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White Collar fic: Fragments (Psychic Neal #6)
And this is a wrap - the last story in the series ... well, completed stories, anyway. As mentioned earlier, I've started another one, but I'm not sure when/if it'll be finished, so for now, this is where I'm leaving them.
Title: Fragments
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 5900
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For my h/c bingo "imprisonment" square. All that's left is picking up the pieces.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/513946
Note: Huge thanks, as always, to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
soteriophobe for all her help. Everything in this series about Neal's brain chemistry that makes sense is basically due to her wonderful suggestions and research help. Everything that doesn't make sense is me. *g*
The debriefing after Kate's death lasted all day and was as arduous as Peter was expecting. It was one step short of actually being interrogated as a suspect. And he was pretty sure that if they could have figured out how to charge him with something, they would have.
But he got ahead of them and called his lawyer first -- he and El kept a lawyer on retainer, partly for little civil stuff and partly because, given his line of work, it wasn't a bad idea at all to have an "in" at a respected Manhattan law firm who was willing to drop everything on a Sunday morning and send down a partner who was versed in criminal law. He also called the FBI legal counsel and left a series of messages for Bancroft, covering every bit of his ass that he possibly could. So the CIA, Homeland Security or whoever he was dealing with found themselves confronted with a bristling field of legal pikes where they'd expected a cowed and isolated agent.
They wouldn't let him get away to see Neal, even for a few minutes, so he took a bathroom break and called Diana and then Jones from the men's room. "I want one of you in the room with him at all times. I know it's going to be hard. He's not exactly --" He paused; he didn't know how to describe Neal's mental state at the moment. "And he probably won't want you there. I don't care; I need someone I trust near him. I'm afraid they're going to make some kind of play -- I don't know what, but I don't want him left alone. If anyone tries to make you leave, have them call me, and if they can't get me, have them call Bancroft."
He was not sure if Bancroft would back him up on this; in fact, he was pretty sure Bancroft wouldn't, which made him hope the bluff wasn't called. But it was the only card he had to play.
"And be careful," he added. "Neal is out of control right now, and his powers are stronger when you're close to him. It might be better to keep some distance."
"Do you think he's dangerous?" Diana asked. He could almost hear her raised eyebrow through the phone. "Caffrey?"
He was caught between a rock and a hard place, struggling to figure out what he could say half a dozen alphabet agencies potentially listening in, trying to ensure the safety of his agents and Neal's safety too. "Just stay on your toes," he said at last.
After that, it was just a matter of telling his interrogators the truth. All of it. Over and over. At least he didn't have to hold back and wonder what he was allowed to say and what he wasn't.
Agent Stark showed up in the middle of it, looking calm and put together with her hair pulled back in a tight knot; she was wearing sunglasses, even indoors on a rainy day. Peter was pretty sure she did that just because it made her look more agenty and possibly to annoy her supervisors. He appreciated that kind of style. She whisked him off to the coffee machine, to the extreme annoyance of the latest agent who was interviewing him and the somewhat lesser annoyance of his lawyer.
"Brought you a sandwich," she said, sliding it out of the bag. "I didn't think they'd be feeding you."
"You'd be right. What'd you bring me?"
"Deviled ham," she said, as he peeled back the paper.
"I see you've done your homework. I'm not sure how disturbed I ought to be by that."
"We're the government," she said, without cracking a smile. "Actually, I talked to your wife. Who is fine, by the way. Mostly concerned about you. She thinks you shouldn't be out of the hospital."
"I'm all right. Just tired." Since there was no other option at the moment than to be all right, he was simply going to have to be. He'd already told the story of his capture and torture at Keller's hands a dozen times and it wasn't a topic he wanted to revisit, so he changed subjects. "What do you know about Neal?" Thus simultaneously asking Have you been briefed? and, what he really wanted to know at the moment: Do you have any news?
When Kate's plane had gone up in a fireball, Neal had screamed once, and then he'd gone down hard. By the time Peter got to him, Neal was seizing, his back arched and his muscles strained. It had taken Peter a moment to realize what must have happened. Neal wasn't wearing the psychic damper. He'd felt Kate die. And it had wrecked him.
"I know that his brain implant seems to have gone haywire," Stark said. "And that's about all anyone knows. They're trying to get a doctor down here who has some experience with it."
Which probably meant the butchers who'd jammed the damper into his head in prison. "He's been seeing a civilian neurologist," Peter said. "Claire Gupta. Her contact info is in his files."
"I'll look her up. In the meantime, our portable damping technology doesn't work on him anymore. He's considered uncontrollable and extremely dangerous." She gave him a sharp look. "I understand you're the reason why the FBI has been under our feet while we're trying to contain him."
"If you mean agents Berrigan and Jones, I don't apologize for that," Peter said. "He's my CI, I'm legally responsible for him, and the FBI's invested a lot in him; we aren't just going to walk away. What do you mean, it doesn't work?"
"I mean it doesn't work. The hats, the portable shielding like we used on the van. Or, well, I suppose it doesn't matter if it works or not, because any kind of portable damping technology we bring within range of him sends him into seizures. We're still trying to find something that does some good without posing too much of a risk. All we can do right now is restrain him."
The idea of Neal -- helpless, grieving, possibly so out of his mind that he didn't even know where he was -- being used as a guinea pig sent a twist of fury through Peter's gut. The only thing that kept him from throwing the sandwich back at her was the knowledge that she was the closest thing he had right now to an ally who might be in a position to do Neal some good. He flattened everything down, and said tightly, "Any sign of Fowler?"
"I'm not supposed to talk about that."
"You really think trying to keep things from me is going to make any difference at this point?"
Stark sighed. She took off her sunglasses and cleaned them on her shirttail. Without them, she looked tired, too. "It's being handled internally as far as I know." Within the CIA, she meant. Peter would have been amused by how they went out of their way not to say the word, if it hadn't been so annoying and he hadn't been so exhausted. "From what I'm hearing, they still don't know if the explosion was triggered prematurely by someone within Fowler's splinter group, or if other factors were involved. In any case, they are investigating, chain of command is involved, and that is really all I can tell you."
"Thank you," Peter said.
He ate his sandwich standing by the coffee machine; he was so exhausted that he'd gone straight into a vibrating manic state, which meant he was now too hyped to sit down, not to mention being afraid that if he let himself do so, he'd fall asleep instantly.
Diana located him there a few minutes later. "Hey, boss."
"Hey," Peter said. He tensed in anticipation of more bad news.
Diana looked strained and slightly gray. "Jones is with Neal," she said. "I had to step out and change my shirt. He, er -- threw something at me."
"I thought he was in restraints."
"He is. A cup of coffee went flying and dumped all over me."
Now he knew why she looked so shaken. "I had no idea he could do that."
"I don't think he did either. He looked as surprised as I was." She glanced past Peter's shoulder, but Stark had vanished. "I haven't told anyone but you and Jones."
