Chapter 18 – Like Bullets
Memories are like bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.
― Richard Kadrey, Kill the Dead
When he'd fallen into bed the night before, drained, exhausted, and aching, Peter had hoped that the next morning would find him feeling, if not exactly refreshed and revived, at least human again. Instead, thanks to his restless night, he was still tired and out of sorts, feeling unexpectedly edgy.
Once he'd finally fallen sleep—and managed to stay that way—he'd actually slept in, to an embarrassing degree. Peter wished Elizabeth would have woken him earlier, but he was careful to keep that thought to himself. He was pretty sure of the reaction it would provoke from El.
His head, arm, and shoulders had hurt like hell when he'd gotten up. Now, as he sat at the kitchen table eating a late breakfast—it was more like brunch, really—after taking a pill, everything still hurt, though not as much. He was experimenting with how much medication to take so that he could keep the pain at a manageable level without making his head fuzzy.
From her position across the table, Elizabeth frowned at him as he tried to simultaneously eat toast and eggs, drink coffee (also juice, because she insisted on it), and talk on the phone. Since he was forced to do all of this using just his left hand, it was a cumbersome process.
When he ended the conversation, she shook her head at him. "Honey, you hardly even slept last night. You shouldn't be making work calls. Or . . . or going to work at all, today."
Peter sighed. The events of the overnight were the last thing he wanted to talk about. "I just had to touch base with the office about Neal. And I'm not working today, I promise. Reese said I'm not allowed—"
"Well, at least someone is being sensible," she interjected.
"—but, like I said, I am going to give a statement about yesterday. The good news is I don't have to be there 'til the afternoon." Prudently, he decided not to mention that Hughes had suggested sending an agent out to the house to record Peter's account. Knowing that he'd refused the offer wouldn't improve her mood any.
And he didn't want to take the chance of
Elizabeth overhearing anything he said.
Her face cleared a bit. "Well, I can cancel my meeting—it's nothing critical, just a vendor. I'll drive you."
He pondered for a moment. "Maybe you could still make the meeting. How about dropping me off at the hospital? I can see how Neal's doing, hang out with him til you're done, and then we can go to the Bureau together. If you don't mind waiting for me there."
Elizabeth considered it. "Not at all. Actually, that should work out fine." She smiled at him and didn't question his desire to check on Neal. Especially after last night.
Of course, Peter would feel responsible—because he was Peter. She knew he'd already called the hospital this morning and gotten an update on Neal, that all was well, but Neal had been asleep.
This was good. Peter could assuage his lingering concerns about Neal. And, if she was with Peter at the office, there'd be less chance of his overdoing it.
With that out of the way, she decided it was time to deal with the giant elephant in the room. To have the little talk she'd been rehearsing in her mind since . . . well, she'd started around 2:30 a.m. and then continued after she'd woken up this morning. Because she knew Peter, she was well aware that there would never be a truly good time for this discussion . . . but now was as good a time as any.
Elizabeth sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her cup. And kept watching him. The silence stretched out, but Peter, preoccupied, didn't notice at first. When he eventually caught on to the fact that he was being observed, he was in the middle of a bite of his eggs. Peter stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowing, before putting down the fork.
Finally.
"So," she said, smiling at him gently, "I was hoping we could talk. About last night."
He hesitated, just for an instant—which she noticed only because she was watching him so closely—and then responded with a weak smile of his own. "Yeah. Right. Honey, I—I'm really . . . sorry about that."
Elizabeth sighed inwardly. Sometimes Peter could be so predictable.
"This is not about you needing to apologize to me," she said, her voice even. "This isn't about me at all. This is about you being okay."
His eyes held just the slightest hint of defiance. "I'm fi—"
Again, completely predictable. She was ready and didn't even let him finish. "Of course, you're fine. Were you fine last night, too? Is that what that was?"
He looked away, then. "That was just . . . a bad dream."
She laughed, and the uncharacteristic note of bitterness in it brought his gaze back to her face. Now he looked stricken.
"Yes, Peter, it was. Actually, it was two bad dreams. And I know that because I saw them. And . . . heard them."
Elizabeth looked at his bruised, swollen face, at his guilty expression, and thought her heart might burst. She had the sudden urge to kiss him.
"I wish you hadn't seen it," he muttered. "Or heard it."
Now Elizabeth wondered how it could be possible to have such a strong desire to kiss her husband and shake some sense into him—at the very same time.
She exhaled, trying to think patient thoughts. Getting upset wouldn't make Peter any more tractable. No, it would only make him feel more guilty—and she really didn't want to go that route. Unless she had no other options, that is. "Again," she said calmly, "this is not about me. I'm worried about you, Peter."
He nodded, a slow, careful nod. A placating nod, she couldn't help thinking.
"I know you're worried," he said, then hesitated briefly before resuming. "Look, El, yesterday was . . . a rough day. Things like that can stay with you, especially right afterward. But it'll get better. I will be okay. I promise you that."
It all sounded good. It made sense. Peter sounded completely sincere. He meant it, she was sure.
But it wasn't enough. Not today. Not after what she'd seen - and heard - last night.
"How do you know that?"
His expression changed as she asked the question, and at that moment—only for an instant—she saw it. Just the tiniest flicker across his face before it was gone. She was perhaps the only person in the world who would have noticed, but she knew Peter too well to miss it.
Doubt.
"Because . . . I just do," he insisted. His voice was firm and authoritative; anyone would have been convinced by it. Anyone except her, maybe. "It won't happen again."
Elizabeth studied him, getting her thoughts in order. Trying to remember everything that had raced through her mind last night as she lay in bed, heartsick with worry over Peter.
"You told me some of what happened yesterday, Peter," she said, after a pause. "I think that maybe . . . it helped you to talk about it. And it helped me, too, even though I know you worry, but for me, it's better to know than to wonder." She bit her lip. "I'm glad you could share it with me."
don't I always share?
Peter blinked and swallowed, mentally pushing the voice away. He knew Elizabeth, observing him keenly, had caught it—except that, of course, she thought he was reacting to her words.
She didn't know—how could she?—that he was hearing goddamned voices in his head.
"But I also know," she continued, "that there are things you couldn't . . . tell me about. And that's okay. I understand. I just think that maybe, if you can't tell me . . . that maybe it would help if you found someone who you could tell."
For a minute, Peter thought she was going to suggest Neal, but then it hit him what she was getting at. "A shrink."
She sighed. "A professional. A counselor. I know the Bureau has people, because you've talked to them before."
He had—when he'd been required to. But never of his own volition.
"It goes against your grain, I know," she said softly. "You don't want to admit that you might need help, and you hate talking about your feelings. I get all that."
