Chapter 19 – To See One Another Through
We are not put on this earth to see through one another, but to see one another through.
— Unknown
[Note to readers: Contrary to my earlier prediction, this is not the last chapter. There will be one more after this one. Sorry for the miscalculation!]
As he lay there, gradually coming awake once more—and realizing, yet again, that he was not alone—Neal couldn't help wondering whether he was in a hospital room or in Grand Central station.
Having worked mostly solo over the years—or in situations when your "partners" couldn't (or didn't) stick around to worry about your welfare—Neal wasn't particularly used to having people checking on him. Or caring about him. So it was kind of strange.
Not bad, certainly. Just . . . different.
So, who was it this time? Diana had left, he knew it wasn't Peter, and Mozzie was out of town.
Mozzie had called him earlier on the phone in his room, which was a pretty big concession for him. Neal knew, though Mozzie refrained from saying it out loud, that his friend probably thought Big Brother was listening in. Just why Big Brother would care about their utterly innocuous conversation was another question, but Neal didn't bother to ask. Because of course, Mozzie would have some ready explanation that would sound sane only to him. And Neal wasn't up to rebutting him at the moment.
Still, in deference to his friend's paranoid sensibilities, Neal had made sure to speak only in the most general of terms. He'd also been very careful not to ask where Mozzie was. Or what he was doing. Or when he'd be returning. Mozzie had told him (in code, naturally), that he'd be back in the city in three days, which was just as well. The delay would give Neal some time to heal, to look a little less . . . scary. At least, he fervently hoped so.
Because after seeing what Neal looked like, Mozzie would probably flip out about how working for the FBI was far more dangerous than anything Neal had done in his previous life, how all of this was the Feds' fault, how the Suit couldn't be trusted, et cetera, et cetera.
Neal didn't want to hear it and, more importantly, he didn't want Peter to hear it.
Pushing the fatigue away, he blinked his eyes open to see June reading the Times. When she noticed that Neal was awake, she looked pleased.
He started to speak and had to stop to clear his throat. "Hi, June," he croaked.
Now June was positively beaming at him; the effect was almost blinding. "Neal! It's so good to see you awake." She quickly reached over to pour him some water.
"It's good to be awake," he told her, reaching for and pressing the button to raise the bed up so he would feel like less of an invalid.
"I'm sure," she said softly. "And I'm not going to ask if you're all right. Because, clearly, you're not. So I'll only ask if you will be all right."
"Do you even have to ask?" he replied, with one of his insouciant smiles (even though he knew that the massive shiner he sported probably ruined the effect). "I always bounce back."
"That you do," June agreed. "And what exactly will you be bouncing back from?"
"Oh, you know," he sighed, waving a hand in the air and putting on his best hale-and-hearty manner. "Nothing life-threatening. Bumps and bruises, as you can see. Broken collarbone, a couple of cracked ribs, and a sprained ankle for good measure. Oh, and a concussion," he added belatedly. "Not a bad one, though."
June shook her head. "You always go to extremes."
"Can't help myself," he agreed dryly.
"When Elizabeth called yesterday," June said, her tone anxious, "I was beside myself. I wanted to come straight down, but she insisted there would be no point, that you weren't awake."
"I'm glad you didn't come." Neal paused to drink some more water, enjoying the cool feel of it on his dry throat. "A lot of yesterday, especially once I got here to the hospital, is kind of a blur."
June nodded and studied him for a long moment without speaking. Finally, she said, "Do you want to talk about it?"
No one else had asked him that. Not Peter or El yesterday, not Mozzie or Diana today.
He couldn't deny being taken aback by her directness. But he shouldn't have been; it was typical for June. She was not one to dance around an issue.
"Not really." He smiled, an easy smile meant to deflect. "It's over and done with."
"I'm sure," she said, smiling back. June wasn't so easy to divert, though. Her voice clearly indicated that she wasn't fooled—and really, why, would Neal have ever thought she would be? "Which leads me to the next question: do you need to talk about it?"
He looked right at her, because he knew that if he didn't, it would be a dead giveaway. Eye contact was always critical in these situations.
There was something incredibly disarming about June. Neal had noticed that, sometimes, he ended up telling her things he didn't tell anyone else. Even Peter. Or Mozzie. He'd learned, early on, that he could tell her just about anything, and she wouldn't judge him, or question him. And Neal didn't have to worry about putting her in a difficult position, the way he might with Peter.
Probably it was all those years with Byron, with whom Neal knew he must have a lot in common. June seemed to understand him, instinctively, in a way that very few people did. Neal was a man of many secrets, and June probably knew as many of them as anyone (not counting Mozzie). And the bizarre thing was that June wasn't one to pry. She just had a gift for drawing things out of you—almost like magic—without even appearing to try.
This seemed to be one of those times, Neal realized. He was pretty sure she was going to keep staring at him until he said something. A familiar technique, of course; he'd used it countless times. It was amazing how often people became unnerved by mere silence. Someone who would flat-out refuse to answer a direct question could spill all kinds of useful information—if you were patient, if you were willing to let the moment just . . . breathe a little.
