Neal stepped out onto the sidewalk, drawing in a deep, shaky breath to steady his nerves. The crisp, autumn air was soothing, settling his queasy stomach and at least for the moment, clearing his mind. He glanced toward the van across the street, but took off in the opposite direction without hesitation, quickening his pace as he walked away. He wasn't sure if Banks would bother to come after him or not, but he didn't want to lead him straight to Peter and the team if he did. Then the operation would be well and truly blown.
As Neal put some distance between himself and the stifling, oppressive encounter he'd just had, he began to calm down enough to really think about what had happened, and how to salvage the mission… and what to tell Peter.
He was just rounding the corner, slowing to a measured, even walk, when suddenly, Peter was directly in front of him. Neal stopped short, stomach lurching at the unexpected confrontation, even as the rational part of his mind instantly reassured him that it was okay, it was just Peter, not a threat of any kind.
His heart still seemed to want to beat its way right out of his chest – and the thunderous glare on Peter's face, the sharp, furious tone of his voice wasn't exactly helping.
"What the hell was that?" Peter demanded. "Neal… what the hell happened in there?"
"I'm sorry, Peter," Neal replied sincerely, keeping his voice level and calm. "I just – he was being really pushy, and wouldn't back off, and he wasn't interested in talking about his art… wasn't interested in talking at all, actually, and I just… I didn't feel safe, so I got out of there."
"The guy's a sleaze; we knew that already," Peter pointed out, his tone terse and a little suspicious. "He was supposed to come onto you, wasn't he? I mean… it didn't sound that bad over the radio…"
"Yeah, well, I had to do more than listen to him," Neal snapped, even as warning alarms went off in his head, cautioning him not to let too much show, not to give Peter any reason to question his reaction any more than he was already doing. "He was all over me, and he wouldn't stop…"
"You didn't use the code word."
It was just an observation, not an accusation, and Peter's voice had softened a little; Neal felt his nerves settling some in response.
"No, because I didn't get what we need yet," he explained, relieved when Peter nodded a little in acceptance of his explanation. "I figured if I could get out of there without using it, I could salvage the operation." He paused, voice lowered as he added, "You couldn't have gotten to me, anyway. His bedroom door locks automatically from the inside; you have to have a keycard to get in."
Those words seemed to seal it; Peter blinked for a moment, eyes widening as he took in the implications of what Neal had said. Finally, he sighed, bringing forefinger and thumb to his brow for a moment before lowering his hand and shaking his head.
"Okay," he relented at last. "Okay, you're right. If you didn't feel safe, you did the right thing. The operation doesn't matter; we'll find another way."
"We don't really need one," Neal argued as Peter turned and headed back toward the van; Neal hurried to match Peter's pace and keep step with him as they walked. "As far as he knows, I just freaked out a little because he was coming on too strong. I can go back in there another night, and maybe it'll even be better, because he'll be trying to win me over, to make it up to me. I'll be an even bigger challenge to him, the one that got away, and…"
"No." Peter's voice was firm and certain.
Neal frowned. "No?" he echoed.
"You're not going back in there," Peter insisted. "Not if I can't guarantee you can get back out safely."
"Peter, it's not that…"
"End of discussion," Peter stated, deliberately hurrying his pace as they neared the van, as if to enforce his words – because he had to know that Neal wasn't going to pursue this conversation in front of the others.
And at the thought of the rest of the team, and what they had heard over the radio, and what assumptions they might be making about him right now, what conclusions they were probably reaching about what had happened – Neal felt sick again. He didn't want to face them at all… but he didn't have a choice. As Peter opened the back doors of the van, Neal drew in a deep breath, put on a bright smile, and climbed inside.
Showtime.
"So, what do you think really happened last night?"
Peter looked up from his desk at Diana, who'd entered his office to give him a file he'd requested on their case, but had broached the question abruptly, without introduction. It took his brain a few seconds to catch up and process what she was asking. When it did, Peter frowned.
