The Whistler's Whistle
The Piano Man.
A/N: Thank you for all of the reviews! I tried to reply to everyone, but I'm so sorry if I missed you out, it wasn't on purpose! I'm overwhelmed by the great feedback I'm getting, you guys are way too kind. I'm still undecided about which way this is heading, the votes were pretty even, but either way, I hope you all enjoy it. I wasn't sure about this chapter, but I hope you like reading it as much as I did writing it.
Warning: Angst-ness and probably lots of medical/geographical inaccuracies. Please don't grill me about any of these! I am looking for some sort of Beta.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"The defects and faults of the mind are like wounds in the body; after all imaginable care has been taken to heal them up, still there will be a scar left behind." -French writer François de la Rochefoucauld
Neal didn't sleep that night. Not at all. It's not like it wasn't peaceful or that there wasn't a certain serenity to the silence but by closing his eyes, Neal was truly cut off from the world. The world became a void and he was stuck between two places, waiting, expecting but never knowing when every shadow moved or every door creaked. God, how he was tired and desperate for the release that sleep would give him but he refused to close his eyes except to blink. To do so was dangerous. Of course, he knew that confined to a hospital room was perhaps one of the safest places to be. But it wasn't where he wanted to be.
More than anything, he just wanted to go home and not have to face anyone at all.
Not Peter, not Elle and certainly not Mozzie.
Early morning light streamed in through the narrow cracks of the blinds, illuminating streaks of the linoleum floor and the shadows of dawn stretched and twisted, like they were dancing. Twirling.
Peter had left the night before, reluctantly and Neal was glad of it. He didn't want to look at the man and see the guilt, the concern etched across his features. That made it all worse, knowing that he was the cause of their pain, that he warranted it. It was because of this that there was no one to talk Neal out of discharging himself. He put his suit back on, facing the door so he could see if any one came near because knocking wouldn't have given him a fair warning. He dusted of the jacket as best he could, ran a comb through his hair and made sure to keep away from his ears. Not that there was much else he could do to them.
The nurse at the station had called Doctor Paige and she had started scribbling down an extensive list of reasons why Neal shouldn't leave. She didn't get far. The young man waved her off and signed the release forms, his signature less perfect and flowing as it usually was and he could feel her gaze boring into him as he wrote.
He also knew she saw his hand shaking.
It was cold outside but it didn't bother Neal, in fact, he embraced the bitterness of the harsh breeze, enjoying the way it sliced and hacked into his skin, filling his being with this painful, yet stimulating sense of urgency.
He had to get out of this place and away from these people.
Far away from the white and the disinfectant and the sickness – he suddenly understood why Mozzie despised hospitals so much.
It was odd, unnerving, to say the least as he stumbled clumsily down the street away from the Lennox Hill Hospital, delving deeper in to the heart of Manhattan without the usual blare and racket and uproar he'd grown used too, come to love. The traffic moved soundlessly, slowly and the many business men swearing into their blackberries did so without a single word, there was no beeping of horns or singing of guitarists on street corners or…anything. Neal felt bewildered, like a deer caught in headlights at the sight of that huge, blue truck that killed it's mother, eyes wide, open, mouth agape as he staggered in confusion. The hushed stillness was overpowering and he reached blindly for the wall of a tower block, ground spinning on its axis and he swore he was locked in some kind of stupid snow globe. He was getting shoved off the sidewalk by people rushing, always rushing. New York, where you couldn't stop for breath.
A man glared.
A child's face lit up in laughter. How Neal longed to hear her laugh.
A woman tripped over her ridiculous heels, fell and cried out but Neal heard nothing besides the insistent buzzing leaving her lips.
A dog tied to a lamp post was jumping on its back legs, jaw snapping open and shut.
Open.
Shut.
Open.
Shut.
Then there was another man, a dirty one, scruffy and he got right in Neal's face.
Right up close so Caffrey could smell the liquor on his breath, count the gaps in his teeth.
He was talking.
The CI swallowed anxiously and pushed himself off the wall, intending to side step around this man because he had no idea what he was going on about. But the man wasn't moving. Neal kept his head down and said what he hoped was, "excuse me" but this just irritated the man further.
He wasn't backing down.
Any normal day, Neal Caffrey would have retorted with some smart remark, embarrassed the man and strode on. But again, on any normal day, the man wouldn't have targeted Neal because Neal stood tall and proud and looked like a person who could defend himself.
But not this Neal Caffrey. He was feeble and pathetic and carried himself in that exact way, like he was clinging hopelessly onto life and sanity with a frail grip.
