Okay, fast readers have asked if I jumped ahead...yes, the story jumps to the next afternoon; after the 'conclusion of business' on Friday. What happened will be explained over the course of the next few chapters. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter Five

"I asked, and he said he was okay," Peter insisted, feeling a wave of guilt that he hadn't pressed the issue at the time. He knew Neal wasn't okay; He didn't do well with dead bodies. Especially so when he knew the victim. So the way he had looked; pale and unsteady on his feet hadn't seemed out of place. And when he clearly wanted away from the scene Peter, after retrieving the special GPS tracker watch and having Jones snap his anklet back into place, had an officer take him home.

"Yeah, and he is always so honest when asked that question," Mozzie said sarcastically.

"Look, things went bad really fast; I had a dead suspect on my hands. I was a bit occupied trying to deal with that small glitch in the take down plan." He paused and looked past Mozzie into the room. He didn't see Neal. "I told him to let the EMT guys check him out before he left."

"And he is always so good at following directions, too," Mozzie said, "Did he take a blow to the head during this, ah, glitch in the take down plan?"

"Yeah, I think so," Peter said, trying to remember exactly what Neal had said. "He said somebody hit him and…" he trailed off.

"And what?"

"Well, he was missing for awhile. He was a good ten, fifteen minutes behind the others." He paused, remembering his fears that Neal had found an alternate route out of the building and had made a run for it with Teagan; and his very different fear when Neal stumbled out from around the building, covered in blood.

"He's showing signs of a concussion; he needs to see a doctor."

"Where is he? If he has a head injury, we can't let him sleep…." Peter stepped towards Neal's room and heard water running in the bathroom.

Peter tried to remember the exchange between him and Neal at the Zenith Building. Neal had been stunned and clearly traumatized by what had happened. A falling out among thieves had left one of them with a slit throat. The ease in which Neal had handed over cash, a fake ID and a ticket to Dubai was further testimony to his traumatized state. Not the usual action of Neal Caffrey. He had been dazed; his movements slow as if his mind was in a fog. Peter had helped him clean his hands; helped him shed the blood covered shirt before giving him an FBI jacket to wear. When Jones had replaced the anklet, there wasn't the usual Caffrey response of a groan of despair or look of distaste. He had thought it was all from the shock of what had happened. Obviously there had been more to it; Neal was not only traumatized, he was also concussed.

"Headache, dizziness, disorientation, Nausea, Vomiting?" Peter ran down the list as it came into his mind.

"Yes, yes, definitely yes, yes and probably yes since he ran off to the bathroom," Mozzie responded in kind. At that, they heard the bathroom door open and Mozzie called out to his friend, "You okay in there?"

"Not really," came the feeble answer, and they heard the bed jostle as Neal's weight fell on it. Both Peter and Mozzie looked at each other. That was not the standard answer. Neal was always fine even when he clearly wasn't.

"Can we come in?"

Mozzie asked the question even as they crossed the threshold into Neal's room. He was dressed in loose fitting pants and a tee shirt and was sprawled across the bed. The arm he had flung over his face moved, and he peered at them "Who's we?" His tone perked up in concern, and he groaned when he saw Peter follow Mozzie into the room, hiding his face again with his arm. "I told you not to call him. I'm fine." That was the standard Neal Caffrey answer.

"I am not convinced, mon frère, let the suit take a look at you." They approached but stopped as Neal suddenly rolled over toward the side of the bed and vomited into a bin that was sitting there. Out of its place in the bathroom, he had apparently taken precautions and brought it with him. As Peter went through to get a cloth from the bathroom, Neal continued to heave, even though there was nothing left to come up. Peter knew that his lunch had been left in a similar trash bin at the Zenith Building when he had seen the body of Don Teagan.

Peter found a cloth in the bathroom, ran it under cold water and squeezed it out. By the time he returned, Neal was on his back on the bed, pale and sweaty. Peter handed him the cloth, which he took.

"Fine, huh?" Peter asked.

Neal put the cloth over his eyes and sighed, "Okay, maybe not so much, but I don't need you here." His arm went back over his eyes, covering the cloth as well, "I have a headache and need to rest. It's just been…" he stopped, "a difficult day."