She reached out and took his hand in hers. "But if it saves you from having more nights like last night . . . it would be worth it, Peter. It would. You went through a trauma yesterday. Please stop pretending that it was nothing. I—I can't even imagine what it would be like to be in that position."
oh, i do like you in this position, Neal.
Christ, Peter thought, a little wildly, that hadn't even happened. That wasn't real; that was from his dream.
He took a deep breath, giving himself a moment. "I—I really doubt that would help."
She tilted her head to the side and gave him a patient look. "But could it hurt?"
He managed a faint smile. "Probably not."
Elizabeth got up and walked behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and bent down to hug him from behind, as she liked to do. He let his eyes fall shut, leaning back into her touch.
Her voice was dismayed as her hands found and then began to work out knots in his shoulders. "Oh, honey, your shoulders feel so stiff."
you're so tense, Neal. I can feel it everywhere. In every muscle. Let me try to help.
Regal's hands, on Neal's shoulders, his neck, his chest . . . touching him everywhere . . . .
That hadn't happened, either. Peter's eyes flew open. Wait, some of it had.
What the hell does it matter? This wasn't Regal touching him. It was El.
Jesus.
"Sweetie, are you—does this hurt?" she asked anxiously. The worry in her tone broke the spell. "Do you want me to stop?"
Peter breathed deep, tried to relax. "No," he managed. "No, it feels . . . good."
Hatred welled up inside him, then. Hatred of Regal—and of himself, for lying to Elizabeth. He was glad she was behind him, so she couldn't see his expression.
you should see the look on your face right now, Agent Burke . . . .
Her touch was light and delicate. And yet still he'd had a horrible, momentary urge to shrug her off, to physically push her hands away, and it sickened him. Sickened him that he had to work so hard to fight it.
do you think she'd enjoy that? Or would she fight back?
yes, I imagine she would fight. All the better.
He squeezed his eyes shut to force the thoughts away, Stop it. Concentrate. This is Elizabeth.
"—when it comes to your work, I only express an opinion if you ask me to," she was saying. "And I would never try to tell you what to do. You know that."
She let him go and sat down so she could see his face; quickly he opened his eyes and tried to smile. Then she reached out and took his hand again. "But I'm just . . . asking that you think about it. That's all. Don't dismiss it." She made a frustrated little gesture with her right hand. "Just please . . . consider it."
Peter looked down at their joined hands without answering. She rubbed her fingers over his.
can you even feel this, Agent Burke? I could break one of your fingers—
"Will you do that—for me?" she pressed. After a little silence, she continued, "Honey, what is it? You look . . . upset."
He smiled at her, then. Get a goddamned grip on yourself, Peter.
"Sorry, El. I'm just a little . . . distracted. Of course I'll think about it. For you, of course."
His reward was a relieved nod. "I appreciate that. And you know I'm patient, but—"
is she a patient woman, your wife? Or is that another thing I'd have to teach her?
"—too long, because I hate the thought of you awake at night."
Releasing his hand, she got up to take the breakfast dishes to the kitchen sink, stopping to kiss him on the way.
While El was busy cleaning up—she'd told him in no uncertain terms that he was not permitted to help—Peter sat there, unmoving. Then hastily, he pushed the eggs aside. At least he'd eaten enough to satisfy Elizabeth. As for himself, he'd been hungry a few moments ago, but now his appetite had vanished. Catching sight of his laptop, he managed to get it open and booted it up, as much to give himself something to do as anything. He didn't want Elizabeth to see him staring into space, like some lost soul.
The clink of the breakfast dishes, the sound of the water running in the sink was reassuring in the background as he stared silently at the computer screen. Staring at it, and yet not really seeing it.
What the hell was happening to him?
El's voice jarred him out of his reverie. With a growing sense of unease, Peter realized that he had no idea how long he'd been sitting there. Fortunately, she didn't appear to have noticed.
"Hon, I'm going upstairs to finish getting ready. Do you need anything?"
"No. No, I'm good," he said quickly. "Think I'll just stay down here."
"Okay. Call me if you need anything. And leave your dishes there when you're done. I'll get them later."
"Yes. ma'am," he said, deliberately keeping it light.
She came by to give him another quick peck, and he was careful to smile broadly at her, to make sure no trace of his disquiet showed on his face. When she was gone, he closed his eyes, more shaken than he wanted to admit.
This was . . . not like him. He'd been an agent for twelve years, and he'd been in his share of stressful situations. He'd seen some gruesome, disturbing things, things that would keep plenty of people up at night. And even though he'd spent most of his time in White Collar, he'd been in danger before, had had his life threatened before.
Despite all of that, Peter had never had nightmares like he'd experienced last night. And while those were bad enough, having to deal with a perpetrator's voice, echoing endlessly in his head during his waking hours—that was even worse.
The voice . . . it was as if Regal were assaulting him all over again.
And really, even though Peter's initial thought was that he couldn't understand why he was having this reaction, the truth was that he knew.
As an FBI agent, you recognized the possibility that you could be hurt or killed on the job. The risk was small, but it was there. You accepted it from the first day, or you found another career. And Peter had accepted it.
What you couldn't accept, what you could never accept, was the idea that the people you cared about could be subject to the same risks.
That was the crux of the problem, Peter knew. He could handle threats to himself. But threats to Neal, to Elizabeth - those were guaranteed to ratchet his anxiety up to a whole other level.
And Regal, the bastard, had known that. He'd played on it.
Now even Peter's mind was joining in, using his worst fears against him in his own dreams. And causing him to obsess, yet again, about how narrowly they'd escaped—by the slimmest of margins, really—any number of nightmare scenarios. Peter had cataloged every one of them when he'd been handcuffed in the warehouse, with nothing to do but think, and now they began to run through his mind again, as if on an endless loop.
What if Neal hadn't woken up in the first place? What if he hadn't caught Regal at just the right angle when he rushed at him? What if he hadn't head-butted Regal into unconsciousness?
What if Regal had come to sooner?
What if Neal had passed out before he'd gotten outside? Or if he hadn't found someone like Darryl to help him? What if Neal had been killed when he'd run out into traffic?
Peter swallowed convulsively.
What if Regal's crew had arrived?
What if Neal hadn't been able to climb the shelves? To leave the key for him?
What if Peter hadn't been able to unlock the cuffs? What if Regal had shot him first?
What if Neal hadn't been able to convince Regal that he'd come over to his side?
Enough, he told himself staunchly. None of those things happened.
But they could have, a voice answered—a treacherous little whisper emanating from some shadowy corner of his mind. He wished he could stop it, but he couldn't.
