Chapter Twenty

As impatient as Neal had been to get out of the confines of a hospital room that seemed to grow smaller with each passing moment, as the discharge instructions were read to him he begin to fear that a different kind of trap was being sprung.

Weeks. He would not be able to fly to Paris for at least six weeks. He had expected there would be a time of convalesces, a period when he wouldn't be able to drive or travel long distances. He knew he'd have to placate the Burke's by spending a couple of days with them. But then he would transition back to the Waldorf and head back to Paris the following week. The suite was already booked; he'd originally planned two weeks in New York. Having to stay an additional week wouldn't be ideal, but he could manage. But five extra weeks?

He wasn't sure, but his breath might have caught in his throat at her words; he could feel Peter's eyes on him immediately. He'd taken the pain medicine a few minutes earlier and it was already kicking in, hampering his ability to control his reactions as well as he normally could. There had been a split second lag between his shock at her words and his effort to hide it. Of course for Peter, a split second was enough. There was a mixture of amusement and pity in his eyes. Neal didn't appreciate either one, and he was sure the look he gave Peter indicated as much.

Putting his attention back to the nurse, he calmly made his case for the need to return to France much sooner than six weeks. He had a business to run and could not be away for such an extended period of time. She didn't care about his business difficulties or the appointments he had to keep and said as much; about thirty seconds into her explanation as to what changes in air pressure could do to a damaged lung, Neal held up his hand in surrender. Argument stifled, she continued with the discharge procedures, going through pages of instructions on post-operative care in record time. She referred to the instructions the respiratory therapist had already gone over with him and then sped through a list of symptoms that would indicate that complications had arisen. If they occurred he should either call the hospital or seek immediate medical assistance, depending on the severity of the symptom he was experiencing. The next statement caused his stress level to increase again; he'd need to stay with someone for at least a week.

"Do you have family or….." she started, but Neal didn't hear the rest of the question.

Her voice faded into the background as he debated her words. He'd agreed to go to Peter's house for a couple of days, but how could he handle staying with the Burke's for a week? A week would test his fortitude in a way he feared he was in no condition to withstand. He needed time, and space, to think things through. He'd only spent a day and a half in the presence of the Burkes, unconscious for most of it, and had been reduced to tears twice. Maybe Mozzie would be an option? Somehow he doubted anyone would be happy with that choice, especially Mozzie.

The whole point of coming back, other than to help Peter with his case against the Cordero family, was to ease himself back into the situation and see how things went. Even at his best, he had only felt secure committing to a two-week stay in New York. The first week he'd be focused on the task at hand. The second week he had planned to spend more time with Peter; to see how Peter responded to Nathan Clay and to see how Nathan responded to Peter Burke. He'd expected a few lunches, talking over a case or two, and maybe a couple of family dinners at the Burke house. These excursions would be launched from the safety of the Waldorf. He hadn't planned to be at the Burke house for any extended periods of time. Of course, he hadn't planned on being shot, or his two-week stay in New York turning into six, or of having Mozzie coming along for the ride. So much for his plans. Of course, he consoled himself, all of these instructions were just suggestions. He would be an exceptional patient for a couple of days, promise to call if he had any problems, and return to his penthouse suite.

Caught up in his own thoughts, Neal had tuned out nurse's words. When he didn't respond to her question, Peter did so himself. His eyes were on Neal and not on the nurse as he spoke. "He's welcome to stay with me until he's able to travel."

Peter had adjusted his wording from will be staying with me to is welcome to stay with me. Neal guessed he had picked up on his growing feeling of unrest at the way his immediate future was suddenly being dictated by others instead of chosen by him. It was not his physical reaction, but his mental distraction, that had given him away this time. He had to get off the pain medication. Still, Neal appreciated Peter's attempt to ease his tension; to make an offer instead of an order, to ask instead of assuming.

"I'll stay a few days." Until he could travel? No way in hell. He took a steadying breath. The situation was what it was; the extra time could serve a valuable purpose. His fear was that distance, indeed, had made the heart grow fonder and closer contact over time might erode that feeling. Before, time had weakened, not strengthened his friendship with Peter. If things were destined to go back to the way they had been before, he'd see signs of it in six weeks. "After that, I'll make other arrangements."

