John's first days aboard the boat had nearly killed him. He didn't know who he'd been before or what he'd done with his prior life, but he was sure it hadn't been hard labor. And fishing was hard labor, even with the more modern gears that sent out and then brought in the nets. He'd been tasked with sorting and gutting the catch, keeping the equipment cleaned and the boat and nets in order. He also had to help the crew unload the catch once they reached the dock. He was smaller than any of the others and didn't have their strength; He knew they thought him more trouble than he was worth. He knew nothing about fishing or boats, but he soon learned he knew a lot about knot tying. He'd accidentally discovered it when a crew member showed him how to repair the nets. Impressed despite himself, the man had told the others and, later, as they sailed towards home, John found himself with a length of rope, his hands and fingers working on their own accord, tying dozens of knots. Some the men recognized, others they had never seen before. That was the first odd thing he'd discovered about himself and it had made the men look at him a bit differently. They were curious, he could tell, but no one pressed him about where he'd learned it. He wondered, had the Captain had warned them not to? He and Tilly knew how he'd come to their village, and Tilly knew about his memory loss. He guessed the Captain did too, but it had never been mentioned.
He worked hard five and six days a week and never complained, even when his blisters had blisters, determined to earn his keep. It took a few months, but the crew finally warmed up to him. He'd never be one of them, lifelong fishermen raised on the Maine shoreline, but they thought well of him. Considered him a hard-working, honest man. He was hard-working; now. And honest, now. He hadn't even made up a past history. But who knows what he'd been before? And what would these honest, hardworking men think of him if they learned the truth? What would Tilly and the Captain think? Well, they have their nephews, so perhaps their judgment wouldn't be so harsh. But what would he think of himself when he found out the truth?
Sleep never came easy, but he combated it by working himself into a state of exhaustion. But yesterday, being the day of rest and all, and after making the call, sleep had eluded him. The anxiety had returned, causing his breath to quicken and his heart to pound. It was panic he felt, just as strong as it had been in the beginning, when, no matter how hard he stared into the mirror, the face he saw was that of a stranger. Running helped, and so did painting, but he'd only discovered that recently. He was pretty good at it, too. At least he'd impressed Tilly and the Fish House customers. He'd added a rendition of the Mariner on one of the interior walls and had been working on a seascape on the adjacent one. And that's where he'd gone when he'd felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin: downstairs to the Fish House. So he'd been at the Fish House, losing himself in his painting until nearly three. Only when he felt satisfied he'd captured the crest of the waves in the morning sun did he return to his room. Barely three hours later, he'd been back, eating breakfast with the Captain before beginning the day's work. Tilly's look of concern told him the restless night shown on his face. At her glance, the Captain gave his head a slight shake, halting whatever she'd been about to say.
"Gonna be a tough day, today," the Captain commented, stuffing a bite of waffles into his mouth. His next works were spoken around said bite. "Rain and wind and nastiness."
He hadn't been wrong. Working the fishing boat was hard and required concentration even on the best of days. Today the harsh conditions had demanded his attention, and kept his thoughts at bay for the most part. But now the day was behind him, and he lay on his bed, his eyes on the dark, wide wooden beams of the ceiling, trying to relax the tight muscles of his body as his mind continued to spin. He ached from head to foot, as he always did after thirteen hours onboard the Mariner, but there was tension in him that had nothing to do with fighting wind, rain, and nets all day.
It had been months, and he still knew nothing about who he was or where he'd come from. And what he had discovered about himself-his skills, knowledge of things no honest man should know, that someone had tried to kill him-was less than encouraging. And tomorrow evening, he'd meet Peter. The man who knew him. The man who called him Neal. The man with answers. He couldn't decide how he felt about the upcoming confrontation. Part of him was excited, imagining a life full of people, a home, a career maybe. A place he belonged and was wanted. But part of him was terrified it would not be so. He'd much rather remember everything on his own. Here, tucked away in his room or even out on the water. Remember and deal with what that meant. Decide what he would do with the knowledge once he had it. Decide if he even wanted the life he'd had before. If no one knew of it but him, it was only up to him to decide. But when someone else knew, it might not be that easy. Was he ready to know who he'd been when he'd been shot and left to die? What would Peter be like? What would sitting down with him be like?