Any of those things could have happened—so easily. And if they had, you know what would have come next.
You saw it in your nightmares.
Peter suppressed a shiver.
It wasn't just that he'd had the dreams. It was how vivid, how real they'd been, down to the smallest detail. And the fact that the dreams had been even worse, even more graphic than the reality (which had been horrible enough). That Peter's own mind could conceive of those things and serve them up to him when he was asleep and defenseless—it was frightening.
But, he thought, what is a nightmare, but your worst fears, come to life? If there had been any doubt about what had scared him most yesterday, his subconscious mind had made it all too clear: Regal hurting Neal to punish Peter. Neal begging his partner for help that he couldn't give. Regal's associates arriving. Regal taking Elizabeth.
With Peter helpless, forced to watch it all happen.
Elizabeth didn't even know about the third dream. It had been less graphic, but disturbing all the same. In that one, Neal had betrayed him—not pretending to, but doing it for real. In that dream, after Regal had woken up, after Neal had climbed down from the shelves, Regal had asked him, How were you going to free Agent Burke?
Peter was stretching his fingers around on the shelf, reaching out as far as he could, desperately feeling for the handcuff key. Where was it?
Then, listening as Neal said, "Well, I was either going to use these"—he took out the lock picks—"or this."
He'd opened his palm to reveal the key to Peter's cuffs, smiling a false apology at Peter as he did so.
Peter had stared, numb with shock, as Neal said insolently, "Poor Peter. You look disappointed. Did you really think it would last?" He shook his head in disbelief, then turned to Regal. "We need to go. Before the FBI gets here."
Regal smiled. "Not yet. We have to take care of Agent Burke first."
"Fine. Do it."
"You don't have an issue?" Regal asked, his voice challenging.
Neal shrugged. "Not my preference, but you're the boss. If you're going to do it though, make it quick. The clock's ticking."
"I think your handler was expecting a bit more . . . loyalty from you."
"His mistake." Neal surveyed Peter; his eyes were cold, but he had an amused look on his face. For Peter, it was like looking at the face of a stranger, and it filled him with horror. "I know him. He'll never stop chasing me. By this time, I think it's all he knows how to do."
"Very well," Regal replied, satisfied. He walked over to Peter. "I only wish we weren't so rushed, Agent Burke. In a perfect world, I would have been able to take much more time with you."
Neal turned and walked away. He didn't look back.
Regal smiled maliciously, raising his weapon. Peter found that, suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. He thought of Elizabeth, only of Elizabeth, as Regal placed the barrel of the gun against Peter's temple, as he waited for the sound of the shot that would end his life. No, he thought. You won't hear it. You'll be dead first.
Then he'd woken up, drenched in cold sweat, his heart racing.
The only good thing was that, at least that time, he hadn't woken Elizabeth.
Peter sat there a while longer, alone at his kitchen table, staring at the blank screen of the laptop. Thinking about the dreams. About what El had said. what Hughes had said. About the echoing in his head.
About the fact that when his wife had touched him, his first thought was of the touch of a goddamned fucking psycho.
Satchmo, as if sensing his distress, came over and nosed at his leg.
"Hey, Satch," Peter said roughly, waving his free hand. "C'mere, I can't reach you over there," Satchmo obliged, walking around to Peter's left and sitting down. Peter rubbed the soft fur while he tried to focus his mind. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic thumping of Satch's tail as he enjoyed the attention.
Glancing at the plate with the remnants of his now-cold eggs made Peter's stomach churn; he wasn't sure why. Instead, he looked out the window, at the bright sunlight streaming in from outside. It was a beautiful day; a warm, peaceful day.
A normal day. That was good. Normal was just what he needed right now.
He took a bite of toast, but it stuck unpleasantly in his throat, almost as if he were choking on it.
he grabbed you by the throat and choked you, Neal.
Stop it, he lectured himself sternly. This is ridiculous.
You'll be fine. Of course you will.
He would be okay; he always had been. Just like he'd told Elizabeth. He had years of experience in dealing with high-pressure situations; he'd had hours and hours of training in how to handle all kinds of crises. Last night had been an aberration. All of this was an aberration. Things would get back to normal.
Will they?
It was that unpleasant whisper in his mind, again. The one he'd tried to banish—and failed.
When El touches you, and you want her to stop—because you see . . . his hands instead of hers . . . .
When your brain conjures up terrifying images of your partner being tortured, of your wife being kidnapped—images so realistic that you wake up screaming . . . .
That is the furthest goddamned thing in the world from normal.
Long moments later, he gave Satchmo a final pat and woke up the computer so he could log on to the FBI intranet. One-handed, it took a while. The truth was, that, one-handed, everything took a while.
Since El wasn't there to scold him for working, he took advantage of the opportunity to scan his emails. He browsed through the subject lines, mind only half-engaged, as he looked automatically for anything important. But his inbox consisted mostly of non-critical case updates, reminders about performance evaluations, a question about an upcoming budget meeting, and, already, a couple of get-well wishes that he read first—those, at least, made him smile. Peter would have welcomed the chance to dig into something substantive, that could distract him from thinking about . . . all the things he didn't want to think about. But there was nothing that fit that category, nothing that required his attention. It took him less than two minutes to skim the contents of his inbox.
Peter contemplated some more.
Then he navigated to the Bureau's Employee Assistance Unit page and read up on their services. After that, he returned to his email account and composed a brief message to the EAU—brief, because typing with one hand was a major pain in the ass. (And also because he wasn't going to pour out all of his problems in a goddamned email.) When he was done, Peter saved the email in his drafts folder.
He didn't send it. Not yet. He wanted to think about it a little while longer. This afternoon, when he went to the office, he could send it. Or call them. Or even just stop by; according to their web page, they always had someone available to talk. In confidence.
Yes, he'd think about it. Because, after all, he'd made a promise. And his wife—just like his agents—really was damn smart.
Very slowly, Neal was waking up.
The world seemed indistinct and disjointed. He felt oddly disconnected from his body at first, but then the pain began to register as he came back to himself, back to reality.
What had happened? Where was he?
Hospital, his mind supplied the answer to the second question first, as he blinked his eyes while his blurry vision cleared. The bright lights, nondescript white walls, frowny-face poster explaining how to communicate your levels of pain, the board on the wall announcing today's nurse as Wendy and patient care aide as Ryan—those could mean only one thing: hospital.
He already knew that, though; he'd woken up earlier and talked to the nurse. Why was it so hard to remember? . . . last night the nurse had been a he, though, not a Wendy, he was pretty sure he was remembering that right . . . .
