is existing. And existing hurts a lot. So it's hard to enjoy the process."

Elizabeth didn't show how upset she was that he was suffering like this. Instead she let it fuel her resolve to get him home as soon as possible.

Elizabeth stayed with Neal until he was able to crawl into the bed. He couldn't sit up enough to use the chair without his back locking up in spasms.

Elizabeth helped him into bed, and covered him up. She sat beside him until he fell asleep, his muscles failing to fully relax even in rest.

She waited until he was soundly asleep. She got up, and padded to the front door, picking up her purse. She slipped out and closed it silently behind herself. She picked up her sandals, which she had left outside to avoid tracking sand into the house, and walked down the small road to the city.

The road in front of the house was paved, then there was a section that was crushed gravel. She put her shoes on when the road changed. She walked into town, and to Dobbs's house. She snuck around the back, and used her hands against the glass to slide open the window she had unlocked earlier in the day, then wiped her fingerprints off.

She climbed through the window, and closed it behind herself. She looked around, at the wall of ships, and the other decor. She picked up a fork from a plate left on the desk and put it in her purse. She picked the file cabinet lock and started searching, took pictures with her phone.

Suddenly the office door opened. A security guard came in.

She turned to face the man. He was maybe thirty, not young enough to be easily swayed. She remembered him from her trip here with Mozzie.

"Hi," she said, "I was here earlier with an acquaintance. But I don't think he's being straight with me. I was looking for the information he gave Dobbs. I'll pay you if you help me find it. You can tell Dobbs, I don't care."

The guy seemed to consider it. Then he winked at her and left, "yeah that guy you were with seemed sketchy, even for this place. I can't let you go through Dobbs's things, though, or give you a file. Mr. Dobbs prides himself on the privacy of his clients."

Elizabeth nodded, "that's fair."

"Now go."

She nodded, and went to the window, opening it, "you might want to check the locks every night."

She climbed out, as the guard laughed behind her.


Peter opened his eyes to a hand on his arm and the sound of people talking. Elizabeth was sitting on the bed beside him. She held a stack of printer paper and a phone. The phone was on speaker. Jones and Diana were on the other end, by the sound of it.

"Okay," said Elizabeth, "he's awake. Go ahead."

Peter sat up, "honey, what's up? That call can't be secure…"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Peter," said Diana, "since Neal just tipped us off to the location of Robert Mcleish and about fourteen other high priority fugitives."

Peter actually physically pinched himself, before asking, "he what?"

"The fingerprints just came back," said Jones, "your Dobbs is Robert Mcleish."

Peter stared at his wife. There was no way Neal had snuck off to Dobb's to get fingerprints. Not with how bad things were right now.

"El, what did you do?"

"It was all Neal, as the report has to show," said Elizabeth, her eyes sparking with mirth and mischief.

She handed him the paper stack, and he looked through dozens of printed out photos of files on other residents of the island.

Peter stared at the papers. Then he raised his eyes and kissed Elizabeth, so enthusiastically she thumped back on the mattress. He could hear Diana and Jones giggling, and he didn't care at all.

"There's also a lot of stolen art there, so we're calling in help," said Diana.

Peter looked down at Elizabeth, raising an eyebrow questioningly.


Neal woke up. He was in bed, his body burned and ached, his hip right didn't feel quite right. That wasn't what had woken him, though.

That was lips against his.

He opened his eyes. Sara was leaning over him, grinning hugely.

"You know, If Elizabeth ever gets tired of event planning, I've got a position for her at Sterling Bosch."

Neal blinked up at Sara, her red hair frizzy in the tropical heat, her eyes crinkled in amusement as she grinned down at him.

"What did she do?" Asked Neal, not a huge fan of being kept in the dark about plans.

"Apparently she broke into your protection guy's office last night, figured out who thirteen people on the island plus the protection guy were, and contacted Diana saying you caught them all. I'm here to reclaim a bunch of art as well."

Neal suddenly felt much less excluded. There was no way Peter had approved that plan. Elizabeth was just a force unto herself.

Neal also hadn't forgotten what he had admitted to her last night. If anything, she had listened to him and then moved heaven and earth to make things better.

And Sara was here. And she was being normal. And she had kissed him. That was a decent sign that she didn't find him pathetic, at least.

She smirked at him, but her eyes were soft as she looked him over, "you really are sick, huh? You're never this quiet."

He shrugged a little, "yeah."

"Diana and Peter told me something was up, but I didn't know what to expect. Sorry, I didn't mean to make a big deal about it. I was just surprised."

Neal gave her a grateful look, "you didn't make a big deal. You just noticed. I'm glad to see you, you look good."

She smiled, and kissed him again, "hey, if this hadn't happened I wouldn't be about to recover four Monets. I'm a little sad for you but I'm very happy for me."

Neal laughed, harder than he had in months. He felt normal for the first time in months. Still couldn't sit up, but, normal.


Neal laid on a bench along the rail of a large sailboat, his head on Sara's thigh, as they cut through ocean waves. There had been issues trying to sort out their various forms of legal and illegal entry to fly out of Cape Verde, so they were taking a boat to Lisbon and flying to the US from there. Everyone but Mozzie was enjoying it. Elizabeth off was trying to coax him out of the cabin.

Peter stood at the rail, leaning on it with his folded arms, watching the water and air mix below them, waves breaking on the hull sending spray several feet high. Exhilarated, beaming, he looked forward to the horizon.

Sara picked up Neal's hand, absently weaving her fingers with his, "so when we get back, you wanna help me authenticate those Monets? Maybe over takeout? I imagine you're missing New York food."

He grinned at her, "sounds like a plan."

Peter was looking sideways at them, beaming.


Neal opened his eyes, as a hand shook him. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Peter was waking him up, and pointing at the window.

Neal looked out. At the edge of the horizon in the night glowed the golden metropolis of New York City.

"I didn't think I'd ever see it again," he whispered.

Peter put his arm around Neal's shoulders, and briefly kissed the side of his head, "welcome home. It's all gonna be okay."