"If you don't mind keeping it to yourself awhile longer, that'd be appreciated." Given Neal's tenuous state right now (legal and otherwise), the last thing Peter wanted was for the Powers That Be to realize that restraints might not be able to hold him. Poor kid would probably end up tranked into a coma and thrown in a steel box. "I'm sorry to put this off on you two."
"It's all right, it's just ... difficult. I know you warned us, but he really doesn't want us there. He keeps saying we're hurting him, that he doesn't have any barriers and our thoughts feel like knives. Then he starts hallucinating and screaming again. They're making us stay out of his room now, which I guess is better for everyone."
"I'll be over there as soon as I can get away," Peter said, but it ended up being several more hours before he finally managed to escape. He had a quick dinner with Elizabeth, who also packed a little to-go box for Neal.
"I'd go myself, but they won't let civilians anywhere near him," she said. "I tried."
"It's all right." If Neal was as bad off as reports suggested, it was probably just as well.
"You should get some sleep first, hon."
"If I let myself fall asleep, I'm going to crash for hours, and I need to relieve Jones." Also, if he gave himself even a moment to think about what he was walking into, he might not do it at all.
The idea of being around Neal with full psychic abilities bothered him at the best of times. But after being turned inside out by Keller, his mind dissected and flayed, it terrified him. He kept trying to tell himself that it was only Neal, and Neal would never knowingly hurt him. But that was the old Neal ... and Keller had been in Neal's head, too. Peter remembered the way Neal had looked at him, in the warehouse and in the car. Distrust. Resentment. Maybe even hate.
The absolute last thing he wanted right now was to be locked into a room with Neal. He nearly had a panic attack in the car, just thinking about it, and ended up procrastinating in the parking lot by calling Dr. Gupta, whose number he had taken the opportunity to look up.
She picked up on the first ring. "Yes, I was able to see him," she said in answer to Peter's question. "Not for lack of red tape. They tried to turn me away, but I had some help from an -- Agent Stark, I believe?"
"She's all right," Peter said. "Relatively speaking."
"Mmm."
"What can you tell me about Neal's condition?" She hesitated, and he said, "I'm know I'm asking you to violate confidentiality, but you have to admit it's an unusual situation. He's about to have a roomful of doctors I don't trust descend on him, and I need to know what to expect and how much interference I need to run." And, incidentally, whether it's safe to be in the same room with him.
"Well, if you want answers, I don't have any," Gupta said. "I could tell you more if they'd let me do some proper neuroimaging, but they won't even let him leave the room." Unethical bastards, her tone implied. Peter was inclined to agree. "The symptoms he's presenting with, though -- primarily seizures and visual and auditory disturbances -- are consistent with traumatic injury to the temporal lobe, which is where his implant's most important functions are located."
"In English?" Peter asked hopefully.
This got a tired chuckle from her. "If I were to guess, which is all I can do since no one will allow me more than a basic physical examination, the implant has either damaged his temporal lobe, or it's creating random electrical activity there. He's had problems with the latter before -- that's what the medication I prescribed him for his headaches was actually treating; I don't know if he told you that. I tried symptomatic treatment with a couple of common anticonvulsants, however, and they simply made him worse."
"So -- now what?" Peter asked, his temper fraying. He was shaky with exhaustion, and running on coffee, Tylenol and pure stubbornness at this point; he hadn't slept in well over 48 hours. "You just let him sit there suffering?"
"Agent Burke, I am doing my best. I can't give him drugs when I don't know how they'll interact with his implant. I think putting the deactivation module back on it right now would be a terrible idea, even if I had one or knew how it worked. I'm sitting here with his files spread in front of me, trying to understand something that, six months ago, I would have believed impossible. And every possibility I come up with, the government that you work for shoots me down."
"I'm sorry," Peter said, rubbing the spot between his eyes where the Tylenol was doing nothing to cut a vicious headache.
Gupta sighed. "I'm sorry, too. I like Neal, Agent Burke. He's a sweet kid and I hate seeing him like this as much as you do. I'll call you if I come up with a viable option."
Peter hung up, and realized that he'd put it off as long as he could. He was going to have to see Neal sooner or later, no matter the dry-mouthed terror rising in him. He leaned his head against the seat back for a minute, then, in danger of falling asleep, wrestled himself out of the car and tried to find a reserve yet untapped to tackle the next challenge.
Everything was quiet when he arrived, though. Neal's room turned out to be down a long, dead-end corridor with a small command post set up at the other end: some folding chairs, Jones (reading a paperback novel), two agents armed with rifles rather than small sidearms, and, of all things, a metal detector that appeared to have been hastily set up in the hallway.
"Worried about files baked in cakes?" Peter asked the unsmiling agent who checked his badge.
"It's not for visitors." She did not offer a name or even volunteer which alphabet agency she worked for.
"Aha," Peter said, light dawning. "It's for Neal." The implant probably would set off a metal detector.
"Yeah, I guess the idea is that he can fool humans, but he can't fool technology," Jones said. "And that's not all." He nodded to the guns, then to the hallway, but Peter had already figured out that much: they were out of Neal's range here, and standing at one end of a potential shooting gallery. The cold-blooded calculation of it all made him sick.
"You want me back in the morning, Peter?" Jones asked.
"No ... yes ... maybe just stop by to check that things are okay."
Once Jones had left, the female agent deactivated the metal detector for a moment while he stepped through -- she was right, they didn't care what anyone took in as long as Neal didn't come out. As he walked down the hall, he was acutely aware of the two agents with their rifles, watching him.
"Better him than me," Peter heard the male agent say, softly enough that he probably didn't realize Peter had overheard him.
Peter paused for a moment with his hand resting on the door of Neal's room, eyes closed, before he opened it and stepped inside. There was nothing in the room except a bed, bolted down. Neal was restrained at his ankles and wrists, a sheet thrown across his hospital-gown-clad body. He looked asleep at first glance, but Peter could tell from his tension and fast, shallow breathing that he wasn't.
"So I hear you've developed a new talent," Peter said.
Neal cracked an eye open. "Diana told you about the coffee." His voice was raw and ragged.
"She hasn't told anyone else. It's our secret for now."
"I know," Neal said. "You were thinking it."
As if Neal could let him forget about the mind-reading for a minute. Perhaps intentionally ... Peter studied him, assessed him. Neal was very pale, with blue shadows under his eyes and traces of dried blood crusted on his cheek from a bloody nose or bitten tongue. His wrists where the restraints held him were red and chafed; he'd been struggling hard. At least he looked better than he had right after the explosion, which was the last time Peter had seen him -- he was coherent, anyway.
"Thank you for thinking about that," Neal said, harshly.
"Sorry." Peter hastily tried to think of something else, anything else.