June was a deft practitioner of the technique, as well, and she also had the advantage of a gaze that was positively piercing.
Neal knew he could stay quiet. He could give her an enigmatic, I-really-don't-want-to-talk-about-it smile, and that would be the end of it. June wouldn't push.
She deserved better than being shut out, though. And if Neal were honest, with himself, he'd admit that, deep down, a part of him wanted to talk about it, if only briefly. To voice the things he could never imagine saying to Mozzie.
Or, God forbid, to Peter.
"I—I haven't been that scared in a very, very long time."
That those were the first words out of his mouth—that he'd just . . . admit that—surprised even him. His voice was quiet—not a whisper, but pitched so low that June leaned forward a little, maybe straining to hear.
"And I hate being scared."
She didn't say anything, just looked at him. Concern was etched in every line of her face.
"I thought he was going to kill Peter."
"That must have been . . . horrible," June said, eyes now filled with compassion. "I know how important Peter is to you."
That made him glance at her sharply. Leave it to June to cut right to the heart of things. "Yeah," Neal said. "And I nearly got him killed."
June's brows drew together as she pursed her lips. "I don't know the whole story, but Elizabeth said you saved Peter's life."
He snorted. "Only after I put him in danger in the first place."
After Diana left, Neal had had more time to think. In fact, stuck alone in his hospital room, Neal had nothing to do but think. And the more he'd examined the events of yesterday in his mind, analyzing them from every angle, the more this had stood out as an obvious point. Frankly, he felt stupid for not realizing it before. For not recognizing how his own actions had contributed to the entire mess.
"How so?"
He appreciated that June didn't automatically try to argue him out of it, or dismiss what he was saying. Really, she was one of the best listeners he'd ever met.
"We went to the warehouse to execute a search warrant. I—I was complaining about why we had to do it." Acting like a child, he thought, feeling almost ashamed. "Then I got bored and wandered off on my own . . . ."
"And," June hesitated, "you—you were attacked?"
He nodded glumly.
"From behind?"
Neal nodded again.
"I think I must be missing something," June said in her usual measured tone. "How is that your fault?" Her manner and expression were polite—she wasn't challenging him, but rather asking a genuine question.
Exhaling slowly, Neal looked down at his left hand where it rested on the blanket. "If I hadn't gone off on my own, none of this would have happened."
Skepticism showed on June's face. "But—did Peter know that this man—I'm sorry, what was his name?"
"Regal," Neal supplied.
"Did Peter know that this . . . Regal would be there?"
"No."
"Are you saying . . . he should have known?"
"Definitely not," Neal said, a little indignant on Peter's behalf. "He even had agents watching the place, but somehow this guy got inside anyway."
June's expression had transformed from skepticism to honest confusion. "So what difference would it have made, Neal? I mean, if you had stayed with Peter, this man would have still taken you by surprise. You would have been together instead of separate, but the outcome would have been much the same, wouldn't it?"
Neal tilted his head to the side in an equivocating gesture, but he said nothing.
"Neither of you was expecting anyone to be there. If Peter couldn't have been known, surely you couldn't be expected to, Neal." June's voice was reasonable. "Sometimes bad things happen. It doesn't have to be anyone's fault."
"You're probably right," he said, hoping that would be the end of it.
But June had heard the doubt in his voice.
"Emotion makes it hard to be logical," she remarked, and now she had a regretful smile on her face, staring off in the distance like she was remembering something. "Especially when someone you care about is in danger. Once you get over the relief of knowing they're okay, all you can think about is—is how close they came to not being okay. And about what you could have done differently. Everything else fades away in the face of that."
Watching her, Neal wanted, so much, to ask her how she knew, how she understood so exactly what he was feeling. But something about the look on her face, as she brought her eyes up to meet his, stopped him. Neal was reminded, in that instant, just how much of June's life he knew nothing about. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "You're a wise woman, June."
"I've been there, Neal. And I'm sure Peter doesn't blame you any more than you blame him. Speaking of Peter, how is he?"
"A little beat up, but not bad enough to be admitted, fortunately." He halted, suddenly remembering the frantic note in Peter's voice—he wants to hurt you, Neal, he already has—and swallowed hard.
June was watching him intently.
"I think—I think the worst part for Peter might have been that Regal handcuffed him, and he had to watch while Regal . . . went after me." The words came out of his mouth in a rush. He realized that he hated saying them. Hated that she had to hear them.
He didn't expect the very un-June-like anger that flashed in her eyes. "What a son of a bitch."
Neal took a moment to reflect on the fact that even when June was calling someone a son of a bitch (which was probably about as strong a profanity as she would ever utter), she somehow still managed to make it sound ridiculously elegant.
Only June . . . .
"Is he dead?"
"What?" He looked at her, startled out of his reverie—and thrown by the question. "Uh, no."
"Hmph." June's face was grim, showing clearly that she found his answer less than satisfying. "And I'm sure you're right," she added. "For Peter, it was probably much worse."