Wait. Why are you in the hospital?
Bits and pieces began coming back, rapid-fire. Peter driving like a maniac. Kidding Peter about yuzu. Peter, for some odd reason, fixating on his hat. The warehouse. Pain. Regal. Peter, gun at the ready, white-faced with fear. His hands bound behind him, struggling to get free. That thought made him glance sharply down at his wrists and realize they were heavily wrapped. They'd been bloody, when he'd had cut the restraints—no, not him. Who? Darryl, it was Darryl who'd cut them. Right before he'd gone back for—
Peter.
He glanced quickly around the room, just to be sure. No Peter.
Where is Peter?
He was okay. Wasn't he?
Regal was going to kill him.
No, Peter was fine.
I wasn't going to put a bullet in your head, Neal.
Neal shuddered, choking back a rising, irrational wave of panic. He grabbed for the pitcher of water on the tray, dimly conscious of the fact that his hand was shaking ever so slightly as he poured.
Regal's voice kept echoing in his mind. It won't be over. Not until he's dead.
He gulped down the cup of water, spilling some in his haste to get the liquid in his mouth, down his throat.
Regal, pressing the gun against Peter's head.
No.
Involuntarily, he closed his eyes at the memory.
For Neal, hiding his emotions had always been easy. It was second nature to him. He had honed his abilities to the point that he didn't have to work at it; in fact, he didn't even have to think about it. He could just do it—automatically.
But it had taken everything he had not to react when Regal had hit Peter. When he'd threatened to kill Peter.
Pretending initially that he'd gone over to Regal's side—that hadn't been so difficult. Neal was accustomed to bluffing, to playing roles, and he was expert at judging just far to go to convince a mark of his sincerity. He was confident that he could play Regal, as he'd tried to silently convey to Peter when he'd winked at him—and then left him the handcuff key.
For Neal, the most challenging aspect of the scenario, at least initially, wasn't Regal. It was that Peter was right there the whole time.
One truth Neal had to reluctantly accept during his FBI tenure was that his normal facility at lying was severely compromised around Peter. Neal wasn't quite sure how, or why, but the agent could see through him like very few others ever could. As a result, Neal had mostly given up trying to deceive Peter, which meant he was out of practice.
No, the tricky part of the charade wasn't persuading Regal that Neal would consider working with him. It was managing to believably assert that he'd betrayed Peter. That he'd been using Peter all along. That, he'd had to work at. He'd had to look through Peter rather than at him. He'd had to quickly create a construct in his mind that Peter was someone else entirely (more like what Regal had described): a vicious, soulless tyrant who forced Neal to work for him, who cared nothing about him, who coldly used Neal for his own ends. He'd actually gotten a bit caught up in that imaginary scenario, when he'd hit Peter. That hadn't been part of any plan—that had been spontaneous and . . . excessive, and just thinking about it made Neal blanch.
But when Regal had hit Peter, and hurt Peter, and then progressed to the need to kill Peter—as Neal had known inevitably that he would—playing it cool had been one of the hardest things Neal had ever done. Knowing it was coming hadn't made it any easier.
They'd reached the critical moment of the whole situation, where everything came down to Neal. Getting the key to Peter had been a key component of his on-the-fly plan, of course, and making some headway in convincing Regal had been important, too. But all of it would be pointless if Peter didn't have the chance to free himself. Neal knew, from personal experience with restraints, how difficult it was going to be for Peter to get the key and unlock the cuffs, given how numb his hands had to be. If he could do it all—which was something Neal had refused to let himself even consider.
Of course, Peter would do it. The alternative was too alarming to contemplate.
To free himself, then, Peter would need some time. And it had to be with Regal distracted—preferably nowhere nearby.
And, of course, Neal had to make sure that Regal didn't kill Peter first, because the handcuff key wouldn't be of any help in that event.
So when Regal had begun that chilling discussion about severing the partnership, Neal had had only one thought. Get him away from Peter. Now. You have to get him away from Peter.
Turning his back and walking away at that moment had been a calculated risk. His instincts told him it was the right thing to do, but if he'd guessed wrong, the consequences would be disastrous. Because he'd be too far away to help Peter. He'd swallowed his fear and turned on his heel, making a show of his nonchalance, willing Regal to follow him, to leave the agent.
As he'd limped away, he'd realized that Regal wasn't with him. Damnit. He could hear him back there, murmuring indistinctly to Peter. Taunting him, probably, Neal had thought. That was when he'd turned around to look, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder, and had frozen in place, feeling as if his heart had stuttered to a stop, as if all the blood had stopped pumping.
Regal was right next to Peter. Regal had the gun pressed to Peter's head.
Shit. Oh, shit. He's not waiting. He's going to shoot him right fucking now.
While you're standing here, congratulating yourself on acting blasé, Regal is going to kill Peter and there's not a goddamned thing you can do about it.
Reliving the terror of that moment made him shiver. The consuming fear that he'd overplayed his hand, that he'd made the worst mistake of his life. Because it was going to cost him Peter.
He'd called to Regal then, in despair, because he had to do something, because he'd never, ever forgive himself if he just stood there and let it happen. He'd needed every ounce of artifice he could marshal to maintain his composure, to hide his panic, so nothing showed on his face or in his voice, and thank God, Regal had responded. The rush of emotion when the bastard had finally left Peter and turned away had left Neal weak in the knees. It was part of why he'd ended up the floor moments later—a small detail he hadn't shared with Peter….
Neal concentrated, trying to piece together his jumbled memories of what had come next, seeking the proof he needed that Peter was really okay.
Walking as far away as he could manage, trying to draw Regal out of sight of Peter, as far away as possible. Sharp pain knifing through his ankle as he dragged himself along. Knowing that every second he prolonged this was a small victory, because it was another second of time for Peter to use. Hoping Peter could work quickly on unlocking the cuffs, because the more Neal moved, the more he knew he was dangerously close to collapse.
Regal, right behind him, grinning broadly and then moving to stand in front of him, very close. 'I'm so glad you're with me, Neal,' he'd said, clapping him on the shoulder. His bad shoulder, and Neal could tell as the man's smile turned cruel that Regal knew that, the bastard knew he was hurting him, and Neal had had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.
Feeling his knees go weak and seeing the world starting to spin again. Realizing desperately, angrily, that he was fading, that his body was betraying him. There was nothing more he could do; it was all up to Peter now. Grabbing onto the shelves behind him and finally sliding to the ground, powerless to stop it. Regal, standing by and watching it happen, lips curled into that ruthless smile as he loomed over Neal. Neal staring up into those cold black eyes, knowing he should be afraid of what Regal would do to him, but feeling only relief. Because Peter was safe for the moment, because at least he'd given Peter some time to free himself and save them both.