"Everyone who comes in here thinks about it. And keeps thinking about it. The spiders are okay, though. They don't really have thoughts, as such." Neal shuddered, and yanked one arm against the restraints; it seemed more reflexive than anything.
"Er, spiders?" Peter said.
"I said something that didn't make sense to you, didn't I? Apparently I've been doing that. I think I'm mostly on top of things and then ..." He trailed off and stared at the ceiling.
"... Right. Okay. Anyway, I brought you something to eat, if you want it. El's cooking."
Neal shivered and turned his face away. "Not hungry."
Awkward silence settled on them. Peter set El's care package on the floor, since there was nowhere else to put it, and went back to get a folding chair from the guard station. This meant walking up the corridor under their flat scrutiny. Peter defiantly stole a chair, and Jones's novel while he was at it, and went back to Neal's room.
Neal was either asleep or ignoring him. Peter tried a few pages of the novel, a bestselling mystery that he knew he wasn't going to be able to concentrate on. Should've brought a crossword. Maybe he could go buy a paper --
Neal screamed. Peter fumbled the book, which went flying and landed on the floor.
"That's not supposed to happen," Neal said, his voice high-pitched, and scrabbled back against the restraints, trying to pull himself to the head of the bed.
"What isn't?" Peter asked, but Neal just shook his head. "Hey, Neal, calm down. Talk to me."
"Tell it to Kate," Neal snapped, a sudden lightning-snap from fear to bristling hostility and anger. "You keep telling me to shut up, why don't you tell her to shut up?"
"You're seeing Kate?"
"Thank you so much for this," Neal muttered, to whom Peter wasn't certain, and slouched down in the bed. "I wish you'd leave. All of you."
"I could wait outside."
No answer from the bed, so Peter tried reading again. He was so tired the pages kept blurring. At least it was better than thinking. About anything.
"I figured out how Keller does what he does," Neal said, very softly. Peter put the book down. "Did you know that? It's just like the way I heal, but in reverse."
A cold shiver ran up Peter's spine. "I kinda figured as much," he said, keeping his voice calm. He glanced towards the door and wondered, suddenly, if the room was bugged. Well, considering that Neal had probably babbled for hours when they brought him here, it wasn't like it mattered now.
And he couldn't stop thinking about how accidentally dangerous Neal could be in this state. He had to force himself to stay where he was, and not bolt for the door.
"You're afraid of me," Neal said.
"Yes." No point in denying it.
"You should be. I'm afraid of me too." Neal laughed softly, shakily. "I can kill you right now, as you're sitting there. It would look like a stroke. No one would ever know. That terrifies you, doesn't it?"
"Yes." And it terrifies you just as much, he thought. But, fortunately, he'd had some time to think about this in the car, and he'd come to an interesting conclusion. It didn't make the fear any less. But hopefully it would give Neal food for thought. "I hate to break it to you, Neal, but I could kill you too."
Neal just looked at him. Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair. "This would make a better demonstration if I weren't currently benched for medical reasons -- that means no gun -- and could pull out my sidearm right now. But I don't have it, and since you're tied up and I'm not, all I'd have to do is pick up this chair and bash you in the head with it. In fact, given how nervous everyone is right now about your psychic powers with your damper off, I could probably even get away with it. All I'd have to do is tell them that you tried to manipulate me into doing something awful and it was self-defense."
Neal blinked at him, blue eyes wide. "But ..." he said in a small voice. "You wouldn't ...?" I hope, said his tone, and it hurt, that Neal wasn't sure of that anymore. Rot in Hell, Keller.
"No, I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't. Neal, my government gives me the authorization to carry a weapon and use deadly force. That means I'm one of the few people who could shoot someone and kill them, in full view of a dozen witnesses, and as long as I can sell it to my superiors, I'll walk away with a slap on the wrist, or even a medal, while someone's mourning their son or daughter."
He closed his eyes, and went for broke, went for total honesty, because right now Neal could see through any sort of obfuscation anyway. "Neal, that scares the hell out of me. All the more so because there are people in authority all over the country who abuse that power -- who bully and threaten people, who kill innocent people for being in the wrong place just because they can, and get away with it." Who lock up little kids and torture them, he managed not to say, although he realized a second later that Neal, of course, would have seen it in his mind anyway. "And that's why I try not to take it for granted. I try to check the power I have. I'm glad I have the law standing behind me, not as a bludgeon but because I have to answer to it if, God forbid, I ever do fire my gun in the line of duty and hit someone. I'm glad it's not just me making that call. But when it comes right down to it, I'm the one who has to answer for it."
Neal was quiet. Peter couldn't tell if that meant he was thinking about what Peter was saying, or just withdrawn into his own world.
"I carry my gun with you in the car every day and I don't shoot you even when you provoke me because, well, obviously I don't want to because you're my friend, but mostly that's not how adults solve their problems, and, Neal, that's why ... okay, yes. The idea that you could kill me with your brain bothers me, a lot. It's something I'm going to have to get used to. But I could kill you with my brain just as easily, and you don't seem to be at all worried about that."
"Well, I wasn't until you brought it up," Neal muttered, scowling at the wall. "And it's different, and you know that."
"How? Because you don't need tools? How many people in the history of the world have killed someone with their bare hands -- punched them, stranged them, pushed them down the stairs? I know that finding out you could potentially kill someone the same way Keller kills people is throwing you for a loop, but every single human being --"
"It's different!" Neal snarled, coming half up off the bed, his hands knotted into fists in the restraints, and Peter jumped. "Don't forget I can see into your head! It scares the hell out of you. Stop lying to me."
Peter was silent for a moment, his hand fisting and unfisting on the leg of his jeans. "You're right," he said finally. "It does scare the hell out of me. And sitting next to you, knowing you could do to me exactly what Keller did to me -- it's hard." It was more than hard; it brought monsters roaring up out of his subconscious that he was barely managing to hold at bay.
But Neal was watching him, and listening. Neal had always listened to him, even when they'd turned away from each other. Peter chose his words carefully.
"The only difference I'm interested in is the difference between you and him, which is, very simply, that you aren't him. And that's the difference that I have to teach both of us to believe in, and that's the difference that I have to make a judge believe in, if you're going to get your old deal back, working with me and the FBI."
Neal stared at him -- emotions skated across his face, too fast to identify, finally settling on an odd mix of distrust and hope. "What makes you think I want it?"
"Because you know what the alternative is," Peter said. He was too tired and too wounded to be anything other than blunt right now. "You said it yourself, the first time, back when we originally made that deal. They'll bury you and you'll never see the light of day again. Whatever's left of your life will be spent in a lab or in a solitary prison cell. Is that how you want to end up?"
"Maybe I should," Neal muttered, slouching into the bed. "I probably deserve it."
"No, you don't. Having you blocked and on the anklet isn't necessarily a long-term solution, but at least it'll buy us time to think. To work out some options for you. As long as you're legally under my supervision, they can't touch you."