"I think so," Neal assented. "Not that he wasn't hurt. His arm's a mess, and his face doesn't look much better than mine." He stopped, looking stricken. "And I hit him. I was trying to convince Regal that I'd turned on Peter, and I hit him, and . . . ."
"And you think Peter's going to hold that against you?"
"Of course not," Neal said, frustrated by the whole discussion. Frustrated with himself. Frustrated with everything, at the moment.
June looked thoughtful. "My understanding, Neal, is that the reason you look the way you do is because you gave yourself up for Peter."
Neal shrugged a little, with his good shoulder, not knowing what to say. This kind of talk made him uncomfortable. Just like earlier, when Diana had thrown the word hero around. Usually, he was the first one to boast about his accomplishments, but not today.
He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a guy who'd acted out of sheer desperation and who'd gotten lucky. And ever since waking up this morning, he couldn't help obsessing about what he could have done differently . . . .
"You know what I've been thinking about?" he said abruptly. "Not yesterday, in the middle of it, but today. That if Peter—if he didn't make it, I don't know what would happen to me. And how selfish is that?"
Neal laughed bitterly, thinking of what Diana had said. "Maybe they'd send me back, because nobody else at the FBI would put up with me." He paused and stared at the wall. "And I can't help thinking that if they did send me back, that I'd deserve it. That maybe—"
"Neal." Even when June was interrupting you—something she hardly ever did—she was still unfailingly gracious. "Excuse me, Neal, but I really must stop you right there."
Neal looked over at her, silent.
"I understand," she said—and now he could hear the solicitousness, the indulgence, in her voice—"that you're in pain. You're not thinking as clearly as you normally would. And it's finally hitting you, how close you came to losing Peter yesterday. So, of course, you're not yourself."
June smiled again, all affection. "But allow me to be the voice of reason, in the face of all those very understandable things, and say that you're wallowing, that you're not making any sense, and it doesn't become you one bit."
He couldn't help smiling ruefully. June was right, of course. He was overreacting—and that wasn't like him.
"I do have something else to confess from yesterday," he told her, heaving a sigh.
"What would that be?"
Neal gazed at her sadly. "I ruined another one of Byron's suits. And one of his best ties."
"Ah," she said. Her voice was grave, but amusement danced in her eyes. "Now, finally, we've arrived at the really serious regrets."
He gave her a wry look, yet he could tell she sensed the undercurrent of seriousness there. "You know it."
"They're only clothes, Neal," she said, regarding him fondly. "Not museum pieces. If I wanted them . . . preserved, I wouldn't have given them to you."
Neal nodded, letting out a long exhale and leaning his head back on the pillow. "I know. It's silly for me to even—"
"No, it's not," she declared firmly. "It's quite sweet, actually. And I have kept some of Byron's things, you know. To remind me of him. Of us."
June hesitated before continuing.
"But I want you to know this. When you first came to live upstairs, anytime I saw you dressed up, it would make me happy. Because I would always think, There's Neal, wearing Byron's clothes, and looking so fine."
He smiled, chuckling a little in spite of himself.
"And now," June continued, "when I see you dressed up, it still makes me happy. But now, all I think is, There's Neal, looking so fine."
Neal ducked his head. He could feel himself blushing—again, something he hardly ever did.
"They're your clothes now, Neal. They . . . fit you. In every sense of the word. I love seeing you in them. And Byron would, too."
When he finally looked back at her, the emotion on her face took away whatever words he'd been about to say.
"And I'm sure I don't need to say this, Neal, but I will anyway. The clothes don't matter. At all. You do—more than I can say. I'm just so thankful that you're all right."
They exchanged another smile and silence stretched out between them. Neal found himself still—quite uncharacteristically—at a loss for words.
Maybe June, perceptive as she was, sensed his discomfort, because she changed the subject with alacrity. "So," she said briskly, "enough about the past. I think we should look ahead, don't you? So the most important question is: when can I bring you home?"
Neal couldn't help grinning shyly at how . . . maternal she sounded. "Soon, I hope. Maybe today."
"That's wonderful," she said, beaming at him once more. "You're going to get more TLC than you can stand, Neal Caffrey."
Having people around to care about him—well, it still felt strange. But it was something he could definitely get used to.
In fact, Neal realized, seeing the sparkle of unshed tears in June's eyes, feeling his heart swell in response—in fact, he already had.
Sometime later, Peter was kissing his wife goodbye and assuring her he was fine as he climbed out of the car at the hospital entrance. Peter did his level best to look smooth while doing this, but he sensed from her frown that he wasn't quite making it.
"You have your pills, right?" Elizabeth's tone indicated how dubious she was about the whole idea of leaving Peter on his own. She sounded for all the world like a nervous parent sending a child off for the first day of pre-school.
"Right here," he sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. She knew very well where the pills were; after all, she was the one who'd slid the little bottle into his pocket when Peter had forgotten them. Truthfully, he hadn't exactly forgotten them—he wasn't a fan of the dull, drowsy way the pills made him feel—but he didn't plan to share that with Elizabeth.
