November
Peter went looking for Neal around lunchtime. Nobody was in Diana's office, neither Jones nor Neal were at their desks. Even Hughes was missing from his office.
Peter saw Agent Perry hustling down the hall with what looked like a flower vase full of water, but there were no flowers in it.
"Perry," said Peter, "have you seen Neal?"
Perry nodded, "in here."
Peter followed him into one of the lesser used conference rooms. Diana, Jones, Neal, and Hughes were all inside it. There were canvasses everywhere, some half finished, some barely started.
Perry carried the water to the table, and set it down next to Neal. Neal was painting, looking frustrated. He rinsed his brush in the water, and sighed, looking at the painting.
"I don't know," said Neal, "does any of this look like it belongs together?"
"It'll look more like it goes together if any of it gets finished," said Diana, sounding irritated.
"What's going on?" Asked Peter.
"I'm going undercover as a new artist showing at the Stern gallery," said Jones, "we think the head of collections is making artists sleep with her in exchange for having their work shown. Neal is making a collection for me to be showing. Maybe."
Neal looked at Jones, "it's harder than you think. You want to try?"
Jones shook his head, raising his hands in surrender, "no way man, I can barely do stick figures."
"Well, if we don't have anything to put up, stick figures would be an improvement," said Diana.
Neal sighed, and looked at her. He seemed deeply tired, not necessarily physically. Peter came up behind him and put his hand on Neal's arm, "what's the problem?"
"I love the technical side, I love learning how masterpieces were made, I love learning to see what someone who lived hundreds of years ago saw. I don't… do this."
Neal took the canvas he had been working on down, and put a new one up. He hunched forward, head in his hands, eyes shut as he thought. Peter rubbed his back, supportively.
"Just paint something you know. You're talented, it'll be fine Caff–Neal," said Hughes.
Neal looked up at Hughes, and around the room at all of them. His face softened, and he picked up a different pallet, starting to mix greens, browns, blues, greys.
He pulled up a picture on his phone, and started painting a background, referring to the image..
"Okay," he said to himself, "okay."
"I'm going to get lunch," said Peter, thinking food could only improve people's moods, "taking orders."
By the time Peter got food, made it back to the FBI building, and came back to the conference room, things had changed. Most of the half finished paintings were stacked against a wall. Two much more filled in ones sat on the table. Neal worked on a third. Jones and Diana were still there, but Hughes and Perry had left.
Each view was familiar to Peter-the park near the FBI, a bridge they drove over almost daily between Neal's apartment and the Burkes' house, the lobby of the shitty motel Neal had been given a room at before he met June.
Each of the paintings had a fidelity to life, the rust on the bridge, the dirty motel, the beaten up park bench. Yet, they were lit like Renaissance paintings of the divine.
Peter distributed the food, watching Neal work. Neal didn't look up or stop painting, and ignored Peter when Peter offered him the sandwich he had asked for.
Diana pulled Peter out into the hallway. Peter followed her, concerned.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
Diana shook her head, as she closed the door behind them, and then pulled him down the hall so they couldn't be seen from the conference room.
"Diana?" He asked, when she finally stopped walking.
"This is great for the operation," she said, "but he was already hurting. He's going to make himself really uncomfortable if he doesn't take breaks."
"He's never listened to me when I suggested he rest."
Diana sighed, frustrated.
"It's Neal, Diana. He is who he is. All we can do is make sure he trusts us as much as he can trust anyone."
"He can trust us all the way, and I wish he would. I hate seeing him hurt."
"I think to him, seeing him hurt is trust."
Peter's phone rang near the end of the day. He picked it up, "Agent Burke."
"Peter, come to the conference room," said Hughes, shortly.
"Okay," Peter got up and hurried to the room.
Hughes, Jones, and Diana were there, crouching on the floor next to the table. The wheelchair was sitting empty. Peter quickly circled around. Neal was on the floor, hands loosely fisted near his face. His whole body trembled.
Around the room were finished paintings, all of them of places around New York.
"Neal?" Asked Peter softly.
Neal didn't answer.
Diana looked up at Peter, "I thought he'd already gone home, but Hughes came by to see what he painted and found him here.
Peter knelt next to them. Neal was pale, breathing fast.
"I think it's time to go home," said Peter, "what do you think?"
Neal nodded slightly, but didn't move.
"Home? Or the hospital?" Asked Jones, watching Neal.
"Home," rasped Neal, stubbornly.
Peter lifted Neal's upper body, Neal gasped in pain. Peter held him, starting to get seriously worried.
"You didn't have to push yourself this hard," said Diana, "we only needed a few paintings."
Neal looked at her, and whispered, "I figured it out. I'm the person what's around me makes me…if I chose the right people, I'm the person I want to be."
She frowned, meeting Peter's eyes, "does that make sense to you?"
"Um, some?" said Peter.
Hughes walked over, and crouched down with a grunt.
Neal watched him, uncertainly.
Hughes gestured to the paintings, "It makes sense to me. I am…proud of the person you've become, Mr. Burke. But if you ever do this to yourself again, I'm benching you permanently."
Neal looked like he might cry, but he just nodded, and whispered, voice tight, "understood."
It took Peter and Jones to get him back up into his wheelchair. Diana called agent Perry to get the pillows that lived in her office. When the large blond agent arrived, they tried to stuff the pillows around Neal in a way that held him up, but he truly couldn't stay sitting.
Peter sighed, "there's a backboard with the first aid station every five floors, we can get one of those. Sorry, hon, it's not gonna be dignified."
Neal made a face, as Jones and Diana held him in place in the chair.