The lady writer on the pier this afternoon had been nice enough. Still, when he'd stepped off the Mariner and saw her snapping photos, a wave of panic had hit him with an intensity he hadn't experienced in months. Then, the questions. Simple ones. Ones he could actually answer. But he'd felt as if he was being physically assaulted. As if he was in imminent danger from a slight, dark-haired woman with kind eyes and a sweet smile. His heart had pounded; he'd struggled to breathe. She'd frowned in concern and asked if he was well. He'd commented about the rough water and an even rougher stomach and rushed off, leaving her standing there. He'd given a similar story to Tilly, crying off of dinner. He had left her, too, with a frown of concern.
Is that how tomorrow's meeting with Peter would be? Terrifying? Debilitating? Would he flee in panic? And if he did, where would he go?
A sudden thought sent his heart pounding again: Had the lady taken any photos of him? What if someone saw them and recognized him? What if whoever thought him dead found out otherwise? Would they come after him? Would he know them if he saw them? Would it all come back to him then? He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was being paranoid. She'd said she wrote some kind of column for event venues. The likelihood of someone like the Wynns or whoever he'd crossed being avid readers of such a column was minuscule. He'd see Peter tomorrow. Maybe the sight of him would bring everything back.
But did he want it to? As bad as not knowing was, what if knowing was worse? Feeling the anxiety rising like the tide outside, he left the bed, paused to scribble a few lines in the notebook he kept on the desk beside his bed, and headed downstairs.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"Can't sleep?" Even though the volume had been on mute, the television's flashing blue light had roused his wife.
"Sorry," Peter said, hitting the power button on the remote and sending the room into darkness.
"Don't apologize." Even though he couldn't see her, she had turned in the bed, and he knew that even in the dark, she was studying him. "Are you worried about what happens when you see him or what you're supposed to do afterwards?"
Leave it to her to cut right to the heart of the matter. "Both, I guess," he admitted.
He'd decided to come and scope out the situation easily enough. He had to make sure it was Neal, after all, and if it was, to determine if his claim of amnesia was credible. He could sell that reasoning to his superiors, especially if it led to the recapture of Neal Caffrey. But that hadn't been the real reason he'd come the way he had. He'd come because if Neal really had lost his memory, he needed help. Help from someone who knew him and cared about him and that is not what he'd get if Peter had alerted the authorities. And after everything he'd seen and read he believed Neal was telling the truth. He didn't remember being Neal Caffrey, his crimes, or his agreement with the FBI. Neal didn't remember him. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
"I'm so glad it's him, El," he felt his chest clutch. "That he's alive. I"ve felt such...guilt that I let him down, that he died working for me." Hadn't he consoled himself when the judge handed down such a harsh sentence for a first-time offender that it was best? That getting Neal off his chosen path would keep him from a violent end? Only to meet one while working for the FBI. For him. "But I need him to remember, to go back to being Neal."
"He's still Neal," she reminded him. "Whether he remembers or not, it's him at his core. He's smart and creative, generous and loyal. You've seen all that in him before."
"I know," Peter replied. "But I need him to remember his life. Who he is, who I am."
Elizabeth shifted closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. "That's what I want, too," she said gently. "I wanted him to know me on that dock." He heard her voice catch. "I wanted for everything to come back to him, for him to smile that smile of his, grab me, and hug me." She paused. "But didn't happen. And it might not happen when he sees you, either, Peter. It might..." he hesitated. "Take some time."
"Or it might not happen at all." He knew it was a possibility, but he wasn't prepared to face it. "I don't know what to do if he doesn't remember tomorrow, much less at all," he admitted. "I don't know what to say to him, how to handle him." He winced at how that sounded even to him. "I don't mean it like that," he muttered. "It's just that I know Neal; know how to manage-" he stopped again. That was no better. He let out a breath of defeat. "I just don't know what I'm going to do when I see him, El," he said. "I don't know how even to greet him." Or what, or how much, to tell him. Their relationship was complicated, even knowing their history. How could he ever explain it with no shared memory? "I don't know this man."
"Yes, you do," she assured him. "Probably better than anyone else." He lay there, silently contemplating that. At one time, he'd agree. But right now, he wasn't sure. "You're just seeing something he works hard to keep hidden: his vulnerability. You've seen that before, too."
Again, she'd hit it on the head. This Neal, that Neal, any Neal stripped of artifice, put him off his game. Made him second guess himself. Made him doubt his course.
"I don't know what to do, El," Peter repeated.
"Just trust your instincts," she advised as she snuggled closer. "And try to get some sleep. You'll know what to do when the time comes."