"And you'll take one if you need it?"
"Yes, mom," he said teasingly.
El gave him a no-nonsense glare. "I mean it, Peter. You should be at home resting. I don't want to come back here and find you in pain. If you are, I'll know it. You know I will."
"You won't. I mean," he amended hastily, "I know you would, but you won't. If I need one, I'll take it. Don't worry."
"All right. I love you, hon."
"Love you, too. And remember, I don't have my cell," he said, "so just call Neal's room if anything comes up, or when you want me to meet you out here. We're not on a timetable as far as giving my statement, so there's no rush."
"I've got the number in my phone," she assured him.
it's a good thing I had stored Elizabeth's number on my phone . . . .
That didn't happen, he told himself firmly. Get a goddamned grip on yourself, Peter.
He forced a smile onto his face, forced himself to wave his free hand cheerily at her as she pulled away.
The day was warm, but Peter felt a sudden chill. He shook his head and went inside.
At the doorway of Neal's room, Peter knocked softly and entered.
Neal was asleep—hopefully, he was merely asleep and not unconscious.
Peter couldn't help an unreasonable rush of relief that Neal was here, that he was safe. Not like in those ridiculous dreams he'd had. The relief was swiftly followed by embarrassment, though. Neal was fine; he was resting. Rest was obviously what he needed.
What he didn't need was an overprotective FBI agent to watch over him.
Peter sighed. Well, he was here now, and he wasn't going anywhere until Elizabeth came back. He was just going to have to make the best of it.
As quietly as he could, Peter walked over to the chair beside the bed. Grunting a little at the pain in his ribs, he eased down into it, mentally congratulating himself on the fact that at least he'd remembered to bring some reading material.
Peter studied Neal carefully. Best to take advantage of the opportunity to look him over now—when Neal wasn't awake to be annoyed by it.
Peter sighed heavily at what he saw. His consultant looked worse than he had yesterday, which wasn't surprising. Bruises usually got worse before they got better—and Neal's certainly had. The contusions around his eye and along his temple had spread and darkened overnight; if Neal's eye wasn't swollen shut, it would be damned close. Meanwhile, his forehead, which had been split open and then stitched, was now inflamed into ugly, dark shades of reddish purple—and also very swollen. Peter wondered if Neal would even be able to fit into one of his hats right now.
There was probably a joke in there somewhere, but he doubted Neal would find it funny. His consultant's face was just plain hard to look at; Peter wondered if he'd seen himself yet.
Neal would not be pleased.
As he examined Neal, Peter realized that his head was tilted to the side, at such an awkward angle that Peter had the urge to shift him into a more comfortable position. But as he reached out, Peter suddenly thought better of it. He remembered the dream (or hallucination, or flashback—whatever it had been) Neal had had yesterday.
Touching Neal while he was asleep might not be a good idea.
Peter let his hand fall back down. Before doing so, he did, however, pick up the front page of the New York Times and set it on the bedside table. Neal must have been reading when he drifted off; the crumpled paper had been lying across his chest.
His gaze moved to Neal's tray table, which held what appeared to be the remains of lunch. Surveying it, Peter frowned. There was some sort of sandwich, which, at first glance, didn't appear to have been touched. The bun was there, wholly intact, without even a bite taken out of it. But when he leaned in to do a quick mini-forensic investigation (poking carefully at the bun with a discarded plastic knife), he discovered that Neal had at least eaten whatever the main part of the sandwich had been—maybe a burger? Next to the bun was a small mound of what looked like macaroni and cheese; it was a lurid yellow-gold color that Peter had to admit was far from appetizing. The appearance of the fork indicated that Neal must have tried it—but the quantity remaining proved that he couldn't have eaten very much. There was also a bowl of Jell-O and a small, wilted-looking salad, both still wrapped in plastic. Peter wondered, with a little pang of concern, if Neal had wanted to eat them but been unable to get the wrapping off one-handed. Surely he would have asked for help?
Except that asking for help was not really Neal's modus operandi.
"Excuse me, is he finished?"
Startled, Peter looked up to see an aide smiling at him and indicating the tray.
"Uh, I guess so," Peter answered, with another look at Neal, who was still fast asleep. If Neal hadn't wanted to eat lunch when it first arrived, he probably wasn't going to be any more interested in the food after it had sat around for a while. And it wasn't like Peter could force him to eat it.
Peter did reach out and snag the Jell-O, along with a spoon, also still wrapped in plastic. "I'll just keep these."
"No problem," the aide said, glancing at Neal. "Hey, if you think he'll want it when he wakes up, I can leave it all there."
"No, this is good," Peter assured him.
"Okay." With a nod and another smile, the aide picked up the lunch tray and exited.
Peter set everything back down on the tray table, throwing an extra napkin over the Jell-O, and settled back into the chair. He considered for a moment, staring at the bowl and then at Neal, before getting up and walking over to the phone. Keeping his voice low, he made a quick call.