But had he done enough? Had he bought enough time for Peter?
Regal's voice, talking to someone, low and suggestive. His chest filling with fear that Regal's accomplices had arrived, then relief as he realized that, instead, Regal was talking on the phone. Regal leaning in close; Neal's eyes were closed, but he could feel the man right next to him. Trying to push back the pain, to stay awake because his greatest terror was coming to and finding Peter already dead. Blacking out briefly and waking up to the sound of a gunshot.
Opening his eyes to see Regal turning to fire at Peter. Throwing himself at the man in sheer desperation. White-hot pain in his shoulder, spreading everywhere, overwhelming him with a flood of sheer agony, and the world going dark again. Coming back to himself and seeing Peter's face, filled with relief. Peter, his arm covered in blood, holding tightly to a photo of Elizabeth and looking stricken. Hearing the sound of footsteps and seeing Peter place himself between Neal and danger. Dragging himself to his feet, because he didn't want Peter to face it alone. Feeling relief at seeing Darryl again. Peter, trying to boss around the EMTs even as he was about to pass out.
Peter being . . . Peter.
I'm telling you, Neal, Peter's fine. That had been Elizabeth, reassuring him. Not the Elizabeth in the picture, but Elizabeth for real, smiling down at him.
Peter, smiling at him, arm encased in a sling (just like Neal's).
You really do evil pretty well.
He relaxed, opened his eyes again. Peter was okay. He was. He is.
And he has better things to do than sit at your bedside waiting for you to wake up. Peter had probably gone home—lucky him. While you're stuck here . . . .
To take his mind off nagging concerns about Peter, Neal began to take stock of his own injuries. So many different parts of him hurt, not fiercely, because he was clearly on some heavy medication, but he could feel it just the same.
His hand went to his throat, and he winced, swallowing painfully.
"Good morning! And how are you feeling, Mr. Caffrey?" A pretty, dark-haired nurse had come out of nowhere and was standing next to his bed. "I'm Wendy, I just came on a little while ago."
Embarrassed at being caught out, he quickly lowered his hand, cleared his throat and reached for the pitcher of water on the tray. "Not too bad. And please call me Neal." His voice was terribly hoarse. He took another long drink.
Wendy smiled at him as she asked questions, apparently aimed at determining whether he still had his faculties. Neal thought he answered them reasonably well—he wasn't quite as sharp as normal, but he was at least much more coherent than he'd been yesterday. She also took his vital signs and told him breakfast was coming.
The best bit of news she had was that the doctor would be in later and that there was a possibility that he could be released today (although the way she stressed the word possibility was not encouraging). That was okay, though. He was an optimist, and he'd seize whatever shred of hope was offered, however faint it might be.
"What do you think about getting up and out of bed?" she asked, studying him closely.
I think it's going to be agony, his mind said.
"I think it's a great idea," he said, instantly and cheerily (he was, at heart, a con artist, after all). They're not going to even consider letting you out today if you're not up and walking around. "Can I use the bathroom?" He'd used a bedpan last night and was really hoping not to have to repeat that experience.
"Let's see how you feel." She flipped back the bedcovers and helped him up.
Getting out of bed felt like it took hours, and it was every bit as bad as he'd feared it would be. He had to go very slowly. Movement seemed to wake up the pain that was hovering around the edge of his consciousness, bringing it to life in sharp, random spikes that threatened to take his breath away, that made it hard to hide.
It was a struggle, but he finally got himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, realizing that just being upright was making him dizzy. Frustrated by his own weakness, he had no choice but to stay there, taking a few deep breaths, as he tried to get his bearings and waited for the sensation to pass. When he felt like he could do so without falling over, he stood up.
Wendy frowned as she helped him get his feet under him. Watching her, Neal couldn't help feeling, uneasily, like he was failing some kind of test.
She had another hospital gown ready to serve as a robe, helping him get it draped over his back and shoulders so he wasn't quite so exposed. He appreciated the gesture, since he'd had more than enough exposure yesterday. He remembered his loosened tie, his unbuttoned shirt . . . .
That made him wonder, suddenly, what had happened to his clothes. With all the bleeding and vomiting, he realized sadly, they must have been ruined. Too bad; that tie had been one of his favorites. And, yes, it was borderline irrational to be concerned about the loss of his clothes—given what he could have lost—but he couldn't help a tiny pang of regret that another little piece of Byron was gone forever.
When he was standing and (relatively) steady, he pasted the biggest smile on his face that he could manage, hoping she wouldn't see through it. Wendy had a cane ready for him—damnit, he'd completely forgotten about the sprained ankle—and assisted him with the first few steps as he shuffled like an old man to the bathroom.
Once there, he assured her he was okay to close the door. Finally alone, he set the cane aside and leaned against the sink, breathing hard and trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his shoulder, his ribs, his head, his ankle. Every movement hurt, but seeing his reflection in the mirror was a whole different kind of pain.
He was barely recognizable, even to himself. His face was puffy and bruised; his eye nearly swollen shut; his hair disheveled, part of it shaved. There was a large bandage running along his temple and a frighteningly long row of stitches stretching across his swollen, misshapen forehead.
God, I look horrible. Scary. He swallowed hard.
Elizabeth's words came back to him. They're just bruises. And cuts. And stitches. They'll heal.
They'd damn well better.
And the bruise on his throat was . . . disturbing. Maybe more than anything. It was the size of a hand . . . .
Then Peter's voice rang out in his head, frantic and desperate, as the memories came flooding back.
You said your throat hurt. Do you know why?
Regal grabbed you by the throat and choked you, Neal. Repeatedly. He—he almost suffocated you.
Neal's mind shied away from the thought of Peter, having to watch that, powerless to stop it. It had been so much worse for Peter. He shook his head. It's over now. No point in dwelling on it.
Easy to say, but his brain had other ideas, because there was Peter's voice again, echoing in his head.
He is a twisted, goddamned fucking sick bastard who gets off on hurting people. On hurting you, Neal.
He pulled the hospital gown down to expose his chest, wincing at the sight of the marks there. The marks which Regal must have so carefully scratched into the flesh, when Neal had been blessedly unconscious.
He wants to take you, and break you, and you have got to get the hell out of here right now so he doesn't get the chance . . . .
So much of what Regal had done, Neal didn't remember. Which was fine with him. Some things he could infer because of how he felt and the marks he bore, and, of course, what Peter had said, how Peter had looked. The thing he remembered most clearly was Regal frisking him. Ostensibly looking for weapons, Regal had taken full advantage of the opportunity to touch every goddamned inch of Neal that he could reach, without an ounce of subtlety.