"Another month at the Waldorf?" There was a hint of teasing in Peter's voice now, possibly another attempt to put Neal at ease. "You could probably buy a small country for what that would cost you." Peter hadn't had an opportunity to ask about the auction; the respiratory therapist had entered the room just after Agent Elliot had exited. But Neal knew he was dying of curiosity. His look, one of reluctant admiration, brought a small smile to Neal's face.

"I could, but since there aren't any on the market in the vicinity of New York, I'll see if Mozzie has an alternate option at a more reasonable rate."

The nurse listened with a look of pained patience, not pleased to have had her script interrupted. When she again had their attention, she provided information on his follow up with Dr. Shaw in his Philadelphia Office and informed him that his prescriptions could be picked up from the hospital pharmacy. The nurse allowed Peter to initial the paperwork indicating that Neal had been informed of all the information.

"Someone will be up shortly to transport you to your car, Mr. Clay," she said. "Please call if you have any questions."

For once, there weren't delays. Peter had just gathered up their possessions, packed them as best he could into the travel case Elizabeth had brought the day before, the pillow and blanket tucked underneath the handles when the intern arrived. Peter, with bags in tow, went to bring the car around to the pickup area. Neal didn't like the idea of being rolled out in a wheelchair but knew he'd never make it out on his own steam. The walk around the hall with the therapist earlier had left him exhausted and in pain and just having been upright for the past two hours had equally drained him. He was weak; it would take time to build back his strength. It looked like he'd have plenty of it.

The intern held the chair steady, and he awkwardly lowered himself into it. Sitting in the chair and being pushed down the hall by a stranger stirred a twinge of panic in him. He guessed it had to do with the lack of control when he already felt as if his life had suddenly been hijacked.

Peter pulled under the awning in Neal's black BMW. He looked pleased with Neal's look of surprise.

"Nice ride." The intern, clearly impressed, rolled the chair up close to the passenger door. After locking the wheels, he opened the car door and helped Neal inside. The transition was painful, and Neal was reluctantly appreciative of the pain medication still in his system.

After he was settled, and the door was closed, he looked at Peter questioningly.

"I had an agent drive my car back yesterday," Peter explained with a smile. "I figured this one would be more comfortable for your ride home. I even turned the seat warmer on for you."

"Thoughtful of you," Neal mused. "So, what do you think of it?"

"A bit rich for my taste," he returned, "but I guess it suits you just fine, being a successful businessman and all."

"You know, image is everything. Especially in my business."

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Peter had looked forward to the hour and a half drive with Neal; looked forward to some lively discussion. Of all the things he'd missed about Neal Caffrey, that had been at the top of the list. He'd also missed the triumphant look on his face when he pulled off something unbelievable and unexpected. Funny how that had once annoyed Peter to no end. That was what the auction had been: unexpected and unbelievable. He knew that since Agent Elliot had brought it up, Neal would enjoy recounting how it had all come to pass. He wouldn't even have to pepper his story with allegeds or hypotheticals. Although the auction's legalities were questionable-Peter doubted that accurate provenance had been a requirement of sale-Nathan Clay had taken care of that when he'd gotten his get out of jail free card. Or, as he had put it, his don't go to jail at all card. That topic, with all its maneuvering, would have provided some entertaining conversation for the trip.

Of course, the other topic Peter would like to hear about was where Neal was on the idea of a possible move. Peter felt the reasons he'd consider it were clear enough; he missed people in his life. It was his misgivings he wanted to know more about; probably because he was certain he was one of them. He had treated Neal unfairly in the past; he could understand why he'd have doubts about coming back, especially if he thought Peter hadn't changed. Neal had asked him not to question him on the subject and he wouldn't. Still, the trip to New York was long, and he'd hoped Neal would take him up on his offer and talk it over with him. Neal needed to know that Peter regretted his past mistakes, had learned from them, and would not repeat them.