Neal didn't even stir.
Returning to sit back down, Peter pulled out the latest Sports Illustrated and skimmed the list of articles. The one about the merits of advanced statistics in baseball looked promising. As a math major and a baseball fan, he considered the topic to be right in his wheelhouse.
Or, at least, it should have been. Instead, he found his attention wandering. Sometimes his mind veered back to the dreams again, but Peter resolutely pushed those thoughts away. When that happened, he tried to focus on his statement instead, thinking about what he would say and how he'd say it. Other times, Peter caught himself looking over at Neal for some sign of awareness (and seeing none).
After forcing himself to return to the same paragraph about the intricacies of offensive and defensive WAR (for what felt like the tenth time), Peter heard a rustling of the covers that made him look over quickly.
Neal was waking up.
As he folded the page down, Peter closed the magazine and watched as Neal came to awareness. He blinked in confusion a few times and then briefly grimaced in pain, but his expression brightened when he recognized his visitor.
"Hey, Peter!"
Experience had taught Peter that he was not a particularly adept liar, especially where Neal was concerned. So he'd already thought about what he would say when Neal woke up, keeping in mind the bit of diplomacy El had employed yesterday. Since it would be a lie to say Neal looked better than he had, Peter had decided that he needed to go with something else, something that was technically true. After considering and discarding various options, Peter had finally come up with an alternative he thought would work,
"Hey, yourself," he said warmly. "You look a lot livelier than the last time I saw you."
"I notice you didn't say 'better,'" Neal observed, a sad little smile on his face.
So he had seen himself. "Oh, you'll be back to yourself in no time," Peter said, downplaying for all he was worth. "The important thing is how you're feeling."
"Tired. But better, actually," Neal confirmed. "I talked to the doctor. They showed me a bunch of my X-rays. It was kind of a mess in there." He gestured to his injured shoulder. "And I'm probably gonna glow in the dark from now on."
"That could make it hard to be stealthy," Peter remarked, letting a faint grin show.
"I know," Neal said, his disappointment both visible and audible. "Still, as broken clavicles go, I guess mine is a good one. No nerve damage, no lung issues, and no surgery needed. But moving is gonna hurt like hell for a while, or so they tell me. Gonna be in a sling for four to eight weeks,"
Peter nodded. "Well, you're not going to be at work for a while, I can tell you that."
"And I need to follow up with my doctor in a few days, to get the stitches out and get the shoulder checked." A little line appeared between Neal's brows and he frowned, struck by a sudden realization. "Peter, I . . . don't have a doctor."
"We'll find you one," Peter assured him.
"And no contact sports for eight weeks," Neal added.
"No jumping off museum roofs, in other words."
Neal looked pained. "You don't jump, Peter. You rappel." He stopped before adding the obligatory, "Hypothetically, of course."
"Of course," Peter agreed solemnly. "How silly of me."
"Very," Neal observed. "Really, I would expect better of you." He paused to survey Peter and changed the subject. "So, what're you doing here?"
Peter shook his head. "You really have to ask? I'm checking on you."
"You came all the way into the city to check on me," Neal said, disbelieving. "You, uh, could have called."
"Oh, I did call," Peter said, his voice firm. "You were asleep."
Neal knew that already, of course, but he decided to keep that to himself. "Still—"
"Well," Peter interrupted, "seeing you was part of it. I'm also going in to the office."
Peter was insanely dedicated to his job. Neal knew that; hell, everybody knew that. But surely even he wouldn't be going in to work after what had happened yesterday. Would he?
Neal didn't bother trying to conceal his impatience—or his irritation. "Okay, seriously? Peter, I don't claim to be an expert on FBI protocol, but if they aren't giving you the day off today, you really need to file a grievance or something."
"Take it easy, Neal. I'm not working, just giving my formal statement. About yesterday."
"They couldn't send someone out to Brooklyn to do that for you?" Neal asked, frowning.
"They could," Peter said, and something dark and unreadable flitted across his face before it disappeared. "I didn't want them at—I didn't want them to." He hesitated and gave a shrug that was just a little too carefully casual, "Easier to do it at the office."
Neal could easily sense his partner's disquiet—Peter might as well have been holding up a sign, for heaven's sake—even if he wasn't sure of the reason why. He was sure Peter wouldn't want to discuss it. Instead he nodded and remarked, "I guess . . . I'm gonna have to give one, too."
Funny that he hadn't thought of that before. Now that he had, the thought was distinctly unpleasant.
Because it really didn't fit in with his newly-formed philosophy regarding yesterday, which was to try to forget that the whole damn thing had ever happened.
Peter was observing him keenly. "Yup, we'll need a statement. But not today. I thought maybe tomorrow, if you're up to it. We'll arrange for an agent to come out with recording equipment." He paused. "I shouldn't be the one to do it, really, but I can arrange to be there if—"
"No, no, it's okay. You don't have to be there," Neal said quickly. This would be hard enough without Peter around. No, he'd be better on his own. Presumably Peter would read it, he guessed, or listen to it, or whatever, but Neal would just as soon not be around for that.
