A/N: Thank you everyone reading, commenting and favouriting, it means the world to know you're enjoying what I'm sharing 😊
…
The next time Neal's consciously aware of anything, he's lying flat on his back, staring up at a very low white ceiling. Turning his head to the side, through slightly blurry vision he sees metal railings blocking his view on both sides. Looking back to the ceiling, taking deep even breaths to try and centre himself, an insistent buzzing fills his ears. Recognising it as the sound of an engine being pushed to its limit's, he wants to ask if Peter's driving, but quickly deduces the absence of car horns blaring negates that.
Twisting sideways to sit up he's instantly cut short in the movement. He tries to move the other way and finds himself similarly restrained. "Peter?" He tests uncertainly, frantically swallowing down on his fast-rising panic.
A warm, solid hand grips his shoulder and Peter's face slides into view, affording Neal a direct look up his nostrils. "Right here kid."
Kid. Shit.
Peter never calls him kid to his face. It emphasises the power imbalance between them and despite all the cow boys up and stop complaining's, Peter gets that the anklet and their unorthodox arrangement is emasculating enough, so tries to lessen the impact wherever he can. Neal's unattainable goal in life may be to earn Peter's trust, but what he settles for is Peter seeing him as an equal. Calling him kid is like eating a Ma Po Sichuan drowned in yogurt. It takes away everything that makes him the inimitable Neal Caffrey.
"Why am I handcuffed?" He asks pleasantly enough, ignoring the 'kid' moniker entirely.
Peter looks away, a silent glare being sent somewhere to his left.
"They're not handcuffs, they're soft restraints."
The hand moves from his shoulder down to his closest wrist, Peter's fingers and thumb encircling the joint with ease.
"Okay," Neal blinks, shifts his head to the side and beckons him closer with his chin. "Why am I restrained?"
He keeps his voice low and calm, outwardly to anyone watching he should seem completely unfazed by the situation, but Peter wasn't anyone, and Neal knows he calls him kid all the time behind his back.
"Neal," Peter draws out his name in that tense way he has of communicating his annoyance without actually sounding mad.
"Peter," Neal mimics, eyes focused and challenging.
"We're here." A disembodied voice announces.
His ride comes to a sudden stop and flurry of activity results in Peter being pushed out of the way, and more distressingly, outside his field of vision. Forgetting about the restraints Neal attempts to sit up again, but only gets a couple of inches before twanging back to the mattress like a bungee cord. Resigned to enduring the journey he desperately tries to remember how he went from catching a cab outside of June's to meet with his contact on the Violent Crimes case to waking up lying down and restrained on a gurney. Whatever was wrong, he feels perfectly okay now and thinks he should just go home.
Home.
Yes.
Good plan.
Neal rises again, or tries to, once again he'd forgotten about the handcuffs – restraints – whatever! Tugging gets him nowhere, whoever put them on knew to make them tight. He keeps tugging anyway, the message not getting from his brain to his hands that the action is completely useless. Unfortunately, another message doesn't get through – the one telling him not to panic. He's wheeled further away from where he last saw Peter, down a very unappealing dank grey corridor, into an equally unappealing windowless room with no way out in sight.
Breathing already laboured it picks up tenfold when a needle wielding nurse comes into view. Somebody he doesn't see coming touches his shoulder and a scream tears from his throat. His legs, which somehow until now he hadn't realised weren't tied down, kick out and connect with something soft and fleshy. There's a low groan followed by a crash and if he could think straight that might have brought a smile to his face, but as it is his focus is on getting away from these maniacs, finding Peter and getting the hell out of here.
Speaking of which… "PETER!" He screams for all he's worth, the sound loud and shrill.
The threats being levelled his way don't deter him from his task, he's still no closer to being free so continues to alternately insult his captors and cry out for Peter, hoping his friend will find him. A distance voice inside his head is asking, what the hell are you doing? But for all the good it does. Neal can't stop running his mouth – and not in his usual full of himself way – terror has taken over, the kind he feels just like anyone else, but always pushes firmly back down, always in control, never out.
"Neal! Neal! I'm here."
Somewhere deep down in the rabbit hole that is his mind Neal recognises that stressed out voice and freezes.
Panting heavily, he hesitantly calls out into the darkness he hadn't registered as being there before, "Peter?"
