Four Months Earlier

Prison

Neal was seated on the bed in the cell, his head in his hands; his mind was flying to pieces.

He had tried to read, but by the time he got to the bottom of the page he couldn't remember a word of what he had read. He had tried to sketch Kate, only to scribble over it until the face was obliterated, the pencil tearing into the paper.

He remembered Mozzie coming to see him, under the guise of his lawyer, but it was just a blur; he had nodded his head and agreed to whatever Mozzie has said—it was as if the world was spinning out of control around him, and there was nothing he could do but hang on by his fingernails.

"Caffrey." The voice was firm, but the tone was kindly and it brought him back to the present with a shudder; he turned his head slightly and saw the guard standing outside of his cell.

Bobby shook his head as he saw the state that Neal Caffrey was in—okay, the man was a bond forger, a con man, and a hell of a lot of other things, but in his profession he seen some real sons of bitches, men who would kill you for the fillings in your teeth. Caffrey wasn't one of those.

"Caffrey, you have to talk to me; how are you feeling?"

Neal took a deep breath. "I'm fine, Bobby," The guard just looked at him and then moved off down the hallway.

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Bobby walked in silence; the lights would be going off in ten minutes, and most of the cons were settling in for the night. Caffrey was his responsibility; he was on his suicide watch list. Bobby could be a hard man—he had to be with his job—but whereas a very small number of the guards had slipped into acceptance of the casual brutality of the prison, he never had, and so he could feel for Caffrey.

Losing someone you loved was bad enough, but being locked away in prison magnified all those emotions to the breaking point.

For that reason Caffrey's shoelaces had been removed, and he wouldn't be allowed to shave until it was decided he could be trusted with a razor. But one thing that he knew was that if someone wanted to kill themselves in prison there were a lot of ways they could do it.

During the night shift he would be checking on Caffrey every twenty minutes, and then afterwards he would be filling in Caffrey's personal log. When he signed off in the morning at the end of shift that log would follow Caffrey around the prison, and each guard that took charge of him would have to fill it in. He would be monitored 24/7 until they decided that he wasn't a threat to himself. One thing he was sure of was that Neal wasn't going to cap himself on his watch. So each time he came on duty he would read through the log, and see if any of the other guards had picked up on any triggers during the day that might point to a possible suicidal state.

So during his shift, each time he walked past Caffrey's cell on his sweep he would stop and shine his flashlight in, playing it carefully over the sleeping man, making sure that he was breathing, and sleeping safely. Once back at his station he would pull out Caffrey's log and enter the time and his observations into the file. Only then would he lay the file back into the tray, and continue with his other work, until it was time to take another sweep past the cells.

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Cell

2:00 am

Neal only lifted his head as he heard Bobby's footsteps continue down the hallway; reaching under the pillow he took out the paperclips, opened them up, and then folded them in half and twisted the strands together to make one thick strand. It took him an hour of grinding it against one of the bricks to get the point sharp enough for what he wanted. The guards had been careful around him, not even allowing him a razor blade, but paperclips could be easily slid off their paperwork or palmed; the guards were careful, but not careful enough around him.

Lying on his side, he pushed up the sleeve of his undershirt, smoothed a thumb over the unblemished skin of his upper arm, and then sliced into the skin of his upper arm; this way it wouldn't show under the short sleeve of his prison clothes. Neal found himself watching the blood as it welled up from the wound. He pressed his thumb hard against the wound; the sharp bite of the pain and the flow of the blood seemed to break free something inside of him. It was as if the world suddenly snapped back into shape again as the blood ran from the wound, cleansing him. He could actually feel again and feeling something was better than feeling nothing, even if it was just pain.

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Two months later

Neal's Apartment

Neal lay in bed looking up through the skylight, into the night sky. It had seemed like an eternity before Peter had managed to get him out of prison. Now he was back in the closest place he had to a home.