"Fine," Peter said, giving him a pointed glance. "I'll assign somebody. Do you have any . . . preference?" He was trying to gauge whether Neal would be more comfortable with someone he knew, or if it would be easier to speak with a relative stranger.
Neal gave a little shrug. "I get to pick, huh? I guess Jones or Diana would be fine. I mean, if they're not busy . . ." he let his voice trail off.
Pete nodded. "Sure, no problem."
"Whenever you want to do it is okay," Neal added. "Except . . . there's a lot I don't remember. And some of what I do remember is kind of hazy." He looked troubled.
Lucky you, Peter thought automatically. But instead, he nodded. "That's okay. Don't worry about it. Just focus on what you do remember, and don't guess—or worry about what you don't know. With everything you went though, nobody's going to expect you to have perfect recall."
"Will there be a trial?" Neal asked, the words out of his mouth before he even thought about them. He was a little surprised that he'd asked—and he could tell Peter was, too.
The agent studied him for a moment and didn't answer right away. "I wouldn't think so, but you never know. The thing is, he's not gonna be offered much of a deal, so maybe there won't be enough incentive to plead." Peter shrugged. "Hopefully his attorney can convince him that the difference in sentencing is enough. Anyway, that's a long way down the road."
Neal nodded assent.
A little pause ensued, long enough that it was on the verge of becoming awkward.
"Say," Peter said abruptly, "are you hungry? I could get something for you."
Neal sighed. "Nah, I'm fine."
"Except you didn't eat lunch."
Neal's gaze sharpened as he stared at Peter. His eyes darted down to where the lunch tray had been and around the room, just a little suspiciously. "And how would you know that? Were you hiding in the corner, earlier? Or surveilling me with some kind of hidden—"
"No, Mozzie." Peter gave him an exasperated look. "I saw your tray."
"Ah, and that makes you a dietician," Neal retorted, but he was laughing. "Look, I ate enough to keep from wasting away. And I ate a big, healthy breakfast, which I'm sure I don't have to tell you is the day's most important meal."
Peter rolled his eyes, accompanying this with an elongated sigh.
"And if you must know," Neal continued, frowning now, "the meals in here make prison food seem like haute cuisine."
"I know," Peter said patiently. "Which is why I'm offering to sneak something edible in from the outside."
"Oh," Neal said, looking mildly chastened. "Right. That's thoughtful of you."
"I'm not a complete ogre. Not all the time, anyway."
"Nah, not all the time," Neal agreed, chortling. "Appreciate the offer. Maybe later."
"In the meantime, how 'bout some of this delicious Jell-O?" With a flourish, Peter lifted the napkin to display the bowl he'd grabbed from Neal's lunch tray earlier.
Neal flicked one disdainful, disbelieving glance at it. "That . . . was there before."
"Sharp as a tack, you are," Peter said, grinning at him. "That's right. I saved it. Just for you."
"That's really nice, and all, but if I didn't want it then, why would I want it now?"
"C'mon, it's—" Peter leaned over and squinted, trying to get a better look, "I bet it's melon flavor," he said, trying to generate some enthusiasm. "Hey, you don't see that every day. It's seasonal."
"You know," Neal said, faux-earnest, "there's another really good reason why I don't see that every day. Or any day. Because I never eat Jell-O."
"Maybe you should broaden your horizons a little."
Neal looked heavenward. "Why am I completely unsurprised to learn that Peter Burke thinks of Jell-O as exotic? And your idea of a true dessert delicacy is probably a Twinkie."
Peter considered it. "I've always been more of a HoHo man, myself. Little bit more substance."
Once more, Neal gazed up, as if he were addressing the ceiling tiles. "Again, not even a little bit surprising."
"Don't be such a culinary snob," Peter scolded. "You know what the commercials used to say: There's always room for Jell-O."
"Not in my cupboard," Neal said with a groan. "And, by the way, you are such a liar. Because that's not melon flavor, it's lime. You know it is. And everyone hates lime."
"It could be melon," Peter insisted, adding slyly, "Why don't you try it and see?"
"Oho, very clever," Neal allowed. "But despite your best efforts, you are not going to goad me into eating that slimy bowl of Jell-O just to win an argument with you; I'm not that desperate. And if you're so eager to find out the flavor, then why don't you eat it? Really, I'm happy to share."
"Your generosity is overwhelming," Peter said dryly. "All right, you're turning up your nose at the Jell-O, but maybe you'll be more interested in this." He reached into his bag.
It took Neal a moment to focus on what Peter was holding out to him. "The latest issue of ARTnews."
"Picked it up on the way. We thought maybe you could use some reading material," Peter said, looking a little sheepish.
"Also very thoughtful of you—thanks," Neal remarked. There was something oddly touching about just how hard Peter was trying today. He didn't have the heart to tell Peter that he couldn't really read at the moment. June had left her copy of the Times for him, and Neal had settled in to read it, eager for something to occupy his mind, only to realize that he couldn't concentrate on the words. Just a few minutes of trying to read had left his eyes tired, his vision blurry, and his head aching. (It also didn't help that his left eye was nearly swollen shut.) Regretfully, he'd had to give it up; that was when he must have drifted off.