Peter sat down beside him. Mozzie kept his distance, probably afraid of a repeat of the vomiting. "How hard did Ponder hit you, Neal? Did you lose consciousness?" his hand went to Neal's head, feeling gently through his damp hair for any sign of injury. He felt a lump and Neal let out a small yelp. "Pretty hard, I'd say," Peter answered his own question. "Sit up and let me look at your eyes." Neal only groaned in protest and didn't move, his arm still hiding his face.

"Come on Neal," Peter sounded like someone trying to coax a child out from a hiding place, and reached down and moved his arm away from his face, and then he took the cloth. "Now, sit up."

Neal groaned again, but this time he sat up; immediately he rolled to the side and repeated the heaving into the trash can. Peter placed the cloth on the back of Neal's neck, and after several minutes, Neal's stomach eased its fit. He raised up into a sitting position, back against the headboard for support. He wiped his face with the cloth. "Sitting up isn't a good idea," he said, voice slurring slightly "I need to lay down."

"Not yet," Peter said, putting a hand on Neal's shoulder to stop his effort to do just that. He leaned close and looked into Neal's eyes, looking from one to the other. He was pretty sure the left pupil was larger than the right, and the expression in the blue eyes wasn't as bright as usual.

"You probably have a concussion, Neal," he said, verifying Mozzie's original diagnoses. "We need to get you to the hospital and let them run some tests to see how serious it is."

"I don't want to go, Peter," he whined, "I just want to stay here, in my own clothes and in my own bed and sleep." After three days in Teagan's penthouse, Peter understood Neal's wish to be in his own space, but a trip to the hospital was in his immediate future.

"Sorry buddy," Peter said, looking around the room for Neal's shoes. To Mozzie, he said, "Get him a warmer shirt or a jacket; it too cold for just a tee shirt." He spotted a pair of loafers near the closet door; they should be easy to get on. He left his place beside Neal to retrieve them, and as he turned, he saw that Neal had slipped back down onto his side, slightly curled up, eyes closed.

Peter hurried back to him, sitting the shoes on the floor by the bed. "Neal," he said tapping his face gently to get him to open his eyes, "Neal," he repeated "you have to stay away, okay? No sleep right now. We need to get you to the car, can you walk?"

"I don't want to walk, I want to sleep," was the mumbled answer, eyes still closed.

"Neal," Peter said, "You can't sleep right now. Open your eyes." The blue eyes opened.

"Good," Peter said. "Let's see if we can get you on your feet. We need to get you to the hospital." With Peter's help, Neal began to comply with the request, but progress was interrupted by his need yet again to bend his head over the bin. Peter held out the cloth to Mozzie, who with a look of horror took it, holding it far from him. He stepped into the bathroom to freshen it. Neal was still spitting into the bin when he returned. Peter took the cloth when Mozzie extended it.

"Get him some water," Peter stood up, "I'm calling it in: we aren't going to be able to get him to my car in this condition." By the time he had finished the call, Neal was upright, again leaning against the headboard. Mozzie returned and handed the glass of water to Neal, who sipped gratefully. He looked worse than before, and his hand trembled as he handed the glass back to Mozzie.

He rested his head against the headboard, "My head hurts."

"I know," Peter returned to him, helped him raise up, putting two pillows behind him. "You can ease down a little, Neal, you're right; sitting isn't a good idea." Neal winced in pain as he moved himself down, not quite sitting but not lying either. He looked a bit more comfortable; too much because his eyes closed again.

"Wake up, Neal," Peter said, using the cloth to wipe his face. There was no response. "Neal," Peter's voice was louder this time, more demanding, "You can't sleep. Open your eyes and look at me. Now."

"Why do I do that?" Neal's eyes had opened, but his words came slowly as if he had to concentrate to form each one, "Why do I always do what you want?"

Peter's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You don't; I told you to let the EMTs check you out before you left, which you obviously did not do."

"I didn't say I always do what you tell me," Neal mumbled, "That's different. But I do what you want me to," Neal said, perplexed, "I don't even know why; I just do."

"Its because you trust me, Neal," Peter answered, concerned as Neal's words grew slower and more unclear, as apparently did his thought processes "And you trust my judgment."

And in Peter's judgement, Neal needed to be in the hospital.