There was silence for a while, then Neal asked, "Did I scare Diana too much?"
That sounded more like the Neal that Peter knew. "Nah, not really. She's used to expecting the unexpected from you."
More silence.
"You know that I hate you a little bit right now," Neal said, conversationally. "I can't help it. I don't really think I want to ... not really. And maybe someday I won't anymore. But right now, I do."
"I know," Peter said, although it stung to hear it. But he did know.
"And you're fucking terrified of me."
He'd never heard Neal curse before. It was startling. "Yes," Peter said. "We're kind of a mess, aren't we?"
Neal snorted a small, miserable laugh. Then he turned his hand over, palm up.
After a moment, Peter laid his hand in Neal's, and laced their fingers together. He knew the psychic contact would be stronger via touch, and had to force himself not to pull away.
But he didn't; instead he just relaxed, not trying to hide anything. Neal could look, if he wanted to, at all the places Keller had ripped open, the tender raw spots, the bruises on Peter's psyche. The fear that Peter still felt in Neal's presence. And the affection for Neal, too -- the sympathy -- the concern. It was all there. A mess, as he'd said.
"Do you want me to try to ... do anything?" Neal asked hesitantly. "I might be able to help. You know, to fix things."
Peter had to steel himself not to pull away. "No. I'd prefer you didn't." The inside of his head was a mess, but it was his mess. He'd fix it on his own.
Neal nodded, and squeezed Peter's hand. After a moment, he closed his eyes.
"I can wait outside, if that would be easier," Peter offered. "I know it's rough dealing with other people's thoughts right now." Mine especially, he couldn't help thinking, because being in his own head was no picnic right now, and getting the bleedover from that couldn't be easy to deal with.
"No," Neal murmured, sounding sleepy. His fingers were tight on Peter's. "Not yours, not really. It's strange, but as long as I don't think about it too much, I can forget you're the enemy, and just ... be. Your mind feels comfortable, somehow. Gives me something to hang onto. It was always that way with Mozzie and K --"
He broke off on Kate's name, and his face crumpled. It was as if his whole body collapsed inward, all in that moment -- as if he'd managed to hold it at bay, and then suddenly all the bitter knowledge he'd been holding off fell on him.
"Oh, Jesus, kid," Peter said. He leaned over the side rail of the bed, one hand still laced together with Neal's, and cupped his arm under Neal's shoulders, drew him up and pressed Neal against his shoulder. Neal was twisted in the restraints, in a way that couldn't be comfortable, but he didn't struggle -- he just cried, hard nearly-silent sobs, muffled in Peter's sweater.
When he seemed to have cried himself out, or at least the convulsive shuddering had stopped, Peter eased him back down and got a handful of tissues from the bathroom. He unlocked one of Neal's hands so he could clean himself up.
"Need a bathroom break?"
"Sure," Neal whispered. Peter unlocked him.
"Based on prisoner restraint procedure, I should handcuff you even when you're up and follow you in, but personally I think that's going a bit far."
"I appreciate the consideration," Neal said dryly, sounding a little more himself, a little less broken.
He had a seizure in the bathroom; Peter heard the crash-thump and opened the door to find Neal on the floor, jerking helplessly. As Peter knelt beside him, Neal shuddered and went still. His eyes opened, wide and blank for a moment, slowly coalescing into focus. Blood streaked the side of his face; he'd apparently cracked his head on the sink when he'd gone down. Peter wordlessly handed him a wad of tissues.
"This sucks," Neal muttered as Peter helped him to his feet with a cautious, light hand under his elbow.
"Your doctor says she's working on a solution."
"Claire ... She was here? I thought maybe I was just --" He shook his head, and shut up. Peter waited while Neal washed his face in the sink and drank out of his cupped hands.
"Let me see your head."
"It's fine," Neal said, but he held still while Peter held his hair back and mopped at the cut with a tissue dipped under the faucet. There was just a little gash and some bruising, nothing too serious, but it probably hurt.
"You want me to see if I can get a first-aid kit in here? They'll probably take out anything sharp first ..."
"I said it's fine." Neal pulled away and made his way back to the bed on his own. Peter, reluctantly, locked him back into his restraints.
Neal raised his head to look at Peter's straight-backed folding chair. "You're really tired," he said -- a statement rather than a question, but of course, he could probably read it in Peter's thoughts.
"I'm running on fumes at this point."
"You might be able to talk them into dragging in another bed. No, they probably won't do that. But you can always have a corner of mine." Before Peter could say But I'm supposed to be standing guard, Neal, of course, picked out the thought, and said, "Like you're not going to wake up if someone comes in and tries to drag me away or whatever it is you're worried about."
"Knock it off," Peter said. "At least wait until I get the words out to answer the question."
"I can't always tell."
Peter sighed, and lowered the rail on the side of the bed. "Try not to throw anything at my head."
"I'm not really sure how I did it the first time. Actually, it's kind of a relief that Diana saw it too."
Peter let himself wilt onto the edge of the bed -- still sitting in the chair, but with his torso flopped onto the side of Neal's bed. He was exhausted enough that it actually felt good, even though he was contorted like a pretzel and his back was going to be killing him in a couple of hours. "Not going to bother you here?" he mumbled into the sheet.
"Not really. I apologize in advance if I elbow you in the neck the next time I have convulsions or whatever."
"Probably be sleeping too deep to notice."
He became aware, after a moment, even in the muffled depths of his weary lassitude, that Neal was holding very still -- trying, Peter thought, not to touch Peter any more than he had to. It didn't take a psychic to guess that he was uncertain how Peter would react.
So he found Neal's hand again, by feel this time, working his hand over the restraint cuff to lay it on top of Neal's. Neal flipped over his own hand, palm up, and they clasped hands again.
"I won't tell Elizabeth that you spent the night holding my hand," Neal said.
It turned out that sleeping on the edge of Neal's bed was made more complicated by Neal's tendency to twitch violently every now and then, or scream, or try to climb off the bed (and occasionally over Peter). Luckily Peter was exhausted enough that he could drop off again immediately.
"Sorry," Neal said after one of these interludes.
"It's your brain chemistry. Not your fault. You'd think they'd be able to give you something to help."
"They tried. Everything they gave me just made it worse." He rubbed the back of Peter's hand with his thumb. "Now you're angry on my behalf. Stop it."
"I meant it, you know, about getting your deal back," Peter murmured against the sheet. "If you want it, I'm willing to fight for it, all the way."
"I guess so," Neal said, and then, later, as Peter hovered on the edge of sleep, "Yes."
Hand in hand, together they waited for dawn.
~
Title: Fragments
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 5900
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For my h/c bingo "imprisonment" square. All that's left is picking up the pieces.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/513946
Note: Huge thanks, as always, to
soteriophobe for all her help. Everything in this series about Neal's brain chemistry that makes sense is basically due to her wonderful suggestions and research help. Everything that doesn't make sense is me. *g*The debriefing after Kate's death lasted all day and was as arduous as Peter was expecting. It was one step short of actually being interrogated as a suspect. And he was pretty sure that if they could have figured out how to charge him with something, they would have.