The doctor had explained that activities like reading or texting could worsen his concussion symptoms. The warnings had been depressingly accurate.
To distract himself from his own problems, Neal scrutinized Peter instead. "So. You look tired."
"Yeah, well, I had a long day yesterday," Peter joked, trying to sound lighthearted.
Neal wasn't having it. "Followed by a long night, it looks like."
Peter looked away. "Not easy sleeping with this thing." He gestured to his sling.
"Tell me about it," Neal sighed, giving Peter a long, searching look. It was easy to see how distinctly uncomfortable Peter was with the whole topic.
For his part, Peter stayed quiet. Neal tended to be far too attuned to what Peter was thinking—and probably sensed that he wasn't being forthcoming. But Peter didn't care. He had no intention of sharing the fact that his sleep had been interrupted by nightmares about Neal and Elizabeth. It sounded completely ridiculous.
"But it'll get better," Neal added. Echoing his own words to Elizabeth, Peter realized.
Something in his voice made Peter narrow his eyes, wondering if Neal knew.
He couldn't possibly. Could he? Peter stared at him.
Neal smiled in response; it looked completely innocent. Not that that meant a damn thing, Peter reflected.
"Hey, you just missed June. She was here earlier."
"Sorry I didn't get to see her," Peter said. "Nice of her to come. Especially since the more visitors you have to occupy you, the less I have to worry about you getting into trouble."
"I'll save you the effort—I hurt too much right now to even think about it," Neal admitted with a drawn-out sigh.
"Then stop being a tough guy and ask for some more pain medication," Peter retorted. He had marked, during the course of their conversation, how careful Neal was not to move and how little lines of tension, likely caused by pain, creased his face.
Now you sound just like El.
"They're hopefully going to let me out today," Neal explained. "I don't want to be asleep when they come to discharge me—or give them any excuse to keep me."
"You can still have something to take the edge off without knocking yourself unconscious."
Neal shrugged and then winced involuntarily. Peter sighed.
"And you don't really look like someone who's ready to be released from the hospital," Peter said, eyeing him skeptically.
"Lucky for me, Dr. Burke doesn't get a say," Neal shot back. "Look, all I'm going to be doing is lying around for a while. I can do that back at June's the same as I can here. Much more comfortably there, in fact, than here."
"Yeah, if you don't count the huge flight of stairs back at June's."
Now it was Neal's turn to sigh. "She's got a spare room on the ground floor, Peter, we already talked about it. It's a big house. Seriously, you worry too much."
he's so worried about you, Neal.
Peter blinked.
"—staying here one minute longer than is absolutely necessary," Neal was saying emphatically, apparently not noticing Peter's momentary preoccupation. "I'll break out if I have to. And you know I'm capable." He cast a sad glance at his sprained ankle. "Well, I'd be a little slower than usual, but I could still—"
"Yes, Neal, you don't have to tell me about your flight capability," Peter cut in. "And speaking of your potential escape, there's one minor detail."
"Anklet, right?"
"Yeah. Somebody from the office was supposed to put it on."
"Already done," Neal said, shifting his right leg a little under the sheets. "Thanks for telling Diana to put it on this ankle for now. Left one's all wrapped up at the moment."
"Least we could do," Peter assured him. "So Diana did it herself? I figured she'd send one of the probies."
"You know, I think she couldn't pass up the opportunity to lecture me."
Peter chuckled. "Lecture you? About what?"
"You can probably figure it out."
"Oh," Peter said, no longer laughing. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking ill at ease. "Yeah, probably. I, uh, hope she wasn't too hard on you."
"For Diana, she showed admirable restraint," Neal admitted. "I guess that's the silver lining in all of this: I'm too pathetic to be yelled at."
Peter forced a smile and changed the subject. "Assuming you do get out of here, El and I can take you back to June's."
"Nah, she's coming back with the car."
"You sure?" Peter asked. "Don't want you having to break out."
"No, June'll be here. She had errands to run, but she'll be back."
"Well, if there's a problem, you call me. I don't want to find out you were so desperate to get out of here that you took a cab home."
"I would call you. Don't worry," Neal said, looking mildly gratified at the concern. "Speaking of home, you didn't have to stay here last night, right?"
"Nope, El took me home and fed me soup."
"Oh, that's right . . . we kinda ruined your dinner plans," Neal said, sounding melancholy. From his suddenly downcast expression, anyone would have thought his dinner plans had been ruined. "I assume you told Elizabeth what she was missing?"
"Sure."
"Yes, but did you tell her everything?"
Recent events had given those words a wholly different, unsettling connotation for Peter, but he pushed that out of his mind. "I don't know what you mean."
Neal shot him a scolding look. "Now, Peter. You know exactly what I mean. And I'm guessing you didn't tell her, which means it falls to me to tell your charming wife how dedicated her husband is."