As it turned out, the trip provided little opportunity for conversation, lively or otherwise. The nurse had warned that Neal's energy would be quickly depleted, and she hadn't exaggerated. After a brief discussion on the bells and whistles of Neal's rental-he did assure Peter that he hadn't actually purchased a one hundred and forty thousand dollar vehicle-his head had rested against the back of the seat as if he could no longer hold it up on his own. Peter had left the pillow Elizabeth had bought at the hospital gift shop in the back seat in case Neal needed it, and he did. He reached back and pulled it forward.

"Here," he said, "Lean your seat back and sleep if you can. It's a long ride."

"Maybe just for a little while," Neal said, glancing sheepishly at Peter. No argument meant Peter had correctly read the exhaustion in Neal's face. He adjusted his seat and put the pillow between his head and the window. "Medicine makes me sleepy anyway."

"Then sleep," Peter said. "I'll wake you when we get home." Neal's eyes were already closed, but Peter saw a small smile cross Neal's face at his words. He didn't last five minutes before he had conked out, head against the window.

Peter turned the radio on and settled in for the drive. Neal occasionally shifted, his brow furrowing in discomfort, but for the most part, he seemed to be resting well. Peter thought back over the snatches of conversation they had had over the past week, and especially the more open ones during the hospital stay.

As the man who had sent Neal to prison, and later became his handler, Peter had exercised considerable control over Neal's life. Since Nathan Clay had returned to New York, he had reminded Peter more than once that he was not his CI or his responsibility; they were just friends working together. That was what Neal wanted, but he hadn't known if Peter would accept that. Peter was a control freak and Neal knew it. He hadn't just come to New York to test himself, Peter realized, he had come to test him as well.

Arriving at the house, Peter kicked himself; he should have had El move his car onto the street. That way he could have pulled into the garage and shortened Neal's trip to the house considerably. As it was, they would have to park on the street, and Neal would have to make the walk up the sidewalk to the house. Peter reached over and touched Neal gently on the shoulder.

"We're here." Peter said, jostling his friend gently. "Rise and shine, Neal."

Neal awoke, a bit disoriented at first, looking around in confusion before remembering his situation. The movement seemed a bit painful.

"You alright?" Peter had asked at his discomfort.

"Yeah," Neal responded, "I'm fine. Just a little stiff."

"Hang on," Peter said, exiting the car. "I'll come around."

He reached the passenger side and opened the door. Neal awkwardly accepted his help extracting himself from the front seat of the car. He was unsteady on his feet, and Peter caught the look of concern as he surveyed the distance from the car to the house. Before Peter could pose the question, Neal answered it.

"I can make it; just go slow." Peter looped his arm under Neal's good shoulder and grasped him firmly around the waist. Neal accepted his help without protest. Slowly, they made their way up the walk.

Neal was breathing heavily by the time they reached the doorstep and Peter could tell he was supporting more of Neal's weight. The relief at reaching the door faded at the sound of raised voices from inside. Mozzie's voice Peter recognized, as well as the voice of Clinton Jones. The female, with a distinctive accent, was new to him, but he had a pretty good idea to whom it belonged. He and Neal exchanged looks of alarm. Pale as a ghost and almost out on his feet, Neal didn't look up to whatever was waiting on the other side of the door. Peter wasn't looking forward to it, either. The bridge crossing had come sooner than expected; Jones was not happy.

"It's okay," Peter said. "We're going straight through to the guest room; you stay there, and I will deal with them."

Peter's words evoked a change in Neal. Finding strength from somewhere, he pulled away, using his hand to dislodge gently Peter's grip on his waist. Still pale, the weariness on his face was replaced by determination. Now standing on his own, Neal met Peter's eyes steadily. "No, I'm good." He even managed a small smile. "I guess you're going to get to meet Elodie."

Amazed by the transformation, Peter put his hand on the door knob. "I'm looking forward to it." He lied.

The raised voices stopped almost instantly when Peter opened the door. Four set of eyes drilled into the two men in the doorway.

"I'd say you look like hell, Caffrey," Clinton Jones was the first to speak, a look of anger on his face, "but you look pretty good for a dead man."