But he got ahead of them and called his lawyer first -- he and El kept a lawyer on retainer, partly for little civil stuff and partly because, given his line of work, it wasn't a bad idea at all to have an "in" at a respected Manhattan law firm who was willing to drop everything on a Sunday morning and send down a partner who was versed in criminal law. He also called the FBI legal counsel and left a series of messages for Bancroft, covering every bit of his ass that he possibly could. So the CIA, Homeland Security or whoever he was dealing with found themselves confronted with a bristling field of legal pikes where they'd expected a cowed and isolated agent.
They wouldn't let him get away to see Neal, even for a few minutes, so he took a bathroom break and called Diana and then Jones from the men's room. "I want one of you in the room with him at all times. I know it's going to be hard. He's not exactly --" He paused; he didn't know how to describe Neal's mental state at the moment. "And he probably won't want you there. I don't care; I need someone I trust near him. I'm afraid they're going to make some kind of play -- I don't know what, but I don't want him left alone. If anyone tries to make you leave, have them call me, and if they can't get me, have them call Bancroft."
He was not sure if Bancroft would back him up on this; in fact, he was pretty sure Bancroft wouldn't, which made him hope the bluff wasn't called. But it was the only card he had to play.
"And be careful," he added. "Neal is out of control right now, and his powers are stronger when you're close to him. It might be better to keep some distance."
"Do you think he's dangerous?" Diana asked. He could almost hear her raised eyebrow through the phone. "Caffrey?"
He was caught between a rock and a hard place, struggling to figure out what he could say half a dozen alphabet agencies potentially listening in, trying to ensure the safety of his agents and Neal's safety too. "Just stay on your toes," he said at last.
After that, it was just a matter of telling his interrogators the truth. All of it. Over and over. At least he didn't have to hold back and wonder what he was allowed to say and what he wasn't.
Agent Stark showed up in the middle of it, looking calm and put together with her hair pulled back in a tight knot; she was wearing sunglasses, even indoors on a rainy day. Peter was pretty sure she did that just because it made her look more agenty and possibly to annoy her supervisors. He appreciated that kind of style. She whisked him off to the coffee machine, to the extreme annoyance of the latest agent who was interviewing him and the somewhat lesser annoyance of his lawyer.
"Brought you a sandwich," she said, sliding it out of the bag. "I didn't think they'd be feeding you."
"You'd be right. What'd you bring me?"
"Deviled ham," she said, as he peeled back the paper.
"I see you've done your homework. I'm not sure how disturbed I ought to be by that."
"We're the government," she said, without cracking a smile. "Actually, I talked to your wife. Who is fine, by the way. Mostly concerned about you. She thinks you shouldn't be out of the hospital."
"I'm all right. Just tired." Since there was no other option at the moment than to be all right, he was simply going to have to be. He'd already told the story of his capture and torture at Keller's hands a dozen times and it wasn't a topic he wanted to revisit, so he changed subjects. "What do you know about Neal?" Thus simultaneously asking Have you been briefed? and, what he really wanted to know at the moment: Do you have any news?
When Kate's plane had gone up in a fireball, Neal had screamed once, and then he'd gone down hard. By the time Peter got to him, Neal was seizing, his back arched and his muscles strained. It had taken Peter a moment to realize what must have happened. Neal wasn't wearing the psychic damper. He'd felt Kate die. And it had wrecked him.
"I know that his brain implant seems to have gone haywire," Stark said. "And that's about all anyone knows. They're trying to get a doctor down here who has some experience with it."
Which probably meant the butchers who'd jammed the damper into his head in prison. "He's been seeing a civilian neurologist," Peter said. "Claire Gupta. Her contact info is in his files."
"I'll look her up. In the meantime, our portable damping technology doesn't work on him anymore. He's considered uncontrollable and extremely dangerous." She gave him a sharp look. "I understand you're the reason why the FBI has been under our feet while we're trying to contain him."
"If you mean agents Berrigan and Jones, I don't apologize for that," Peter said. "He's my CI, I'm legally responsible for him, and the FBI's invested a lot in him; we aren't just going to walk away. What do you mean, it doesn't work?"
"I mean it doesn't work. The hats, the portable shielding like we used on the van. Or, well, I suppose it doesn't matter if it works or not, because any kind of portable damping technology we bring within range of him sends him into seizures. We're still trying to find something that does some good without posing too much of a risk. All we can do right now is restrain him."
The idea of Neal -- helpless, grieving, possibly so out of his mind that he didn't even know where he was -- being used as a guinea pig sent a twist of fury through Peter's gut. The only thing that kept him from throwing the sandwich back at her was the knowledge that she was the closest thing he had right now to an ally who might be in a position to do Neal some good. He flattened everything down, and said tightly, "Any sign of Fowler?"
"I'm not supposed to talk about that."
"You really think trying to keep things from me is going to make any difference at this point?"
Stark sighed. She took off her sunglasses and cleaned them on her shirttail. Without them, she looked tired, too. "It's being handled internally as far as I know." Within the CIA, she meant. Peter would have been amused by how they went out of their way not to say the word, if it hadn't been so annoying and he hadn't been so exhausted. "From what I'm hearing, they still don't know if the explosion was triggered prematurely by someone within Fowler's splinter group, or if other factors were involved. In any case, they are investigating, chain of command is involved, and that is really all I can tell you."
"Thank you," Peter said.
He ate his sandwich standing by the coffee machine; he was so exhausted that he'd gone straight into a vibrating manic state, which meant he was now too hyped to sit down, not to mention being afraid that if he let himself do so, he'd fall asleep instantly.
Diana located him there a few minutes later. "Hey, boss."
"Hey," Peter said. He tensed in anticipation of more bad news.
Diana looked strained and slightly gray. "Jones is with Neal," she said. "I had to step out and change my shirt. He, er -- threw something at me."
"I thought he was in restraints."
"He is. A cup of coffee went flying and dumped all over me."
Now he knew why she looked so shaken. "I had no idea he could do that."
"I don't think he did either. He looked as surprised as I was." She glanced past Peter's shoulder, but Stark had vanished. "I haven't told anyone but you and Jones."
"If you don't mind keeping it to yourself awhile longer, that'd be appreciated." Given Neal's tenuous state right now (legal and otherwise), the last thing Peter wanted was for the Powers That Be to realize that restraints might not be able to hold him. Poor kid would probably end up tranked into a coma and thrown in a steel box. "I'm sorry to put this off on you two."
"It's all right, it's just ... difficult. I know you warned us, but he really doesn't want us there. He keeps saying we're hurting him, that he doesn't have any barriers and our thoughts feel like knives. Then he starts hallucinating and screaming again. They're making us stay out of his room now, which I guess is better for everyone."