"I think exactly what Neal said happened, happened," he replied. "Banks came on too strong – strong enough that Neal wasn't sure he'd be able to get out of there if he let it go any further. So he didn't."
"I don't know, boss," Diana persisted, shaking her head a little as she glanced out toward Neal's desk, where he was sitting – just sitting, not fidgeting or watching people or anything at all, just staring blankly into space, lost in his own thoughts. "Neal's usually better at talking his way out of situations than he was last night. Neal Caffrey at the top of his game…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked back at Peter, a speculative look in her dark eyes. "But he's not, is he?" she concluded at last, quietly. "At the top of his game?"
Peter met her eyes for a moment, concluding from what he saw there that attempting to deflect her questions would be useless – not that he felt the need to keep anything from her. In fact, Diana was quite possibly the perfect person in whom to confide his concerns. Close enough that he knew she actually cared about Neal, and yet not close enough that the fears he had yet to put into words would have a devastating emotional effect on her.
Like they would on Elizabeth. Can't tell her what I'm thinking, not when I'm not sure. Not even when she probably already knows.
But… Diana, on the other hand…
"Not even close," he sighed at last. "Not… since he got out."
Diana sat down in the chair across from Peter's desk, studying his face with slowly dawning understanding. "You think… something happened. While he was inside."
"I don't know what to think," Peter let out the words in a frustrated huff. "It's not like he talks to me about anything anymore…"
"Oh, because he was always so forthcoming in the past," was Diana's sarcastic reply, but the humor in her voice was gentle, and touched with a subtle sympathy.
"I know, but… it's different now. He's different," Peter explained. "And I don't know why. And… I don't know if I want to know."
Diana was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her words were cautious and measured. "Maybe you don't need to."
Peter looked up at her, surprised and a little indignant, lips parted to argue.
"Who says he has to open up and spill his deepest, darkest secrets to be okay?" Diana continued. "That's good for some people, but… for someone like Neal… maybe he's better off just dealing with it in his own way. And if he needs to talk to someone, I know he trusts you, Peter. If he really needs to confide in someone... I'm sure he'll come to you, when he's ready."
Peter looked out his window again at Neal, who didn't seem to have moved since Peter had last glanced his way. "Yeah, well," he replied softly, "I'm not. And that's what scares me."
A couple of uneventful weeks passed after the warden's confession to having arranged for Neal's safety – but Neal knew better than to think that conversation was the end of it. No stranger would take those kinds of steps to protect him, to make sure his stay in prison was as pleasant as possible, without some sort of ulterior motive – something he wanted that he thought Neal could get him.
And Neal was fairly certain that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it when he found out.
But as the days rolled by without incident, Neal allowed himself to enjoy the relative security of knowing that his fellow inmates weren't allowed to touch him, and found himself relaxing a little. Yeah, it was clear that Warden Blake was definitely on the shady side, and whatever he wanted from Neal couldn't be good. But each day that passed brought Neal closer to the one when Peter would get everything taken care of, and he'd be free again. If he could just bide his time until then, then maybe Blake would never get around to whatever it was he intended to ask of Neal, and everything would be fine.
Halfway through the third week, the guards came to take Neal from his cell again, and as they turned the corner that led toward the administration wing of the prison, Neal tensed, realizing that his hopes had been in vain, and mentally preparing himself for whatever the warden had in mind. Regardless of the consequences, Neal knew one thing.
He wasn't going to commit a crime for this man – not when Peter was working so hard to help him on the outside.
As before, the guards left Neal in the warden's office, seated across from his desk, and Blake looked up from his work at Neal with a sly, secretive smile.
"How are things going, Neal?" he asked in a light, interested tone. "Still smoothly, I hope? No problems I should know about?"
"No," Neal replied quietly. "Everything's fine."
"Good." Blake nodded, satisfied, as he rose from his seat and came around the desk. "That's good."