Cold hands take possession of his wrists, holding him still. "Yeah Neal, it's me. You're alright, you hear me? You're safe."
The voice is soft, almost gentle, nothing like the friend he knows. The one who curses each time he barks his name. "I want Peter." He tells the too dark, too quiet room, not trusting these people who were obviously playing tricks on him.
"Neal." The voice drawls, a hint of annoyance sneaking through.
If it really is Peter, he sounds tired. "You sound tired."
"I am." Not Peter chuckles, the kind of sound that isn't at all amused or happy. "I imagine so are you."
"No, I'm good." Neal answers warily in between quick hitching breaths, still not entirely sure what's happening or where everyone has gone, or why it's so dark. "why is it dark?"
He hadn't meant to actually ask; the words just sort of… slipped out.
"It's not, your eyes are closed."
And as if released from a magic spell, Neal snaps both lids open and is greeted to a sidelong view… of Peter Burke's living room.
"How…?" He all but chokes, succumbing to a distressed sob upon discovering the dank grey walls from – what he suddenly realises as – his dream, have melted away, replaced by warm yellows and greens, a candle burning on the unlit fireplace exuding the scent of lavender. "Why… this is your house."
Realising he's lying down Neal turns towards the ceiling and finds his friend suddenly inches from his face, looking not at all calm or tired, but as scared and terrified as Neal feels. Warmth swirls in his stomach, spreading throughout his body to consume his chest and eventually runs up his neck until he feels the heat burn hot in his cheeks. It's Peter who visibly chokes next, gripping Neal's knee tightly, enough to make him wince and release a squeak of distress.
"Is he okay?" A woman's whisper, her words warm and gentle fill the air.
Peter relaxes his fist and turns away, looking towards the stairs. "I think he could do with a warm drink."
The woman – Elizabeth – Neal prompts himself, disappears - he can hear soft footfalls on the polished wooden floor as she walks away.
Elizabeth - El. Peter's wife. What is she doing here?
"You're at our house, remember." Peter turns back to him, shifting from his knees on the floor to sit next to him on the sofa, by his feet. "I brought you home, like you wanted."
Breathing still quick and anxious, Neal stares up at his friend, whispering "like I wanted?"
I just want to go home. He sees himself, in his mind's eye, curled up on cold slab of an exam table, crying out his demands into arms wrapped tight around drawn up knees. Peter's at his side, rubbing circles on his back awkwardly, promising him anything he wanted if he'd just calm down.
Back in the Burkes warm living room Neal feels calloused fingers carding through his hair. His filthy, sweat soaked hair. "Stop." He jerks away. Sniffing frantically as snot and tears threaten to fall all at once.
Peter's unfazed and simply leans closer, wrapping his arms around Neal's back to help him sit up.
"Peter?" there's that squeak again, scared and uncertain. He's never uncertain, or at least he tries never to sound it.
"Shush," is all Peter tells him, not at all answering the unasked question, and continues to force Neal upright offering him a tissue.
Giving up the idea of a fight, because frankly he didn't have another one in him, Neal forces his tense muscles to relax and flows with the movement. Not stopping, he continues to fall forward, resting his chin over Peter's shoulder, uncaring whether the man intended to give him a hug or not, Neal's forcing the contact because it's better than facing the pity he knows he'll see in his eyes.
Listening to the clinking of mugs and hissing of a pan boiling over coming from the kitchen, Neal takes a minute to simply rest and organise his thoughts. Everything's messed up, nothing he recalls seems real somehow, even this moment feels surreal, like any minute the gentle touches, comforting warmth and homely smells will all disappear and be replaced by cold hands, impersonal faces and dark corridors. The only thing keeping him tethered to this reality, what Neal hopes is reality and not a dream, is the rapid thump, thump, thump of Peter's heart he can feel against his own chest.
"You're heart's beating really fast." He says simply, proud of how steady and clear his words are.
Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out, inadvertently tickling Neal's ear. "Well you did just scare the crap out of me."
Neal nods. He doesn't know how else to respond to that. In his mind though, he thinks, I scared the crap out of me too.
…
Peter's first hint something wasn't right was when Neal screamed out his name. It wasn't in Neal's usual whiney tone that signified a Caffrey bored out of his brain or the other kind of whine more akin to a younger child crying wolf purely for attention purposes. The sound that travelled through his house was a piercing cry of distress certain to ignite insurmountable fear in those unlucky enough to hear it.