In terms of physical injury, the frisking was the very least of what Regal had done; it hadn't hurt at all. And yet . . . .
Staring bleakly into his own shadowed eyes in the mirror, Neal let himself remember, his body automatically tensing as he let the memories engulf him.
He'd been careful to keep his muscles relaxed, his posture loose and casual, like this was nothing, no big deal. Frisk away, he'd said lightly, even throwing in an eye roll for good measure. Then Regal had told him to face front and, instead of waiting, had placed his hand on Neal's head, applying enough pressure to make him do just that. The gesture hadn't been violent, or even rough—yet there was something menacing about it, all the same. Underneath the calm façade, Neal's pulse had begun to race as he realized what Regal really had in mind, as he was forced to stand there submissively, and just . . . take it.
Forced to pretend that he wasn't, essentially, acquiescing to a kind of molestation, thinly disguised as a weapons search.
He remembered resting his forehead against the boxes, grimacing at the pain that the pressure caused; his battered head felt ready to explode. He remembered gritting his teeth, trying not to think about what Regal was doing to him. He'd focused his energy on breathing evenly. He'd had to concentrate on standing there meekly, on not reacting, not flinching.
On not driving his elbow back into the bastard's gut like he wanted to.
And, Jesus, but he'd wanted to. He'd never experienced such a strong, visceral urge to hurt someone before—well, except for Fowler. But as badly as he wanted to resist, he knew that he couldn't. He was afraid that if he so much as twitched, that Regal would hurt Peter—if you move, he bleeds, Regal had said. He was a man who reveled in inflicting pain; Neal couldn't afford to take that chance.
Thinking about it now, he closed his eyes again. He could still feel Regal's delicate touch; it had been nothing like the brief, impersonal pat-down of a true weapons search. No, Regal had caressed him, carefully tracing the outlines of his arms, his legs, his body. Marking all the contours of Neal, almost as if he trying to learn them, somehow. The man's hands had roamed everywhere, slowly, so slowly, and Neal had known he was prolonging it because he could, because the fucker was enjoying it, was relishing Neal's helplessness, was probably getting off on it, for Chrissake.
Then at the end, after Regal had methodically explored seemingly every inch of him, he'd felt the warmth of Regal's hand, left to linger too long on the bare skin of his neck, fingers curling ever so slightly around Neal's throat from behind. A possessive, controlling gesture that had sent tingling chills down his spine—even as the heat of the touch seemed to sear his skin like a goddamned brand . . . .
In that moment, which stretched on as if it might never end, Neal had, finally, been unable to control himself. His muscles jerked, ever so slightly, in spite of himself, and then, to his horror, Regal reacted as well. Neal felt those fingers, resting on the back of his neck, quiver with excitement, as if an electric shock had coursed through Regal when he sensed that Neal was responding to him, even in the smallest of ways. Like he'd sensed Neal's fear and was thrilled by it.
Was feeding off it.
That was when Neal's seething rage had begun to mingle with a sense of dread.
It wasn't that Peter's dire warnings about Regal hadn't made an impression; they had, even though his mind had been foggy at the time. But Neal had been too worried about other things—namely, Peter, and the very real possibility that Regal could wake up at any moment and decide to blow the agent's head off. He'd been so intent on Peter that the danger to himself had been secondary.
Almost from the moment Regal woke up and ordered him to climb down, Neal's mind had been busily, confidently planning a strategy to use against him. Despite the precariousness of their situation, he couldn't help the momentary rush of excitement that always came over him when things didn't go according to plan and he got to improvise. Peter had seen it (and been horrified by it, judging by the alarmed look he'd shot Neal's way). Neal couldn't help it, though; that was just the way his mind worked. It was a reflex with him, albeit not one that he expected Peter to ever quite understand.
But a few moments later, as Regal stroked his body, invading him everywhere, as he, finally, couldn't help stiffening involuntarily at the light but palpable pressure around his throat, as he felt the unmistakable heat of Regal's fingers trailing excitedly along his skin, Neal's confidence had begun to drain away. His strategizing had ground slowly to a halt as he felt the first vestiges of real terror.
Peter's words hit home, then. Personal criminal plaything, he'd said.
If you don't get out before Regal wakes up or his accomplices get here, you're in for a forced career as the newest trinket in his collection.
It was then that Neal knew that he was swimming in deeper waters than he'd realized—and that he might be in over his head. To Regal, he was prey—and already caught in the trap.
He realized, then, that what Regal was doing to him in that moment was nothing compared to what the twisted bastard wanted to do. No, this was just a taste of what was to come.
Neal blinked his eyes open to stare at his reflection again. Okay. That was the worst part, and you got through it, and it's over. Don't think about it again.
He heard Regal's voice, from earlier, talking to Peter. It jolted him, because he hadn't remembered it—until now.
Regal had been mulling over the possibility of kidnapping Peter, of beating him, of pulling out his fingernails, for God's sake . . . Neal shook his head—how could he have forgotten that?
If I had you in my possession, Regal had mused, I might be able to control Neal much more easily. Without ever laying a hand on him. Not that I won't be laying hands on him anyway, but that would be in quite a different context.
Neal took a deep breath. What a fucking bastard.
Neal wasn't stupid. He wasn't born yesterday. He was more than capable of putting two and two together to come up with four.
Or maybe, given how tight-lipped Peter had been, it was more like putting together two and . . . one-and-a-half.
Either way, Neal understood that Regal had planned to use him for more than just the production of top-notch forgeries.
He would have forced you to—
No. He swallowed hard. He wouldn't let his mind travel down that path. He wouldn't.
And what would be the point, anyway? It was over. Regal was in custody and Neal was fine—well, not quite fine—but he was safe and that was the only thing that mattered.
Seeing himself—and reliving some of his memories from yesterday—had convinced him of one thing: the next time he saw Peter—whenever that was—he sure as hell wasn't going to bring up what had happened in the warehouse. And more importantly, what might have happened. If Peter did, that was one thing. But judging from what Neal had seen (and what he knew of Peter), he'd be no more anxious to talk about it than Neal would . . . .
A light knock on the bathroom door brought him back to reality.
"Mr. Caffrey? Neal? Do you need any help?"
"No, no, I'm fine, thanks," he called back hastily. "Out in a minute."
Time to get a move on, if you don't want her seeing you in the altogether.
His business taken care of, Neal opened the door to find the nurse hovering outside.
"Feeling okay?"
"Fantastic," Neal lied, smiling brightly.