The con man thrust forward with his hands, a new found strength over taking all thoughts of reason and he rammed his elbow into the man's jaw and sent him tumbling hard against the pavement. Neal didn't wait to see if he was okay.
He just ran.
And he couldn't look back.
Peter was angry. No, he was livid. Outraged. Fuming. Every damn word in the thesaurus listed under angry.
Neal was gone.
And they'd just let him go.
"Mr Burke. Neal is a consenting adult. It was his choice to-"
"Consenting? Have you seen the state he's in?" Peter hissed, one hand on his hip, the other waving wildly through the air in no particular direction. Rosanna Paige didn't shrink away or back down. She was used to rebellious patients and frantic family members. "He can't hear anything and you just let him walk! Anything could-"
"Mr Burke, I wouldn't have let Neal leave if I thought he was a danger to himself."
"What if he gets hurt? Walks out in front of a car? I can't get hold of him because he can't hear his phone and I removed his anklet!" Peter did notice the stares he was receiving in the middle of reception and Rosanna had tried to lead the FBI agent away, but was failing in that respect.
One of the nurses who had been attending to Neal cut in shyly "Oh, actually, Mr Caffrey left his phone and wallet."
Peter threw up his arms and rolled his eyes. "Oh, fantastic! This just gets better."
Peter had been quietly suggested to leave by the hospital security, who surprisingly weren't intimidated by his badge. He immediately rang Elizabeth, who listened patiently until his rant had finished before saying the one thing Peter himself should have thought of.
Hun, this is Neal we're talking about. He's stubborn. He's not about to fall off the rails over something that isn't even certain yet.
"You're right. Of course you are." Peter rested his forehead against the Taurus steering wheel, inhaling a much needed, steadying breath. "I'm gonna go to Junes. He'll have to go home sooner or later."
When he does, bring him back with you.
"He's not going to agree to that, Elle."
For Dinner, at least.
"Okay, I'll try. I love you, Hun."
I love you too.
Neal wasn't sure for how long he ran or how many avenues he put between himself and the guy in need of a dentist, but soon, far too soon, his lungs were so exhausted, he swore they were on the verge of bursting and becoming red ribbons within his chest. Red, jagged razor blade-like ribbons that sliced through everything inside, his muscles (which were on fire) and all the flesh and sinew beneath.
He didn't even know what he was running from. It couldn't have been one man that scared him so much, it was everything. He was literally running away from his problems, except it didn't work or help in the slightest. All it did was put him somewhere familiar, yet so out of reach and remind him of what he'd lost. It wasn't just his hearing.
It was his independence.
His freedom (which was in question anyway.)
His ability to listen to the people and the music and sounds of life that he loved.
He slowed to a steady pace, his heart beating precariously within his ribcage and he found himself glancing behind him every few seconds, searching for anything he couldn't hear coming. Or someone. Paranoia was playing a harsh game.
New York seemed like a foreign world to Neal, a place he wasn't welcome, a place where he didn't belong and didn't want to be. Caffrey wanted to be alone but at the same time, he was lost and needed someone to guide him back onto the path he'd strayed from, even if he didn't realise it.
He knew Peter would be worried about him. It was fast approaching midday and it was busy, or at least, in his bubble, the crowds seemed thicker and faster somehow, always moving and he found himself caught in the tide. He shouldn't have left the hospital. It felt like a good idea at the time, the one thing he could do in defiance.
Neal decided he was going to walk home, no matter how long it took or how many mute crowds he had to stagger through. The buzzing was getting worse, so much worse and once again, he sped forward. But this time, he didn't let himself look back.
Neal shouldn't have been and wasn't surprised to push open the door of his apartment, minus the clang of the lock, to find Agent Peter Burke sat alone at his table, a beer in hand and a look upon his face that made something inside of Neal wither and die. But a part of him said he shouldn't feel guilt. He had every reason to fly of the rails at that moment. Kate was dead. Fowler was free. He was deaf.
Frankly, Neal was coping quite well. Whether or not these feelings of clarity would last was an entirely different and daunting matter.
The little, dark voice on his shoulder said "enjoy it while it lasts, because it certainly won't."
Peter put down his beer and stood up, his gaze running over the bedraggled form of Caffrey, eyes lingering on the beads of sweat on his forehead. Neal watched as Peter came closer, frustrated expression softening and he pointed to his lips, before speaking. The ex-con frowned quizzically but watched carefully and found himself subconsciously picking out words. That and everything else led Neal to decipher what was being said.
"Are you okay?"