Used to not sleeping deeply, and having been unable to get more than half an hour straight sleep since turning in, Peter launched out of bed and raced down the hall.
"Neal?" He skidded to a halt in the open doorway of the guest room.
The sight that greeted him was not the tossing and turning kid he'd come to expect this night. Instead he was greeted with blankets strewn across the floor and an empty bed.
Shit.
Hitting the doorframe hard enough to cause a recurring ache in his palm Peter bellows for El and races down the stairs. Certain he's going to find the front door wide open and if he's lucky hear the screech of tires pulling away Peter comes to a dead halt on the stairs upon finding Neal, bedded down on his sofa, fighting the cushions for all he's worth, throwing insults to his imaginary foes while still screaming for Peter to come to his rescue.
"Jesus," Peter whispers to him before getting his wits about him and running over, letting Neal know he's there.
His call appears to do the trick, Neal stops his struggles instantly and a tearful "Peter?" fills the air.
Taking hold of both wrists to ensure as much control as possible, Peter settles down on the floor next to the sofa. Why, or better yet how he managed to sneak downstairs and bed down on the sofa without him hearing, is a question to be asked but perhaps not now. Now what Neal needs most in the world is to feel safe.
"I want Peter." Neal's quiet plea interrupts the assurances he's trying to give.
Confused at first, worried that the hospital missed something and Neal's memory issues weren't just drug related, Peter quickly understands the problem after looking down at him and finding his eyes still firmly shut.
"Neal." He drawls, putting his usual inflection of annoyance into the name he has to call out far too often for his liking. "You're dreaming, wake up!"
Neal's accusation of him sounding tired makes Peter laugh. It takes another exchange of words and soft, to the point instructions, to convince Neal to open his eyes. The confusion doesn't worry Peter much. Before releasing him, the doctor had warned about potential for confusion and an inability to remember some or all of the events prior to and following his rescue. The drugs found in his system most certainly distorting his sense of reality, place and time. What does upset Peter is the sob which takes over his boy's body. Witnessing that level of distress in Neal reduces him to a trembling near tears mess to match.
"Is he okay?" El asks from the stairs.
Peter flinches, his hand squeezing Neal's knee harder than intended. He's unsure how long she'd been standing there, how much she heard, but her supporting presence gives him the strength to get over his own distress, swallow down on the emotion chocking him and make a request for assistance.
"Why's Elizabeth here?" Neal whispers once she's safely in the kitchen.
Peter answers Neal's question as clearly as possible, again following the doctor's advice by giving him enough information to understand what was happening around him without over complicating things. Standing from his kneeled position at the side of the sofa, Peter ignores the ache in his calves and drops to sit by Neal's feet.
"I brought you home, like you wanted." He ends with, thinking nothing of it.
But then Neal stares up at him, lying prone, eyes as wide as sauces and full of unshed tears and repeats, like I wanted? And just like that the flood gates open. Tears spill over in earnest, breathing rapid and shallow, Peter doesn't need a doctor to tell him Neal has just remembered something of his ordeal and he could pretty much guess which part.
The first time they'd headed to bed a mere five hours ago, which now felt like a life time El had nicely asked Neal if he needed something to help him sleep and a got a subdued nod in response, unfortunately he'd let his irritation and tiredness get the better of him and snapped, demanding a clearer answer, which resulted in sending the kid running. When Peter left on his heels, telling El it was going to be a long night, he'd had no idea how right he'd be.
Padding his way down his hallway, the floorboards cold against his bare feet Peter was set to break a record by apologising to Neal for a third time, only to discover his room empty. Curious as to where Neal could possibly have travelled so quickly, his search was short as he discovered the bathroom door locked.
"Neal," Peter knocked softly, part in acknowledgment of his own poor behaviour and part because he really didn't want El to know how bad he'd fucked up before having a chance to fix it. "Look, I'm sorry I snapped. Really, if there's anything we can do to help, just ask ok?"
Silence was his response for at least a minute, but just as Peter raised his hand to knock and try again Neal's unsteady voice filtered through the still closed door. "Yeah okay, I'll… let you know. I'm just going to have a shower and go to bed."