He limped his way back to the bed, leaning heavily on the cane. Just as Wendy was helping him settle back under the covers, breakfast arrived. Neal ate the bland eggs and fruit cup gratefully; he hadn't realized he was hungry until actually seeing food. Eating with one hand was a challenge, one that he was going to have to get used to.
Not long after he finished, an aide came in with a little cup of pills. He wished he didn't need them, but couldn't deny that he was in some serious pain. He downed them all without a word of protest.
Everything was hurting, and sleeping seemed like a great way to escape that, at least temporarily.
He wasn't up to his usual escape methods, so sleeping would have to do. For now.
Waking up was marginally easier this time.
But this time, as he lay there with his eyes closed, Neal could sense someone was there, very near, watching him soundlessly. It wasn't Peter. He was pretty sure that he would have known Peter, even with his eyes closed.
Disoriented for a moment, Neal felt a surge of panic, but it faded almost immediately. He was safe, he reminded himself. He was in the hospital. Regal couldn't hurt him anymore.
Peter had taken care of that.
Neal considered the possibilities of who his silent observer could be, making a wager with himself. Then he dragged his eyes open—which seemed to take a depressing amount of effort—and mentally congratulated himself on being right.
"You've really got the whole 'staring at people until they wake up' thing down pat," he muttered.
"What? Oh." Diana's expression softened a little and she shook her head. She was seated in the chair next to his bed, looking uncomfortable.
"Is that like the double finger-point—do they teach that at Quantico?"
"Ha ha," she replied, faking a smile. "Guess I was hoping you'd wake up on your own so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about doing it."
Well, that was probably a first—Diana feeling guilty about anything that involved him.
"The last time I saw you," she hesitated, "you were . . . ."
"Unconscious?" Neal supplied.
"Yeah. And then I didn't have a chance to get back here yesterday—you know, I was busy with the wrap-up."
"Well, that's more important," Neal noted. He knew he should ask about the case, but somehow, he found he didn't want to. Regal was in custody, and really, that was all Neal cared about at the moment. Anyway, he trusted Peter to tell him whatever he needed to know. "All I've been doing is sleeping anyway."
"I bet you could use it. How are you feeling?"
"Better, thanks."
"That's good. Because—well, don't take this the wrong way, but I hope you feel better than you look."
He heaved a sigh; Diana didn't share Elizabeth's gift for tact. "I do. At least, I think I do."
She nodded but didn't answer right away.
"So, can we get this over with?" Neal smiled as he said it, and was careful to keep his tone light, so he didn't sound peeved. But as far as he was concerned, the sooner she said her piece, the better.
"Oh, yeah, sure," she answered quickly. "Now, which ankle did you sprain?"
He stared at her, baffled. "The left one. Why?"
Diana reached into her pocket and pulled out his anklet. "The hospital staff said it wouldn't be a problem, so I gotta put this back on your good leg."
"Oh. Okay." Not what he'd been expecting.
Of course, Diana noticed. As she came around the bed, he obligingly poked his foot out from under the covers where she could reach it. Easy enough to do—it was, after all, one of the few parts of his body that didn't hurt. "Why did you think I was here?" she inquired.
Neal was annoyed that he'd been wrong—and that Diana was onto him. He sighed. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me," she answered.
"I figured you came here to lecture me."
Diana focused on his ankle, very deliberately not meeting his gaze. She didn't respond right away, clicking the monitor in place around his leg. It was something she'd done countless times—usually in about two seconds. But today she seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to it, as if she were performing some incredibly complex task that required intense concentration.
Oh, he realized belatedly. She's stalling for time.
Well, he wasn't in any particular hurry.
Finally she leaned back and looked at him. "I should lecture you," she said succinctly. Her voice was clipped. "I know I probably should. What you did was stupid and reckless, and you scared the hell out of me . . . but I can't."
He was about to ask the obligatory question of why, but Diana spoke first.
"I've never heard you so freaked out," Diana said quietly, then repeated, "It scared the hell out of me."
Wow. Diana hated repeating herself.
"Yeah. I panicked," Neal said, distaste evident in his voice. "I was a little out of it, but I panicked and that's not something I do very often. Afterward, I . . . I realized I forgot to tell you that Regal had called someone, that he had people on the way. And I should have gotten something I could have used against him." He looked disgusted.
She shot him an annoyed look. "Stop being so hard on yourself. What you did . . ." her voice trailed off before she spoke again. "Well, you didn't do it for me. But . . . thank you."
He started to speak, but she held up a hand to cut him off. "And don't tell me I shouldn't thank you. Just because you were a hero yesterday doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."
"Okay," he said, laughing for real and then grimacing because, shit, laughing hurt like a son of a bitch. He stopped himself mid-chuckle; Diana looked alarmed, eyeing him for a few seconds.
"Peter's probably going to call to check up on you," she remarked.
Neal nodded. "He already did. A couple times, actually—but I was asleep. The nurses told me."
What the nurses had told him, in fact, was that the first time Agent Burke had called to check on him had been in the middle of the night—three o'clock in the morning, to be exact. Neal hadn't liked the sound of that one bit. Surely, after everything he'd endured yesterday, Peter had to be exhausted. The fact that he'd been awake at three in the morning, rather than sleeping, did not bode well.
"Do you ever think about how . . . strange all of this is?" Diana asked abruptly, forcing him back to the here and now.
The change of subject—not to mention her atypically chatty mood—caught him by surprise. When he looked a question at her, she explained, "You and Peter. I mean, he chased you for how long? Then he locked you up for four years. And now, here the two of you are . . . it's—it's bizarre."
There was an odd, almost rueful smile on Neal's face. "I used to think about it a lot," he admitted. "At the beginning." Neal sighed. "Mozzie, in particular, has had a hard time understanding it."
"I'll bet," she shot back. "Although Mozzie seems like the type to have a hard time understanding pretty much any normal human relationship."
Neal nodded. "Not his forte. Though, as you just pointed out, Peter and I aren't exactly . . . normal."
"No."
"But neither is Peter," Neal remarked. If she was going to be chatty, then, well, so would he. He welcomed the distraction. "I mean, you're an agent, you know the culture at the Bureau. How many of your colleagues would ever have even considered the deal I suggested to Peter, after he caught me the second time?"
Diana didn't have to think very long at all before she answered. "Probably none. Most agents wouldn't have even made the trip to prison to meet you."
"Exactly. Which is why it works. Peter is Peter, and at the risk of sounding clichéd, there's nobody else quite like him."
Neal paused. "You meet a lot of different types of people in prison. People who are crazy, or bad, or who have no self-control. You've got lots of people who insist the system screwed them. But there's a common thread, no matter who it is or why they're there—they really tend to hate the guy—or . . . gal," he inclined his head toward Diana—"who put them there."