Neal braced himself as the man approached, but Blake moved past him toward the door. Curious, Neal turned to watch him over his shoulder – and froze, a sick feeling of unease coiling in the pit of his stomach when he saw that Blake had just switched off the surveillance camera that hung over the door, facing his desk. Blake's smile hadn't changed, but there was something dark and vindictive in his eyes as he approached Neal again, hands on the arms of his chair as he leaned in close to Neal's face.
"With things going so easily for you here, Neal," he said softly, "when we both know they could have been a fucking nightmare for a pretty little narc like you… I think it's about time you showed me a little appreciation."
As he spoke, Blake raised one hand to stroke lightly down the side of Neal's face. Neal fought the instinct to jerk away from him, though his heart was racing with panic as Blake's intentions became suddenly, horribly clear. Instead, Neal met his eyes with a calm, vaguely derisive smile.
"I think you've made a terrible miscalculation as to my level of gratitude."
Blake's smile faltered, anger smoldering in his dark eyes, and he lashed out, striking Neal across the face with the back of his hand. With his hands cuffed in front of him and attached to the chain around his waist, Neal could do nothing about the slight trickle of blood he could feel on his lip… so he just smiled up at Blake again with bright defiance.
"Thanks," he said with a knowing nod. "If you're going to stop helping me out now, it's nice of you to make sure I'm not so pretty when I go back out there. Good thinking."
Blake laughed, a malicious grin forming on his lips. "You don't know these guys at all, do you?" he taunted, his voice going soft and suggestive as he leaned in close, his lips so near to Neal's ear that Neal could feel his warm, damp breath against his skin. "They're drawn to the scent of blood. Weakness. It'll make them want you even more." One hand tangled in Neal's hair, roughly dragging his head back and exposing his throat as Blake met his eyes and concluded in a near whisper, "I know I do."
Neal closed his eyes, swallowing back the sickness in the back of his throat, struggling to keep steady in the face of the threat the warden was presenting. The man seemed to get off on the idea that he was some kind of benevolent dictator, holding all the power, and yet choosing to use it for Neal's benefit. Neal didn't think he'd actually use force to make Neal do anything. He was certain. 95%. 90%, at least. With an effort, he managed to keep his voice low and level as he replied.
"You're starting to bore me. Why don't you just do what you're going to do and be done with it?"
The hand in his hair tightened momentarily, and Neal tensed, braced for retaliation. After a moment, however, to his relief, Blake let go of his hair completely and backed off, standing up straight and towering over him.
"I'm not going to make you do anything, Neal," he stated in a deceptively light tone of voice, with a careless little shrug. "It's your choice. You can get up any time you like, and I'll call the guards and have them take you back to your cell. No problem. But if you're wise… you won't do that. If you're wise… you'll get on your knees right now, and thank the man who's making your well-deserved stay in my prison a little better than sheer hell on earth."
Neal looked up to meet Blake's eyes, holding his gaze as he slowly rose to his feet – and stayed there, waiting in quiet defiance. After a moment, Blake let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
"Okay," he said. "Suit yourself. It's not like I can force you."
The guards returned and led Neal back to his cell – where he sat on his bed, back pressed against the wall, willing his hands to stop shaking. He'd made it through whatever test the warden had tried, had shown the man that he wasn't going to trade his body, his dignity, for the privilege of protection. And yeah, that protection had been nice, but it wasn't worth what Blake had wanted.
Neal was almost positive that it wasn't worth it.
He'd keep to himself, and watch his back, maybe try to make a few friends to help with the back-watching process… and wait for Peter to get him out.
It was okay. He'd faced the warden, found out what he wanted… and firmly, finally, shut him down.
It was over.
Except that it wasn't.
A few minutes after lights out that night, two guards with flashlights stopped outside Neal's cell. He wondered vaguely what they thought he'd done as they opened the door… and then his stomach lurched as several inmates were ushered inside, before the guards closed the door again and left, ignoring his calling out to them, his questions as to what they thought they were doing.
There was no response, as the leering men closed in on him, and the guards did not respond, and Neal realized with a sinking heart that it wasn't over. Not at all.
It was only just beginning.