When Neal first arrived at maximum security – for the second time – he was braced for the worst.
It hadn't really been so bad, the first time. For the first few weeks he'd simply kept his head low and kept an eye out to gauge the dynamics of the place – which guys to befriend, which guys to defer to, and which guys to just avoid at all costs because they were downright psychotic. He'd quickly learned to play the game, used his charm and his wits to ingratiate himself to those in control, and then sailed through the rest of his sentence with relative ease – until he walked out the front doors with three months to go.
This time… this time would be different, he knew.
This time… he'd spent the past year working for the Feds.
That made him a narc – and it made him a target. Neal knew that this time, he'd have to watch his back. He was prepared for it to be a far more dangerous, unpleasant stay in maximum security, and knew he'd have to be vigilant every waking moment – if he could even allow himself non-waking ones at all – until Peter managed to get him out. He would actually have preferred solitary confinement to the dangers he was sure awaited him now, but for whatever reason, he had been placed back in the general population, despite the paperwork Peter had filed requesting otherwise.
Neal was cautiously relieved, and more than a little suspicious, to find that during his first week back, the other inmates pretty much left him alone. There were brief, stilted, but civil conversations in the cafeteria over meals, during which Neal did his best to just nod and smile and not give them any reason to believe that he thought he was better than them, above all this, shouldn't even be here because he hadn't even done anything this time…
At any rate, it was a lot easier than he'd expected it to be – which just meant that when the other shoe finally did drop, he knew it was going to be worse than he'd imagined. At the end of his sixth lunch there, when Neal went to take his tray back to the rack set out for them, and another prisoner bumped hard into his shoulder, Neal tensed, braced for the worst.
Here it comes… this is it…
The other prisoner was a big, burly guy with sharp, dark eyes and a scowl that frequently sent his fellow prisoners scurrying back to their holes to hide – but all Neal saw in his eyes now was alarm – in the couple of seconds before the guy dropped his eyes nervously.
"Sorry, dude," he said, holding up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "Sorry… it was an accident, man."
Neal smiled, confused, and shook his head. "No problem," he said. "No harm done."
It was after that strange incident that Neal started to realize – he'd been spending so much time trying not to anger or offend his fellow prisoners, that he hadn't even noticed – they were all trying not to anger or offend him. He couldn't understand how he could possibly have this kind of an effect on them, what reason they would have to be so frightened of a non-violent offender that, in all reality, should have been seen as easy prey.
The light bulb went on in Neal's mind that night, at lights out, and a slow smile spread across his face.
Mozzie…
It had to be. Mozzie had an impressive array of connections, and it wasn't hard to imagine his reach extending even beyond these prison walls. Mozzie must have found a way to spread some kind of story about him, like his "Dentist of Detroit" alias, or bribed or threatened someone into making sure that the other inmates knew he wasn't to be harmed, or something – this had to be Mozzie's doing; nothing else made sense.
Until the end of his second week, when two guards showed up at his cell to inform him that the warden wanted to see him.
He was cuffed and shackled and led off the concrete and metal block where his cell was located, and into the administrative part of the prison, down a carpeted, well-lit hallway to an office with a heavy wooden door that read Warden Thomas Blake on a silver placard. The warden looked up with a disarming smile as the guards led Neal inside, then nodded at them in silent instruction to leave.
Neal couldn't help feeling a little nervous. He hadn't done anything since he'd been here, hadn't broken any rules – but the rest of the inmates certainly seemed to believe he was dangerous, and Neal had to wonder what lies had been told about him in order to accomplish that.
"Have a seat, Caffrey," Blake instructed with a little nod toward the soft leather chair opposite his desk.
Cautiously, Neal complied, settling into the seat before looking up to meet the warden's eyes with a bright, innocent smile. "Have I done something wrong, Warden?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Blake assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Quite the opposite. I just wanted to make sure that you've been… adjusting well to your stay here. No – issues with the other inmates?"