When he was first released he'd had the Architect case to work on; it had kept him busy and his head in the game, but now working on the mortgage fraud files he found it hard to stay focused on the job. He would be sitting poring over the files when his hand would begin to shake and the pressure would build in his head, and he would feel as if he was being shaken apart at the seams. Only pain could take it away.

He was all too aware that Peter had put his reputation on the line taking him out of prison the first time, but their 94% case clearance reflected well on Peter and the FBI, and their decision could be argue as being sound. But that was then; this was different—if the FBI thought he was becoming unstable, unpredictable, they would send him back to prison rather than risk him running.

So he had to keep functioning no matter what. If that meant suppressing his emotions then he would do it; he could feel the tension building in his head, so his hand went to the bandaid on his upper arm, he pressed against it hard and there was the sweet bite of pain. He let out a soft sigh as the tension faded away; only then did he roll on his side and close his eyes, and prayed that for once he would get a night's sleep.

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FBI White Collar

The Next Day

Seated at his desk, Neal looked up from the file in front of him. He could feel the tension in the office around him; the truth was the agents didn't seem to know how to treat him. Those who had been friendly to him before offered their sympathy; the ones that had never liked him muttered behind their hands, and fixed any blame on him.

He laid his pen down and scooped up his coffee mug, not that he wanted a drink, but he needed an excuse to get away from his desk and their prying eyes.

It was then he saw Agent Ruiz coming towards him. He steeled himself for the verbal assault that was to come; he knew that Ruiz had never liked him. So he slid a hand into his pants pocket, clenched his fist tight around the staples he had in them; the pain as they pressed into his palm kept him balanced.

Ruiz went to walk past him and stopped, grimaced and then turned back; his voice lacked its usual venom. "I never have liked you, Caffrey; you're a criminal, and…." He paused. "Even so, I was sorry to hear about your girl ..." He raised his hand slowly and patted Neal's shoulder clumsily. "... and we will catch them." He nodded and then strode off. Neal turned to watch him go, puzzled by the man's change towards him; turning back, he saw the stunned faces of the other agents who quickly looked away to avoid meeting his gaze. He felt eyes on him, and looking up, saw Peter halfway down the stairs, coming towards him.

Peter to the rescue, he mused. He would have had to have been blind not to see the way that Peter hovered around him protectively; even Hughes was giving him a wider berth than normal. Catching his eye, Peter waved him up to his office—it seemed they had another case; Neal paused, withdrew his hand from his pocket, and looked at the blood on his palm from the staples. He clenched his hand, and relished the bite of pain when he did it; it was as if the pressure bearing down on him melted away as the pain spiked.

Peter's voice brought him back to the present, and he took the stairs effortlessly two at a time; he bounced into the room, his best con man smile in place. Seeing two bars of gold, he smiled. "Peter, you shouldn't have; a card would have been enough."

The older man laughed. "In your dreams, Neal; if you're good you get a cupcake with a candle, so plant yourself over there and listen," Peter said as he began his case briefing.

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Neal's Apartment

Two Days Later

It was Sunday, and the street was quiet. Dressed just in a dress shirt and pants, and barefoot, Neal leaned against the balcony wall, a mug of Italian roast cupped in his hands. He had been up since 5:00 am, unable to sleep because all of his nightmares. Each time he would wake up shaking and bathed in sweat.

He heard the sound of a car horn, and looked down at the street below.

He frowned and did a double take, and leaned out further over the edge of the balcony. A young woman was crossing the street and walking away from him, her long dark hair blowing in the wind; she turned, one hand going to her face to shield her eyes as she looked up at him, and then turned and walked away.

"Kate!" Neal yelled.

The mug dropped from his lifeless fingers and smashed onto the floor, but he didn't care; all he knew was that he had to get downstairs. He took them two at a time, jumping down the last three; throwing open the bolts on the front door, he rushed out and down to the pavement.

His breath was coming in sharp hard gasps as he turned this way and that, but the street was empty and Kate was gone. Neal ran a hand through his hair in frustration; he knew he had seen her. Hadn't he…?