"I'll be over there as soon as I can get away," Peter said, but it ended up being several more hours before he finally managed to escape. He had a quick dinner with Elizabeth, who also packed a little to-go box for Neal.
"I'd go myself, but they won't let civilians anywhere near him," she said. "I tried."
"It's all right." If Neal was as bad off as reports suggested, it was probably just as well.
"You should get some sleep first, hon."
"If I let myself fall asleep, I'm going to crash for hours, and I need to relieve Jones." Also, if he gave himself even a moment to think about what he was walking into, he might not do it at all.
The idea of being around Neal with full psychic abilities bothered him at the best of times. But after being turned inside out by Keller, his mind dissected and flayed, it terrified him. He kept trying to tell himself that it was only Neal, and Neal would never knowingly hurt him. But that was the old Neal ... and Keller had been in Neal's head, too. Peter remembered the way Neal had looked at him, in the warehouse and in the car. Distrust. Resentment. Maybe even hate.
The absolute last thing he wanted right now was to be locked into a room with Neal. He nearly had a panic attack in the car, just thinking about it, and ended up procrastinating in the parking lot by calling Dr. Gupta, whose number he had taken the opportunity to look up.
She picked up on the first ring. "Yes, I was able to see him," she said in answer to Peter's question. "Not for lack of red tape. They tried to turn me away, but I had some help from an -- Agent Stark, I believe?"
"She's all right," Peter said. "Relatively speaking."
"Mmm."
"What can you tell me about Neal's condition?" She hesitated, and he said, "I'm know I'm asking you to violate confidentiality, but you have to admit it's an unusual situation. He's about to have a roomful of doctors I don't trust descend on him, and I need to know what to expect and how much interference I need to run." And, incidentally, whether it's safe to be in the same room with him.
"Well, if you want answers, I don't have any," Gupta said. "I could tell you more if they'd let me do some proper neuroimaging, but they won't even let him leave the room." Unethical bastards, her tone implied. Peter was inclined to agree. "The symptoms he's presenting with, though -- primarily seizures and visual and auditory disturbances -- are consistent with traumatic injury to the temporal lobe, which is where his implant's most important functions are located."
"In English?" Peter asked hopefully.
This got a tired chuckle from her. "If I were to guess, which is all I can do since no one will allow me more than a basic physical examination, the implant has either damaged his temporal lobe, or it's creating random electrical activity there. He's had problems with the latter before -- that's what the medication I prescribed him for his headaches was actually treating; I don't know if he told you that. I tried symptomatic treatment with a couple of common anticonvulsants, however, and they simply made him worse."
"So -- now what?" Peter asked, his temper fraying. He was shaky with exhaustion, and running on coffee, Tylenol and pure stubbornness at this point; he hadn't slept in well over 48 hours. "You just let him sit there suffering?"
"Agent Burke, I am doing my best. I can't give him drugs when I don't know how they'll interact with his implant. I think putting the deactivation module back on it right now would be a terrible idea, even if I had one or knew how it worked. I'm sitting here with his files spread in front of me, trying to understand something that, six months ago, I would have believed impossible. And every possibility I come up with, the government that you work for shoots me down."
"I'm sorry," Peter said, rubbing the spot between his eyes where the Tylenol was doing nothing to cut a vicious headache.
Gupta sighed. "I'm sorry, too. I like Neal, Agent Burke. He's a sweet kid and I hate seeing him like this as much as you do. I'll call you if I come up with a viable option."
Peter hung up, and realized that he'd put it off as long as he could. He was going to have to see Neal sooner or later, no matter the dry-mouthed terror rising in him. He leaned his head against the seat back for a minute, then, in danger of falling asleep, wrestled himself out of the car and tried to find a reserve yet untapped to tackle the next challenge.
Everything was quiet when he arrived, though. Neal's room turned out to be down a long, dead-end corridor with a small command post set up at the other end: some folding chairs, Jones (reading a paperback novel), two agents armed with rifles rather than small sidearms, and, of all things, a metal detector that appeared to have been hastily set up in the hallway.
"Worried about files baked in cakes?" Peter asked the unsmiling agent who checked his badge.
"It's not for visitors." She did not offer a name or even volunteer which alphabet agency she worked for.
"Aha," Peter said, light dawning. "It's for Neal." The implant probably would set off a metal detector.
"Yeah, I guess the idea is that he can fool humans, but he can't fool technology," Jones said. "And that's not all." He nodded to the guns, then to the hallway, but Peter had already figured out that much: they were out of Neal's range here, and standing at one end of a potential shooting gallery. The cold-blooded calculation of it all made him sick.
"You want me back in the morning, Peter?" Jones asked.
"No ... yes ... maybe just stop by to check that things are okay."
Once Jones had left, the female agent deactivated the metal detector for a moment while he stepped through -- she was right, they didn't care what anyone took in as long as Neal didn't come out. As he walked down the hall, he was acutely aware of the two agents with their rifles, watching him.
"Better him than me," Peter heard the male agent say, softly enough that he probably didn't realize Peter had overheard him.
Peter paused for a moment with his hand resting on the door of Neal's room, eyes closed, before he opened it and stepped inside. There was nothing in the room except a bed, bolted down. Neal was restrained at his ankles and wrists, a sheet thrown across his hospital-gown-clad body. He looked asleep at first glance, but Peter could tell from his tension and fast, shallow breathing that he wasn't.
"So I hear you've developed a new talent," Peter said.
Neal cracked an eye open. "Diana told you about the coffee." His voice was raw and ragged.
"She hasn't told anyone else. It's our secret for now."
"I know," Neal said. "You were thinking it."
As if Neal could let him forget about the mind-reading for a minute. Perhaps intentionally ... Peter studied him, assessed him. Neal was very pale, with blue shadows under his eyes and traces of dried blood crusted on his cheek from a bloody nose or bitten tongue. His wrists where the restraints held him were red and chafed; he'd been struggling hard. At least he looked better than he had right after the explosion, which was the last time Peter had seen him -- he was coherent, anyway.
"Thank you for thinking about that," Neal said, harshly.
"Sorry." Peter hastily tried to think of something else, anything else.
"Everyone who comes in here thinks about it. And keeps thinking about it. The spiders are okay, though. They don't really have thoughts, as such." Neal shuddered, and yanked one arm against the restraints; it seemed more reflexive than anything.
"Er, spiders?" Peter said.
"I said something that didn't make sense to you, didn't I? Apparently I've been doing that. I think I'm mostly on top of things and then ..." He trailed off and stared at the ceiling.
"... Right. Okay. Anyway, I brought you something to eat, if you want it. El's cooking."
Neal shivered and turned his face away. "Not hungry."