Neal's nerves grew a little shakier with the confirmation of what this was about, and he decided to take the safest tack – honesty. "No, sir," he replied. "In fact – no one's given me any trouble at all… which is… kind of surprising, actually. For the past year I've been working with…"
"Believe me, Mr. Caffrey, I know all about your… special circumstances," Warden Blake interrupted with a knowing smile as he rose from his seat and came around the desk to lean against it, facing Neal more directly. "I was informed when you came here that this environment might pose… certain risks to your safety. In fact, your Agent Burke of the white collar division recommended solitary confinement for the duration of your stay here, for your own protection." The warden frowned, shaking his head with a grimace of distaste. "I said I didn't think that'd be healthy at all – not when we're not even sure how long you'll be here. A man can lose his mind, with no contact of any kind with the world outside of a single dark, grey room."
Neal nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. He had to admit that the thought of such total isolation was more than a little unnerving. He'd prefer it to being beaten, or worse – but only slightly. He swallowed, looking up to hold the warden's gaze as he stepped forward and leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of Neal's chair. He still wasn't entirely sure what this was about, but he was increasingly sure that there was more at play here than a simple disciplinary lecture.
"You're not the kind of man that's cut out for prison, Neal," Blake stated quietly, a vaguely mocking smile at the corners of his mouth. "You're not a violent man. I've gathered that much from your rather… extensive history. And… you're far too pretty to last long in here… untouched."
As Blake spoke, his hand shifted slightly on the arm of the chair, his thumb rubbing slightly against Neal's arm where it rested there. Neal pulled away from the unexpected contact, abruptly uncomfortable, and a little alarmed. He felt a swift rush of heat to his face, and he swallowed, forcing back his instinct to look away and instead maintaining steady, unwavering eye contact.
"I told you," he said, carefully keeping his voice level and calm. "Nothing's… happened to me since I've been here. They're all – pretty much leaving me alone."
"That's good." The warden's knowing smile made Neal deeply, profoundly uneasy, and he glanced away at last. He just wanted to be back in the cold, gray security of his own cell, and away from this man with his unsettling smiles and inappropriate familiarity. "And… why do you think that is, Neal?"
Neal looked up at him again sharply, frowning. "I don't know," he replied at last, slowly. "Why is that?"
"Because I put the word out before you arrived. Made sure it was clear to every guard, and every prisoner. No one's to lay a hand on you. Anyone who does will suffer consequences – and not the kind of consequences that make it into an inmate's official record, either. They all know not to bother you – because they're afraid of what will happen if they do."
Neal's frown deepened, eyes narrowing as he studied the warden's smugly smiling face. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Why would you do that?"
The warden shrugged slightly. "Maybe I just can't stand the thought of a brilliant mind like yours driven to madness in the confines of solitary. Maybe I just want to keep from having to file a bunch of annoying paperwork when you eventually, inevitably get sent to the infirmary. Or maybe…" His cool smile widened, and he leaned in to speak close to Neal's ear, not moving his hands from the arms of the chair, "… maybe I just like the idea of you owing me one."
The morning after Neal's mysterious nightmare was Saturday – but still, Neal was up aggressively early, bright and smiling and welcoming Peter and El to a kitchen table already laden with waffles and eggs and sausage when they came down the stairs, still in their pajamas.
"Morning," he said cheerfully. "Hungry?"
"I am now," Peter declared, wasting no time in taking his seat at the table as he inhaled the sweet and spicy aroma. "What's the occasion, Neal? You didn't have to do all this."
"The occasion is, 'I was a ridiculously ungrateful jerk last night, and I want to make it up to you both,'" Neal explained as he poured juice into three tall glasses. "I'm really sorry, guys. I was just… incredibly tired, and… I'm a little stressed at the moment, as I'm sure you can imagine, and I didn't feel like having a dream analysis session in the middle of the night. But it was still inappropriate for me to behave the way I did. So… breakfast." He beamed at El as she took a bite of waffle and closed her eyes, rolling her head back in obvious pleasure. "Hope you like it."