Neal nodded without saying a word and brushed past the older man, rubbing at his eyes. His head was hurting.
He'd gone home because being outside in a familiar place that had suddenly become distant was worse than wondering aimlessly around his apartment. Besides, his headache was getting progressively more painful, like a tiny creature had taken up residence inside his skull with a sledge hammer.
A hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was facing Peter again, who held out his phone.
Where have you been?
Neal's expression darkened and he took a few moments before he felt himself speak. He could feel the vibrations of his throat, the air in his lung and he'd never noticed just how much went into talking.
"Nowhere."
He hoped he said it right and Peter rolled his eyes at that response and typed up a new message.
Why did you discharge yourself from the hospital?
Neal didn't answer properly, just shrugged and headed away.
Peter was feeling clueless. He had no idea what was going through the young man's head. He didn't appear visibly upset and that was the problem. He seemed so calm and collected. Granted, Peter didn't want Neal falling apart but he wasn't dealing.
He seemed too 'okay'. In his position, he shouldn't have been.
"What am I….supposed to do now?"
Neal's voice was a monotone and lacked its usual character. It was emotionless. Peter winced as his consultant sat down and looked up at the man who'd suddenly become the unlikeliest of friends.
Peter didn't know how to reply to that. What was he meant to say? 'Cow boy up' just wasn't enough anymore.
Peter spotted a pad and pencil and chose to use that instead. He was a clumsy when it came to texting, it just took too long and writing seemed a bit less force. Feelings could be displayed through writing, but text, it was blank.
Your appointment is with Doctor Arnolds on Monday. For now, you can come back to my place for the weekend and we'll work it out.
Blue eyes dulled. "I want to stay here."
The agent gritted his teeth and was about to protest when Neal cut him off. "The operation?"
It takes a few hours. There's a chance it'll work. You might get some of your hearing back. Have faith Neal.
Neal snorted at that. Faith? What good did faith ever do anyone?
He got up and shrugged of his top layers of clothing. They and he smelt of disinfectant.
"I'm going to go have a bath."
Neal didn't wait for a written answer.
Five minutes.
Fifteen.
Fifty.
An hour.
Peter waited. His gaze straying around the apartment, picking out the tiny details that made it look different from usual. The half-finished painting on the easel, colours bright, smooth lines represented everything and how it should have been. Neal had been okay, before all of this. Not perfect, not quite his usual sparky, eccentric self. But close enough.
And then it had happened. June had come up for a little while, her brown eyes soft.
"Don't worry, Agent Burke, I'll look after him. Go home to your wife."
He knew she would, but that didn't make it any better.
Neal deliberately left the hot tap off. He didn't feel like the heat. The bath was deep and he grinded his teeth as he stepped into the freezing, ice cold water, goose bumps rising instantly. It was so cold that in some way it hurt, like the chill was seeping through his skin and working its way into his bones, chilling his skeleton.
He whipped his foot back out and then tested it again with his hand. Neal enjoyed the pain because he caused it.
He could control it.
Soon enough, his entire, weakened body was immersed in the bath water, his breaths coming in wheezes, rapid and fleeting.
Before he'd left the hospital, a nurse had informed him not to put his head under water because he wasn't meant to get water inside his ears. It could disturb the swelling and hinder it going down.
Neal held him breath and let himself sink completely, his head joining the rest of his body beneath the mirrored surface, the nurses warning pushed far out of his mind.
The weekend had seemed everlasting. Neal found that his apartment just didn't seem quite right anymore. The gently clanging of the old, vintage piping was gone. He couldn't hear the scraping of his paint brush or the scratch of his charcoal anymore and that was one of the thing he loved about art. The sounds of the images.
Neal had reached for his iPod more than once and had eventually thrown it in frustration, before stuffing it in the draw. June had stayed with him all day Saturday, as had the Burkes but they didn't do anything. Neal found himself re-reading Nicholas Nickleby, not because it was his favourite book, but because he never read it and that seemed to fit perfectly with his life at that moment.
On Sunday, he didn't get out of bed until two in the afternoon. He wasn't tired, yet the deep circles underneath his eyes begged to differ but what to do once he got up made him stayed under the covers.
Mozzie still hadn't come, which made Neal refrain from getting out of bed even more. Eventually, June had made him help her prepare dinner. She wasn't surprised when Neal ate not a single bite.
When Monday finally rolled on by, Neal got dressed in his best suit and recently cleaned Fedora. He pulled it down as far as it would go, so he could hide his eyes under the rim.