Awkward silence settled on them. Peter set El's care package on the floor, since there was nowhere else to put it, and went back to get a folding chair from the guard station. This meant walking up the corridor under their flat scrutiny. Peter defiantly stole a chair, and Jones's novel while he was at it, and went back to Neal's room.
Neal was either asleep or ignoring him. Peter tried a few pages of the novel, a bestselling mystery that he knew he wasn't going to be able to concentrate on. Should've brought a crossword. Maybe he could go buy a paper --
Neal screamed. Peter fumbled the book, which went flying and landed on the floor.
"That's not supposed to happen," Neal said, his voice high-pitched, and scrabbled back against the restraints, trying to pull himself to the head of the bed.
"What isn't?" Peter asked, but Neal just shook his head. "Hey, Neal, calm down. Talk to me."
"Tell it to Kate," Neal snapped, a sudden lightning-snap from fear to bristling hostility and anger. "You keep telling me to shut up, why don't you tell her to shut up?"
"You're seeing Kate?"
"Thank you so much for this," Neal muttered, to whom Peter wasn't certain, and slouched down in the bed. "I wish you'd leave. All of you."
"I could wait outside."
No answer from the bed, so Peter tried reading again. He was so tired the pages kept blurring. At least it was better than thinking. About anything.
"I figured out how Keller does what he does," Neal said, very softly. Peter put the book down. "Did you know that? It's just like the way I heal, but in reverse."
A cold shiver ran up Peter's spine. "I kinda figured as much," he said, keeping his voice calm. He glanced towards the door and wondered, suddenly, if the room was bugged. Well, considering that Neal had probably babbled for hours when they brought him here, it wasn't like it mattered now.
And he couldn't stop thinking about how accidentally dangerous Neal could be in this state. He had to force himself to stay where he was, and not bolt for the door.
"You're afraid of me," Neal said.
"Yes." No point in denying it.
"You should be. I'm afraid of me too." Neal laughed softly, shakily. "I can kill you right now, as you're sitting there. It would look like a stroke. No one would ever know. That terrifies you, doesn't it?"
"Yes." And it terrifies you just as much, he thought. But, fortunately, he'd had some time to think about this in the car, and he'd come to an interesting conclusion. It didn't make the fear any less. But hopefully it would give Neal food for thought. "I hate to break it to you, Neal, but I could kill you too."
Neal just looked at him. Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair. "This would make a better demonstration if I weren't currently benched for medical reasons -- that means no gun -- and could pull out my sidearm right now. But I don't have it, and since you're tied up and I'm not, all I'd have to do is pick up this chair and bash you in the head with it. In fact, given how nervous everyone is right now about your psychic powers with your damper off, I could probably even get away with it. All I'd have to do is tell them that you tried to manipulate me into doing something awful and it was self-defense."
Neal blinked at him, blue eyes wide. "But ..." he said in a small voice. "You wouldn't ...?" I hope, said his tone, and it hurt, that Neal wasn't sure of that anymore. Rot in Hell, Keller.
"No, I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't. Neal, my government gives me the authorization to carry a weapon and use deadly force. That means I'm one of the few people who could shoot someone and kill them, in full view of a dozen witnesses, and as long as I can sell it to my superiors, I'll walk away with a slap on the wrist, or even a medal, while someone's mourning their son or daughter."
He closed his eyes, and went for broke, went for total honesty, because right now Neal could see through any sort of obfuscation anyway. "Neal, that scares the hell out of me. All the more so because there are people in authority all over the country who abuse that power -- who bully and threaten people, who kill innocent people for being in the wrong place just because they can, and get away with it." Who lock up little kids and torture them, he managed not to say, although he realized a second later that Neal, of course, would have seen it in his mind anyway. "And that's why I try not to take it for granted. I try to check the power I have. I'm glad I have the law standing behind me, not as a bludgeon but because I have to answer to it if, God forbid, I ever do fire my gun in the line of duty and hit someone. I'm glad it's not just me making that call. But when it comes right down to it, I'm the one who has to answer for it."
Neal was quiet. Peter couldn't tell if that meant he was thinking about what Peter was saying, or just withdrawn into his own world.
"I carry my gun with you in the car every day and I don't shoot you even when you provoke me because, well, obviously I don't want to because you're my friend, but mostly that's not how adults solve their problems, and, Neal, that's why ... okay, yes. The idea that you could kill me with your brain bothers me, a lot. It's something I'm going to have to get used to. But I could kill you with my brain just as easily, and you don't seem to be at all worried about that."
"Well, I wasn't until you brought it up," Neal muttered, scowling at the wall. "And it's different, and you know that."
"How? Because you don't need tools? How many people in the history of the world have killed someone with their bare hands -- punched them, stranged them, pushed them down the stairs? I know that finding out you could potentially kill someone the same way Keller kills people is throwing you for a loop, but every single human being --"
"It's different!" Neal snarled, coming half up off the bed, his hands knotted into fists in the restraints, and Peter jumped. "Don't forget I can see into your head! It scares the hell out of you. Stop lying to me."
Peter was silent for a moment, his hand fisting and unfisting on the leg of his jeans. "You're right," he said finally. "It does scare the hell out of me. And sitting next to you, knowing you could do to me exactly what Keller did to me -- it's hard." It was more than hard; it brought monsters roaring up out of his subconscious that he was barely managing to hold at bay.
But Neal was watching him, and listening. Neal had always listened to him, even when they'd turned away from each other. Peter chose his words carefully.
"The only difference I'm interested in is the difference between you and him, which is, very simply, that you aren't him. And that's the difference that I have to teach both of us to believe in, and that's the difference that I have to make a judge believe in, if you're going to get your old deal back, working with me and the FBI."
Neal stared at him -- emotions skated across his face, too fast to identify, finally settling on an odd mix of distrust and hope. "What makes you think I want it?"
"Because you know what the alternative is," Peter said. He was too tired and too wounded to be anything other than blunt right now. "You said it yourself, the first time, back when we originally made that deal. They'll bury you and you'll never see the light of day again. Whatever's left of your life will be spent in a lab or in a solitary prison cell. Is that how you want to end up?"
"Maybe I should," Neal muttered, slouching into the bed. "I probably deserve it."
"No, you don't. Having you blocked and on the anklet isn't necessarily a long-term solution, but at least it'll buy us time to think. To work out some options for you. As long as you're legally under my supervision, they can't touch you."
There was silence for a while, then Neal asked, "Did I scare Diana too much?"
That sounded more like the Neal that Peter knew. "Nah, not really. She's used to expecting the unexpected from you."
More silence.
"You know that I hate you a little bit right now," Neal said, conversationally. "I can't help it. I don't really think I want to ... not really. And maybe someday I won't anymore. But right now, I do."
"I know," Peter said, although it stung to hear it. But he did know.
"And you're fucking terrified of me."
He'd never heard Neal curse before. It was startling. "Yes," Peter said. "We're kind of a mess, aren't we?"