"It's perfect," El declared. "But Neal, sweetie… you don't have to apologize. You don't owe anyone any explanation of your dreams of all things. Really, I can't imagine anything more personal, and we were on the pushy side."
Peter withheld judgment, either of Neal's behavior or of theirs. He knew El had a point, and Neal wasn't obligated to share anything with them; but he also knew Neal, and he knew that Neal hid everything, no matter how desperately he might need to get it out. It was second nature at this point, and saying that they should "let Neal come to them in his own time" was like saying that they should just let Neal suffer in silence until whatever it was he was struggling with consumed him from the inside out.
And Peter wasn't particularly accustomed to sitting back and doing nothing while someone he cared about suffered.
Maybe he'll talk to El. Maybe if I just get out of the way for a while…
"I'm headed to the hardware store after breakfast," he announced around a mouthful of the most perfectly fried egg he had ever tasted. "Got to fix that hinge on the bathroom door this afternoon."
"Mind if I go along?" Neal offered.
Peter blinked at him in disbelief. "I'm sorry. Did I say Neiman Marcus? I meant to say I was going to the hardware store."
Neal grinned at him, actually swallowing his bite before he replied. "I heard you. I just thought you might like some company."
Peter cast an uncertain glance at El, who nodded almost imperceptibly, smiling. "I've got tons of work to do on the Reynolds wedding next Saturday. Please, by all means – get your gorgeous selves out of my hair."
The drive to the hardware store was quiet, weighted with the knowledge that despite his silence, Neal wouldn't have invited himself along if he hadn't wanted to talk. All Peter had to do was wait, give him time – but that wait was killing him. They bought the hinges and screws that Peter needed, and then got back into the car. They were halfway home when Neal finally broke the silence.
"The nightmares are… pretty bad."
Peter was quiet for a moment before nodding slowly. "I gathered." He frowned suddenly. "Nightmares? Plural? You get them a lot?"
"Yeah," Neal admitted, staring out the window, his lips compressed into a tight line. "I've been getting them since… well, since I went back."
Peter hesitated, steeling himself for an answer he didn't want to hear. "Did… something happen when you went back…?"
"The nightmares are about Kate," Neal stated flatly. "It's always the same dream… and it always ends the same way. She's… she's in that plane, at the window, and… it's on fire, and… and I can't get to her in time."
His voice was low and trembling, and there were tears shining in Neal's eyes, though he didn't allow them to fall; Peter studied him as closely as he dared while driving down the road. Neal seemed as sincere as Peter could remember seeing him, and it made sense, given the fact that he'd had no time at all to grieve, to come to terms with what had happened to the love of his life, before getting dumped back into prison to pay for a crime he hadn't committed.
Peter, help me, please!
Neal's words of the night before echoed in Peter's mind, and his heart sank with an overwhelming feeling of guilt and sorrow. Was that how Neal saw it, if not on a conscious level, then subconsciously? Did he believe that Peter could have helped, could have saved Kate, and didn't? There was nothing either of them could have done, but so many times Peter had tried to stop Neal from finding her, so many times he'd discouraged their being together again at all – might things have played out differently if Peter had reacted differently?
And more importantly – did Neal believe that?
"Neal, I – I'm so sorry you lost her," Peter stated softly, honestly. "I hope you know that – if there'd been anything I could have done…"
"I know that, Peter," Neal cut him off quietly. "I don't blame you for… any of it." Neal looked out the window again, swallowing hard, his voice thick and strangely hard. "It's not like you could have known what would happen."
Peter frowned, caught off guard by Neal's tone, by the cold, distant look in his eyes, despite the gleam of tears that shone there.
In spite of Neal's absolving words, Peter still felt as if he was getting blamed for something. But at least Neal had taken the first step to actually open up to him – and that was a step in the right direction.
It has to be – right?