Everything was on fire. His breathing was like the night sky on the fourth of July. World War 3 was in his lungs, His back arched as he coughed, feeling like blood was pouring out of his veins and into his coffin. Was this Hell? He always knew that he wasn't the best man. That he was a thief and a criminal and a liar. But he had tried so hard to make up for it. Because he hadn't always been that way. When you are found alone at 17, no money for college, no job willing to hire a guy who barely passed high school; there's not much you can do. He got involved with the wrong guys who saw his passion and used it against him. Somehow, he thought that his life with Peter now was like an eraser to the past. A fire burning all the incriminating documents. Apparently not, because he was in a cave of darkness with only his pain to accompany him. For the first time in a long time, Neal let his company be the sound of his sobs.

"Dammit," Peter cried, his fist throbbing from where it connected with the wall.

"Honey," El soothed, cradling her blonde husband, kissing the point of his nose.

He wasn't better, Neal wasn't better. Peter had watched Neal through so much. Had seen him through the pain of Kate, through the vault without air, through his Father's betrayal, Peter had seen Neal in his pain, in his need, in his vulnerability. Most recently, he had seen Neal through the ambulance, through not breathing, through a coma because Neal just had to get into whatever he could. Neal was a forger and Peter couldn't help but wish that he could forge a life, his and live in it again. Because it had been a week and he still hadn't woken.

The worst part of Hell? The voices, Neal could hear June and Peter and El speaking to him. Taunting him, reminding him of that life that he lost. To all his sins. He could hear El's stories and whispers, her prayers. He could feel June sitting by him reading a book, just glancing over. He could hear Peter's fist connecting with a wall. And that was undeniably cruel even for Satan. He could deal with the burning, the darkness, the loneliness. But being constantly reminded that he used to have a family? That was too much. Neal was breaking out of this place, and soon. He didn't know if it was possible but he was coming back to them.

The next time that Neal heard Peter's voice his ears perked up. He slowly rose ignoring the stab in his lungs and swung his legs over the bench he was on. It mostly sounded like whimpering but it was enough for Neal to follow.

"Neal, please."

Neal heard slowly moved through the cave, arms out like a zombie. He swiveled his head around, hopelessly trying to see anything in this insufferable, pitch-black cave.

"Need you."

Neal followed the words like a bread trail, small steps, full concentration on what was an echo and what was the direction they were coming from. More words and steps and listening and swiveling and tears. Frustration ran lava under his skin, boiling and bubbling up. Where was it? He had been turning in circles for hours. Long enough for Peter's smooth voice to fade into a sleepy mumble into faint sounds of slumber. He bared his teeth and growled, a low noise erupting from the pit of his anger.

"Neal!"

The noise rang out clear from above. No echoes, no muffle just crisp sound. Neal looked up, a smile bursting on his face. Just a few feet above was a door.

"Can you hear me?"

The question brought another smile on his face as Neal shouted, "Yes! Yes I hear you."

Neal scrambled, fitting his fingers on the small divots in the cave walls, boosting himself upward. He climbed to the sound of Peter's pleads to come back. Eventually hitting the door, Neal ran a hand over the thick and smooth oak. He pushed against it, the door creaked against his strength, filtering light into for a few seconds before falling back down. He took a second, panting, to bring in more air. Preparing for it again, Neal heaved, flipping the door fully open. In front of him was Peter's face, eyes hovering over a thin pressed mouth.

"Neal, you're okay. I-I was so worried," Peter cried, voice cracking.

"I was coming back, just had to escape." Neal panted, tilting his head to find himself in a... hospital?

"Escape? Neal, where?" Peter asked confused.

"Hell."

Peter chuckled, then seemed to realize the tone in Neal's voice as his brow furrowed. Leaning over the railing to Neal's bed, Peter stroked his hair. Had Neal thought he died? Gone to hell? Peter wondered if Nela had such little thought of himself that he would believe he deserved to burn for eternity.

"Neal you didn't die. You were in a coma. And you weren't in hell. People like you don't go to hell," Peter sighed, settling his hand in Neal's.

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." Neal replied

Yellow's done. I wanna thank you all for your feedback and reviews! I don't know when I'll get green done as next week is finals week (and I can never seem to be consistent) but I hope you liked yellow. Review if you want to :) Thanks!