Ten forty was quickly approaching and Peter and Neal had been directed to the waiting room of the Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat Institute. It was a modern room with beige wallpaper and solid oak furniture. The chair were a pale blue and arranged in a large circles, which didn't help when it came to avoiding other peoples gazes and in the centre of the waiting room, a pile of magazines, books and toys lay waiting for the nervous patients.
There were four square windows with a wonderful view of New York's tower blocks and a few pot plants with no flowers. There was also a piano.
Peter and Neal sat in the chairs closest to the window, trying to ignore the awkwardness that all waiting rooms seemed to be but Neal scarcely noticed. Obviously, the awkward silence was a seemingly permanent fixture for him. He watched, rather absently, a small child who couldn't have been more than six play with some kind of action figure at his mother's feet and Caffrey found a small smirk appear on his face as the action figure took a nose dive towards the carpet with enough force to make his head roll. The boy had little blue hearing aids and unlike most children, he made no sound as the toy crashed and died. His lips remained firmly shut.
Neal glanced at the clock once again, inwardly rolling his eyes as the minute hand seemed to remain fixed on one number. Peter was reading some magazine, beginning to slouch in his seat as the boredom and anxiety took its toll. He'd insisted on coming, not that Neal could really argue over paper, but he'd tried.
Caffrey himself wasn't nervous, not yet. He knew that the Otologist wasn't going to give him the direct answer he craved.
Was he ever going to hear again or not? Everything else was minor details.
Peter threw the magazine back in the rack and flicked Neal on the knee to get his attention.
Coffee. He mouthed (Neal had seen that word enough times to know it), gesturing towards the machine by the door. Neal shook his head, assuming the agent had asked if he wanted a cup. Peter patted his friend's thigh and got up, leaving Neal to look around the waiting room without being analysed.
Neal wasn't sure what drew him towards it, but he tried to ignore the urge, the impulse and yet, unconsciously he found himself getting up from his seat, stepping over the small boy and walking quickly towards the piano in the left hand corner of the room.
It was ironic really. An instrument in the room where few could enjoy it.
Well, Neal could still feel the music, the vibrations as his hands pushed down on the keys. He tried each one, then many altogether, imagining the blare of notes it was supposed to be making and while he was doing this, it didn't occur to Neal that just because he couldn't hear it, that didn't mean the other people in the waiting room couldn't.
A hand clamped around his wrist and Neal jumped as Peters angry, rather embarrassed face appeared in his line of vision. He was saying something and Neal could tell he was whispering, growling because his lips barely moved and his teeth were bared slightly.
The ex-con man blinked in confusion and then registered the gazes he could feel coming from all directions and he looked around.
Everyone was looking at him. Some looked annoyed. Others grateful for a distraction. A couple appeared almost upset. Neal felt his cheeks burn, his entire body flushed with this intense, powerful surge of heat and he turned back to the piano, closing his eyes in humiliation.
Peter had released his wrist, sorry for such a quick reaction.
And that's when it occurred to Neal. He hadn't felt so stupid in such a long time.
"I'm sorry, Peter."
He hoped his voice was quiet enough for just the agent to hear and Peter sighed, tapped him on the arm, and sat down in the nearest chair, avoiding the gazes of the other patients and relatives.
But Neal was far too mortified to stand up and walk back to a seat and he knew his cheeks were a ruby red and his heart was thudding away at an irregular, panicked rate.
Neal did the only thing he could think to do to drag himself out of the hole he'd dug and he began to play, properly this time. It'd been a while since he'd last done it, but he found his fingers drifting over the keys at their own free will, lightly pressing down on the notes, the various tones playing beautifully inside his head, a tune of high pitches and dark ones and all the emotions the harmony could create. He didn't have to think. The music just came, as naturally as breathing and he watched his fingers dance, wishing that more than anything he could hear the melody he played.
Peter was by his side again, smiling, his eyes brighter than they had been in days and it was only then that movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw that others had wandered over and stood listening to his composition. The older woman who'd previously glowered at his 'playing' now stood behind him, eyes shining with unshed tears and her hand rested on the small boys head, who looked as lost as Neal felt.
He couldn't remember when he wrote it. It was on a happy day many years ago and once upon a time, just hearing it made everything a little bit sunnier.
But it just wasn't the same for Neal anymore.
He played on regardless.
"You can't just have faith when the miracles happen, Dean. You have to have faith when they don't." – Supernatural.
I hope this was okay. I know Neal seems okay sometimes then not so much, but I think his emotions would be a little bit over the place. Please review and tell me what you think. I don't mind constructive criticism, but no flames please!