"But you don't hate Peter."
Neal shook his head, smiling. "Well, as you know, Peter is . . . a really hard guy to hate. I've met a lot of FBI types since I started doing this, and I've seen very few who would have the . . . flexibility and the open-mindedness needed to make this arrangement work."
"What you meant to say, I think, is that there are very few who would put up with your crap," she snorted.
Neal's smile was indulgent. "That . . . is one way of putting it."
"I told Peter once," she said, reflecting, "that if I were in his place, I wouldn't put up with half the crap from you that he does."
"That, I don't doubt." He paused to study her and a little smirk spread across his face. "But, maybe, if you keep working on it, you'll develop the necessary flexibility and open-mindedness to . . . maximize your potential."
"I'll get right on that," she retorted dryly. Then her mood grew serious. "About yesterday . . . I'm just sorry we didn't get there sooner."
"Well, it did make things a little more stressful, not to mention painful," Neal said, grimacing slightly. "But it wasn't all bad. I did get the chance to polish up my people skills in a high-pressure situation."
Diana nodded. "People skills, huh? That's what you call it? Peter said you actually had Regal believing you wanted to work with him."
"That might be stretching it a bit," Neal answered. "I wouldn't say he was completely convinced. And it helped that he was predisposed to buy it." He stopped and thought for a moment. "It was the obvious angle to play with him. I heard him talking to Peter, when I was coming to. He couldn't believe that someone like me could have any loyalty to a guy who chased me for how long? And then locked me up for four years." Parroting her words, he smiled at her.
She smiled back. "I hope you're not comparing me to that bastard."
"Never," he assured her solemnly.
"So he thought you would jump at the chance to get away," she said, understanding it now. "He thought you'd hate Peter."
"Most definitely," Neal agreed. "For all his perceived intelligence—" Neal frowned as he said it—"he wasn't enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to imagine another possibility. Except . . ." he hesitated.
"What?"
He cleared his throat. "He did talk, once, about kidnapping Peter, too—and hurting him to get me to cooperate."
She stared at him, shaking her head in disgust. "Jesus. That's . . . that's sick."
Neal let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "You have no idea. Just the tip of the iceberg."
Diana was silent. Maybe she does have an idea, Neal thought. She'd seen his injuries, after all. He wondered how much Peter had told her—but that was not a topic he wanted to explore.
"I think Regal was just trying to screw with Peter's mind more than anything," he said finally, looking down and fiddling awkwardly with the blanket.
Deciding to steer the conversation back to safer ground, Diana commented, "Peter told me you gave Regal the key to your anklet. He was very nervous about that."
"Unavoidable," Neal admitted. "All part of the con on Regal. In fact, I wanted Peter to be upset—made it more convincing." He paused. "Guess it was a little rough on him, though."
"A little rough?" Diana repeated, incredulous. "I think you nearly gave him a heart attack."
Neal sighed. "He worries too much; I keep telling him that. And speaking of nearly giving people heart attacks," he added, "pot, meet kettle. Because that's exactly what you did to poor Darryl."
She groaned. "Yeah, well, that was another thing you didn't tell me."
"I don't follow," Neal said, frowning.
Diana raised an eyebrow at him. "Think about it. You call me from an unknown number, rambling and frantic, barely making sense, obviously hurt and in trouble. Then suddenly we're cut off, and when I call back, there's no answer. The second time I call, a stranger picks up and you're gone. What was I supposed to think?"
"Oh," Neal said, feeling foolish that this hadn't occurred to him before. "You assumed Darryl was the bad guy."
"Hell, yeah," she shot back, with feeling. "I thought you'd escaped, but that whoever was after you had grabbed you again and—and taken the phone and . . . ." Her voice was strained.
Neal gave her a commiserating little nod. He'd been on the verge of coming clean about the fact that they'd been cut off only because he'd deliberately hung up on her. But the look on Diana's face was causing him to hastily rethink that strategy.
Full disclosure had never really been his thing, anyway . . . .
Diana continued. "So I threatened him, warned him not to hurt you, and demanded that he put you back on the phone. Of course, Darryl insisted he'd only been trying to help and that you'd gone back for Peter. I did come round to that eventually, but then I threatened him again to keep him from following you. I was afraid he'd get hurt."
"You made quite an impression," Neal informed her. "I hope you apologized, 'cause we owe him, big-time."
"I did—well, for part of it," she answered. "But I didn't get the chance to meet him; he left right before we got there."
"That's right," Neal said, remembering. "Well, we can fix that, anyway. I'm gonna host a thank-you dinner at June's for Darryl, his girlfriend, and her son. Peter and Elizabeth are coming and you should, too." He gave her a stern look. "As long you promise to be nice."
"I think I can manage that," Diana said, grinning. "And since you brought it up, you have to tell me about the truck."
"What about it?"
Diana shot him an exasperated look. "You got hit by Darryl's truck. Yet another thing you neglected to tell me about, by the way. Peter didn't have all the details, so spill."
"What do you want me to say?" He gave a mini-shrug, the most he could do without exacerbating the pain in his shoulder. "I needed to attract attention."
"So you ran out into traffic so you could get hit."
"Um, a little credit, please?" he said, looking just a tad annoyed. "I can assure you that the plan was for him to stop - so as to avoid hitting me." Neal thought for a moment before admitting, "Well, it was more of a hope than a plan, I guess. And, hey, it worked. Mostly."
She shook her head at that and joked, "Have you seen yourself?"
Neal smiled wanly. "The truth is, I didn't know what else to do. There was no one to help, my hands were tied, and Peter was . . . he was running out of time." He glanced out the window.
"You could have been killed." Her tone wasn't accusing—just matter-of-fact.
"Peter could have been killed," Neal said simply. He looked back at her, and the raw emotion in his eyes made Diana's breath catch in her throat.
She stared at him, not knowing what else to say.
"I couldn't let that happen. Because Peter is . . ." he hesitated, searching for words in a way the ultra-glib, always-articulate Neal Caffrey never did. "He's . . ." Neal's voice died away.
"It's like you said earlier," Diana suggested, her tone unusually soft. "He's . . . he's a hard guy to hate."
Neal's smile was appreciative and heart-felt. "Exactly."
TBC
….
A/N—The Neal/Diana scene was for devoted reader/reviewer/friend Devoregirl, because once she suggested it, I couldn't get it out of my head—thanks to her for that!
And thanks to everyone who's still reading, reviewing, and hanging in there patiently! Just one more chapter to go, I think . . . .