Neal snorted a small, miserable laugh. Then he turned his hand over, palm up.
After a moment, Peter laid his hand in Neal's, and laced their fingers together. He knew the psychic contact would be stronger via touch, and had to force himself not to pull away.
But he didn't; instead he just relaxed, not trying to hide anything. Neal could look, if he wanted to, at all the places Keller had ripped open, the tender raw spots, the bruises on Peter's psyche. The fear that Peter still felt in Neal's presence. And the affection for Neal, too -- the sympathy -- the concern. It was all there. A mess, as he'd said.
"Do you want me to try to ... do anything?" Neal asked hesitantly. "I might be able to help. You know, to fix things."
Peter had to steel himself not to pull away. "No. I'd prefer you didn't." The inside of his head was a mess, but it was his mess. He'd fix it on his own.
Neal nodded, and squeezed Peter's hand. After a moment, he closed his eyes.
"I can wait outside, if that would be easier," Peter offered. "I know it's rough dealing with other people's thoughts right now." Mine especially, he couldn't help thinking, because being in his own head was no picnic right now, and getting the bleedover from that couldn't be easy to deal with.
"No," Neal murmured, sounding sleepy. His fingers were tight on Peter's. "Not yours, not really. It's strange, but as long as I don't think about it too much, I can forget you're the enemy, and just ... be. Your mind feels comfortable, somehow. Gives me something to hang onto. It was always that way with Mozzie and K --"
He broke off on Kate's name, and his face crumpled. It was as if his whole body collapsed inward, all in that moment -- as if he'd managed to hold it at bay, and then suddenly all the bitter knowledge he'd been holding off fell on him.
"Oh, Jesus, kid," Peter said. He leaned over the side rail of the bed, one hand still laced together with Neal's, and cupped his arm under Neal's shoulders, drew him up and pressed Neal against his shoulder. Neal was twisted in the restraints, in a way that couldn't be comfortable, but he didn't struggle -- he just cried, hard nearly-silent sobs, muffled in Peter's sweater.
When he seemed to have cried himself out, or at least the convulsive shuddering had stopped, Peter eased him back down and got a handful of tissues from the bathroom. He unlocked one of Neal's hands so he could clean himself up.
"Need a bathroom break?"
"Sure," Neal whispered. Peter unlocked him.
"Based on prisoner restraint procedure, I should handcuff you even when you're up and follow you in, but personally I think that's going a bit far."
"I appreciate the consideration," Neal said dryly, sounding a little more himself, a little less broken.
He had a seizure in the bathroom; Peter heard the crash-thump and opened the door to find Neal on the floor, jerking helplessly. As Peter knelt beside him, Neal shuddered and went still. His eyes opened, wide and blank for a moment, slowly coalescing into focus. Blood streaked the side of his face; he'd apparently cracked his head on the sink when he'd gone down. Peter wordlessly handed him a wad of tissues.
"This sucks," Neal muttered as Peter helped him to his feet with a cautious, light hand under his elbow.
"Your doctor says she's working on a solution."
"Claire ... She was here? I thought maybe I was just --" He shook his head, and shut up. Peter waited while Neal washed his face in the sink and drank out of his cupped hands.
"Let me see your head."
"It's fine," Neal said, but he held still while Peter held his hair back and mopped at the cut with a tissue dipped under the faucet. There was just a little gash and some bruising, nothing too serious, but it probably hurt.
"You want me to see if I can get a first-aid kit in here? They'll probably take out anything sharp first ..."
"I said it's fine." Neal pulled away and made his way back to the bed on his own. Peter, reluctantly, locked him back into his restraints.
Neal raised his head to look at Peter's straight-backed folding chair. "You're really tired," he said -- a statement rather than a question, but of course, he could probably read it in Peter's thoughts.
"I'm running on fumes at this point."
"You might be able to talk them into dragging in another bed. No, they probably won't do that. But you can always have a corner of mine." Before Peter could say But I'm supposed to be standing guard, Neal, of course, picked out the thought, and said, "Like you're not going to wake up if someone comes in and tries to drag me away or whatever it is you're worried about."
"Knock it off," Peter said. "At least wait until I get the words out to answer the question."
"I can't always tell."
Peter sighed, and lowered the rail on the side of the bed. "Try not to throw anything at my head."
"I'm not really sure how I did it the first time. Actually, it's kind of a relief that Diana saw it too."
Peter let himself wilt onto the edge of the bed -- still sitting in the chair, but with his torso flopped onto the side of Neal's bed. He was exhausted enough that it actually felt good, even though he was contorted like a pretzel and his back was going to be killing him in a couple of hours. "Not going to bother you here?" he mumbled into the sheet.
"Not really. I apologize in advance if I elbow you in the neck the next time I have convulsions or whatever."
"Probably be sleeping too deep to notice."
He became aware, after a moment, even in the muffled depths of his weary lassitude, that Neal was holding very still -- trying, Peter thought, not to touch Peter any more than he had to. It didn't take a psychic to guess that he was uncertain how Peter would react.
So he found Neal's hand again, by feel this time, working his hand over the restraint cuff to lay it on top of Neal's. Neal flipped over his own hand, palm up, and they clasped hands again.
"I won't tell Elizabeth that you spent the night holding my hand," Neal said.
It turned out that sleeping on the edge of Neal's bed was made more complicated by Neal's tendency to twitch violently every now and then, or scream, or try to climb off the bed (and occasionally over Peter). Luckily Peter was exhausted enough that he could drop off again immediately.
"Sorry," Neal said after one of these interludes.
"It's your brain chemistry. Not your fault. You'd think they'd be able to give you something to help."
"They tried. Everything they gave me just made it worse." He rubbed the back of Peter's hand with his thumb. "Now you're angry on my behalf. Stop it."
"I meant it, you know, about getting your deal back," Peter murmured against the sheet. "If you want it, I'm willing to fight for it, all the way."
"I guess so," Neal said, and then, later, as Peter hovered on the edge of sleep, "Yes."
Hand in hand, together they waited for dawn.
~
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Once more, I want to wrap Neal in a fuzzy blanket and protect him from the bad world. He really can't catch a single break. This fic further hammers home the sheer injustice and cruelty of what was done to him. People like Peter and Claire help as much as they possibly can, but they have so little to work with.
I continue to really like Claire, and I also like the little glimpse we got of Stark's actual self.
Peter gets to shine in this installment. He's been tortured physically and mentally, he's exhausted, he's being pulled in a dozen different directions, and to top it all off, he's fucking terrified. And still, he stands strong and does what has to be done to protect his friend, He's still capable of such compassion and wisdom. I feel like Peter has been stripped bare, and we're seeing the heart of him. And Peter has a wonderful heart.
The hand holding was so touching. That's what their relationship is all about, isn't it? Reaching out to each other, even when they're frightened and angry.
And am, of course, completely on board for more of this.