Peter doesn't comment that if that had been his intention, he should have done it before he changed into his nightwear. Instead he communicated his agreement with a noncommittal alright, and made his way back to El. Neither of them got anywhere near sleep until they heard the shower turn off and Neal's soft footfalls across the landing. It was only upon the sound of the guest bedroom door creaking shut that Peter dared to even close his eyes.
Looking down at Neal now, falling apart before his very eyes Peter wishes he'd stayed. Camped outside the bathroom door and forced Neal into telling him whatever it was he thought he needed to sleep. If he had, maybe they could have avoided all this.
Unable to apologise for decisions poorly made and everything he was put through at the hospital, Peter settles his in hand in Neal's hair and proceeds to do what he feels completely inadequate for. Provide basic comfort.
"Stop." Neal murmurs, coming down from his hysteria. He jerks away, sniffing frantically as snot and tears threaten to fall all at once.
Unfazed, Peter helps him to sit up, shushing Neal's minor protest at being manhandled and instead calmly offers him a tissue to clean himself up. He's past the point of tiredness, hasn't got the energy to be even slightly irritated. Instead a sense a calm acceptance envelops him. The same happens to Neal apparently, and Peter pushes down on his surprise when Neal doesn't settle for simply sitting up, when he continues to close the small space between forcing the kind of intimate hold he's probably always wanted, but never dared to ask.
There is an upside to all of this he realises suddenly. The warmth of the slender body in arms, the stuttered unsteady breathing and damp patch forming on his shoulder, all serve to remind Peter that Neal's here, he's alive.
"You're heart's beating really fast." The voice belonging to that alive body breaks the comfortable silence.
Peter takes a deep breath and blows it out steadily. "Well you did just scare the crap out of me." He says glibly, all the while thinking he may never not feel scared again.
…
"Sleeping?" El asks sometime later, more to confirm what she can see with her own eyes than any need to know.
Peter yawns, and nods, "but for how long?"
She has no answer for him, so busies herself by clearing the coffee table of the mugs of half-drunk chocolate milk. It's done the trick, that's all that matters.
"Hey," Peter makes a grab for his mug a second too late, "I was still drinking that."
"It's cold." She glares back at him, daring him to challenge her. He can't reach for it back because Neal has him pinned, feet languishing heavy over his lap, and any movement may cause him to wake again, something neither Burke wants to risk at the moment. "Fine. You want it?" She offers it him back.
Peter looks over the rim at the skin that's formed on top, then looks up at El. She smiles smugly and proceeds in her task of clearing up. It's practically morning, the sun is on the horizon signalling the dawning of a new day. She has meetings to attend and events to plan… having already taken a passing glance in the mirror before coming down stairs, today is going to take more than a dash of eyeshadow and splattering of mascara to get her looking anything close to normal.
"I'm sorry for all this, hon." Peter calls softly as if reading her mind. "If I'd have known things were going to be this bad, I've have stayed with him at June's."
"Don't be an idiot." She chides equally gentle. "You can't do this by yourself. And as good a friend as Mozzie can be, I think he'd struggle to deal with, you know, everything."
And by everything she of course meant the screaming and crying that had been waking them up ever since Neal first went to bed last night. As if on cue Neal starts to talk in his sleep, head lolling from side to side, hands balled into fists and fixed at his side as if pinned. Peter doesn't even blink, just rests his free hand over the young man's forehead, brushing back sweat soaked curly strands until he settles. His other hand remains where it's rested since Neal took up his current supine position on their couch, wrapped around the anklet-less ankle. A hold that seemed to do the trick and promote the much-needed sleep.
"Why don't you just put the anklet back on him?" The tiredness in her voice takes the sting out of her words, but the sentiment remains the same.
Peter looks up from the once again relaxed features over at her, his expression saying he was certainly thinking about it. "I will today. It just didn't feel right… after what they did to him."
Neal had been restrained, both physically and chemically. Probably for the entire time he was missing. Understandable that Peter wouldn't want to welcome him home by putting him in a restraint of a different kind. Her heart aches, of course Peter wouldn't do that. El smiles her apology, internally blaming her own lack of sleep for even questioning it and makes her way upstairs to get ready for her day. No matter what she has to face, she already knows Neal's day is going to be a hell of a lot worse.