"Um," said Agent Perry.
They all looked at him, which clearly made him nervous.
"What is it?" asked Hughes, impatient but not unkind.
"I can just carry him. My brother and I do a piggyback 5k for charity every year. We've won twice, and my brother's bigger than him."
Everyone stared at him for a moment.
"Sounds better than getting strapped to a backboard," admitted Neal.
Perry crouched in front of Neal. Neal got his arms around Perry's neck, Perry pulled Neal's legs forward, and then stood up.
Neal made a sound, a gasp ending in a whimper. Peter put his hand on Neal's back, as Perry started carrying Neal out into the hallway.
Perry did seem essentially unbothered by Neal's weight.
"Thank you," grunted Neal, as they reached the elevator.
"No problem," said Perry.
Peter, Diana, Perry, and Neal headed down to the lobby, Peter bringing the wheelchair. Hughes went back to his office, Jones went to clean up the conference room and get the paintings ready.
When they finally reached Peter's car, Perry crouched beside it, and Peter helped Neal off him, and to lay back in the passenger seat.
Neal slept for eighteen hours straight, woken only by Peter and Elizabeth making sure he got fluids. When he finally woke up, June came to see him, and sat next to him on his bed, regaling him with stories of Byron and the people they had run with while she cajoled him into eating.
He laid, propped up by pillows, with a thermos of blended ham and potato soup Elizabeth had made for him. He was still pale, still couldn't sit up, still in a lot of discomfort. But he listened to June talk with a smile, and eventually got most of the soup into himself.
Peter slipped out at one point, and called Mozzie. The shorter man answered with, "yes, suit?"
"Neal is in rough shape. If you wanted to come by, he could use company, and some distraction."
Mozzie was silent for a moment, then asked, "what happened?"
"He just overdid it. But it was by a lot."
"Okay. I'll come by."
"Thanks," said Peter, though Mozzie had already hung up.
Mozzie showed up that evening with an antique projector. He pulled a chair and a bottle of wine into the bedroom, sat next to the bed, and played a movie. Peter could hear them laughing, Neal still quieter than usual. Elizabeth came up to him, putting her arms around his waist, as Peter tried and largely failed to make french onion soup.
"Hey, hon," said Peter, turning to hold her in return, and give her a long, soft kiss.
"Hey, hon," she said into his lips.
"I think it might be a takeout night," admitted Peter, looking at his sad pan of singed onions.
She chuckled, "I made extra of the potato soup earlier. We can reheat it."
He kissed her, "you are so smart."
When El had finished reheating the soup, she put it into three bowls and a thermos. Peter carried two bowls, El carried one and the thermos. They got into the bedroom just as credits were rolling. Mozzie shut down the projector, and El turned on the lights.
She got into bed with Neal. He was mostly asleep, but he woke up a little more when Elizabeth joined him. Peter set his bowl on the table and went back into the kitchen to get spoons. He came back in, handed Mozzie and Elizabeth spoons, picked up his bowl, and sat at the foot of the bed.
Neal pushed himself up, taking a few efforts to do so, and Elizabeth handed him the thermos. He looked down at it, and chuckled, "I take it Peter's soup didn't turn out that great?"
"A little toasty," laughed Elizabeth.
"This smells delicious," said Mozzie.
"Thank you," said Elizabeth.
Neal looked down into the thermos, holding it with both hands. His eyelids slowly slid downward, and after a minute his head started to droop as well.
Elizabeth rubbed his shoulder, "sweetie?"
He raised his head and looked at her, smiling sheepishly, "hi."
He sipped from the soup, with an effort.
Peter watched Mozzie eat, and Elizabeth, blowing on his own soup for a moment. Neal kept eating, though his eyelids threatened to slide shut between each sip. Eventually he started to drop the thermos, Mozzie reached out quickly and grabbed it. Neal's eyes were closed, chin on his chest.
Elizabeth put her bowl down on the table on the other side of the bed, and slid her arm behind Neal's back, pulling him down to lay with his head on her shoulder. She rubbed his arm, and pressed her face into his hair.
Mozzie set Neal's thermos down on the table, and then whispered, "so what happened?"
"He went on a painting spree at work," replied Peter, also at a whisper.
He looked over at Neal, sleeping soundly against Elizabeth.
When they had all finished eating, Mozzie put away the projector, finished his glass of wine.
"Thank you for coming, Mozzie," said Elizabeth.
He nodded, reaching out to brush Neal's shoulder, "yeah. Call me if he gets bored tomorrow."
Mozzie headed out. Peter did the dishes and then came back to bed. He and Elizabeth got Neal laying down properly, head on a soft pillow. He barely stirred, just making a soft sound of protest when his back was repositioned.
Peter got into the bed, and pulled the covers over all of them. He spooned up to Elizabeth, kissing her temple. She hugged him, "hi honey."
"Hi, hon."
Mozzie came by the next evening as well. Neal was doing better, sitting up, eating properly. Peter watched him, relieved to see him recovering.
Mozzie brought pizza, opened some of Neal's wine. He poured three glasses, and came into the bedroom.
Neal took one and a plate of pizza, "thanks, Moz."
"Oh, thanks, but I can't," said Elizabeth of the wine, digging into the pizza enthusiastically.
Mozzie blinked at her. Then he looked between Neal and Peter, and then back at Elizabeth.
"Why?"
She smiled at him, and put a hand on her belly.
Mozzie's eyes widened, "you're pregnant?"
She nodded.
"Congratulations. That's wonderful!" Mozzie looked sincerely quite excited.