"Oh, enough," Peter said, groaning. "I already did."
Neal's eyes lit up with glee. "And?"
"She loved it," Peter admitted.
"Of course she did," Neal said, with that familiar sly, cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. (Nothing at all innocent about that one.) "Just wait 'til you wow the whole restaurant with your in-depth knowledge when you get there. You could go around the dining room answering questions about the menu."
Peter laughed. "Which can be anytime we want—did you hear what Jones did?"
"No," Neal said, interested. "What?"
Peter relayed Jones's over-the-top cancellation of their reservation, which, of course, Neal wholeheartedly endorsed.
"That is fantastic," he said, face alight with admiration. "I have to compliment Jones when I see him."
"Yeah, thanks to him, as soon as I'm out of this sling, we can go out on the town," Peter said. "I told El I'm not going there until I can use both my arms."
Neal looked away. "Peter, I am sorry about that. And for hitting you. I just—"
"Hey, what did I say about that?" Peter interrupted.
Neal's brows drew together in confusion. "Um . . . ." His voice trailed off as he tried to remember.
"I said to forget it, Neal. There's nothing to be sorry for. You couldn't help it that the gun ended up under the shelves. And a few stitches and a bruise or two—well, they beat a bullet in the head any day." Peter hesitated. "Which is what I would have had if you hadn't done what you did."
"You weren't so bad yourself, Agent Burke," Neal reminded him.
Looking out the window, Peter stared at the brick wall that served as a view. And listened to the voice echoing in his head . . . .
. . . because an unarmed man, who's gotten himself chained to a shelf while his partner lies beaten and defenseless on the floor, is certainly an expert on not making mistakes . . . .
"I ended up handcuffed to a shelf," Peter said, biting off each word. "And would have ended there, period, if—"
"You were in a no-win situation, Peter, because I let him jump me," Neal said firmly. He really didn't like this hesitant, guilty version of Peter. "And you took him down, in the end, remember? When I couldn't? Don't be so hard on yourself. How many times have you saved my ass?"
"That's different. That's my job."
Neal shook his head. "Nope. When it comes to life or death—and it sure as hell better not happen too often—this is an equal-opportunity partnership, Peter. Whether you like it or not."
Peter remained silent.
"I'm sure you've thought about what you could have done differently—I know I have." You probably agonized about it, Neal thought. "But what were your options? I mean, you covered the bases—for starters, you had someone watching the place. Speaking of that, how did he manage to get in?"
"What? Oh, underground access," Peter muttered, looking away again.
"So he got in through some kind of tunnel—which you couldn't have known about," Neal continued smoothly. "We go in, I wander away—not your fault. Then I get myself knocked out—also not your fault. Leaving you, at that point, with very few options."
He studied the agent for a minute and then added, "And speaking of life or death . . . well, I'm not exactly trained in these kinds of situations, but I was thinking that when you had the chance, you maybe should have shot me."
Peter started, not just at the words, but at the chillingly matter-of-fact way that Neal uttered them. His gaze swiveled back to Neal, who continued, "Shoot the hostage, right? I mean, you must have thought about it."
Heaving a long sigh, Peter didn't answer right away. Finally he admitted, "Not so much in the moment, but later on, yeah. I thought about it some."
A little smile played around the corners of Neal's lips, and he gave a nod that seemed almost approving. "Yeah, later, when you had time to beat yourself up."
"You seem awfully sanguine about the idea," Peter said gruffly, trying to hide how very not sanguine he himself was about the idea.
Neal shot him a knowing look. "I know, easy to be cool with it now. Don't get me wrong, it would have sucked. I mean, who likes being shot? But I want you to know, if we're ever in that position again and you think you need to, you have my official okay to let the bullets fly. Very, very carefully, of course."
"Good to know," Peter deadpanned, but the very thought was far too alarming—and he didn't want to contemplate ever being in that kind of situation again.
He'd decided, though, that there was one other thing he wanted to say about yesterday, and he might as well get it over with.
"Neal, listen, while we're talking about what happened . . . ."
Neal had sincerely hoped that the discussion of yesterday's events had concluded. That they could now return to their regularly scheduled banter about Jell-O, or rappelling off museum roofs, or something equally trivial. Registering the seriousness in Peter's voice, he looked up inquiringly.
Then he saw the look on Peter's face.
Uh oh. Here it comes.
Neal didn't know quite what it was—but he was pretty sure that (unfortunately) whatever it was, it didn't involve museum escapes. Or Jell-O.
A pity, really.
TBC...
A/N – A huge thanks, once more, to Devoregirl—this time for suggesting a Neal/June scene be included in this chapter. Again, once she put the thought in my head, I absolutely had to write it. (Though I can't discount the possibility that these friendly "suggestions" are really just part of a secret, dastardly plot on her part to make sure the story never ends . . . . ;-))
And thanks to ALL of the patient readers who keep reading and reviewing—your support and feedback are cherished! Final chapter will be posted soon, I promise.