The Resurrection of Neal Caffrey, Part Two, White Collar, NC-17
Fandom: White Collar
Title: The Resurrection of Neal Caffrey
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke
Word Count: 14723
Rating: NC-17 (for strong language, memory & concequences of rape and torture)
Summary: SPOILER WARNING for the series finale. Sara Ellis is working what she thought was a simple art theft ring, but finds herself in a world where anything, even lives, can be bought, sold or rented out for the right price. When she finds a familiar face in that dark, disturbing world she knows she has to do something.
A/Ns & Warnings: THIS IS VERY DARK FIC. Warnings include graphic violence and rape (off screen), memories of graphic violence and rape, talk of suicide. There are spoilers for the series finale.
Peter was gone the next time he woke up, the chair empty and for a minute terror pounded through him. He sat up slowly, wincing as pain blossomed across his back and around his ribs. He didn't get much further than that before he realized he wasn't going anywhere and sank back down.
His body thundered it's response to his movement, deep aches around his chest and searing shots of pain flaring in a number of places. His head throbbed hard enough it brought tears to his eyes. There was a shadow across the door and Neal tensed up, half expecting one of his tormentors had found him.
Instead, it was an older man in a lab coat, a tablet in his hand. He paused in the doorway and looked up, meeting Neal's gaze. "Hello, Mr. Longabaugh. I'm Dr. Bell. Is it okay if I come in and speak with you?"
Neal nodded guardedly. The doctor smiled slightly and came into the room, stopping at the end of the bed. "We pulled back a little on your meds, how are you feeling?"
"It hurts." Neal responded, his voice only a little stronger than it had been before.
"I imagine it does. If it's intolerable, I can give you something."
Part of him wanted to ask for it, for the escape into the peace of sleep, away from the pain and the memory it brought to mind. "I'm okay for now."
"Good. Do you know how you got here?"
Neal licked his dry lips. "My friend, Peter…I don't really remember how…"
The doctor nodded and tapped at the tablet. "That's okay. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Neal looked away. He didn't want to remember. "Enough," he responded.
"Can you tell me?"
Neal's face was hot and his hands clenched up. "I was…grabbed." He shook his head. "I…they hurt me."
Dr. Bell took a step closer, setting the tablet down. "Do you know who hurt you?"
Faces flashed through his mind, none of them complete, none of them more than another in the long string of men who had abused him. "No."
"Okay. You should know that your friend contacted Interpol. They've asked several times if you were well enough for them to come talk to you."
"I don't…I don't think I'm ready for that." Neal said, his fingers clenching at the thin hospital blanket.
Dr. Bell nodded. "I told them that, but they are an insistent bunch. Now, I'd like to examine you, check your wounds, if that's okay." He watched Neal's face as his hands moved to the blanket at the end of the bed, pulling it up and folding it so that Neal's legs were exposed from mid-thigh down.
His right foot was bandaged, covering the damage done by a nail gun as he'd hung from chains around his wrists, his feet barely touching the floor. Three nails were shot through his foot into the floor. It had been early on in his captivity, when he still had a voice to scream.
The doctor put on a pair of gloves and lifted the bandage, frowning a little. "This isn't healing as well as I would like. Can you tell me what made this wound?"
"Nail gun." Neal said softly, shifting uncomfortably.
Dr. Bell picked up the tablet and tapped on it a few times. "We may have to go in to clean this out. I'm going to switch your antibiotic and see if that helps." He moved his attention then, up Neal's legs. There were matching bruises, an inch apart like a ladder up his legs. There were matching marks, he knew, on the back of his calves.
Neal's left knee was wrapped in an elastic bandage, which Dr. Bell gently removed to reveal the spectacular color and size of a knee that had been kicked, slammed into concrete, hit with a number of objects and purposefully wrenched out of place more than once.
"The swelling has come down. Not enough to get a really good idea of the damage, but it's better. Once you're a little stronger, we'll get an MRI and decide if it needs surgery."
Neal flushed with heat as the doctor's hands moved up his thighs to the marks left by the whip. It had ripped open the tender skin. The man who had done it had followed it up with a stick of some kind, beating his thighs and stomach...and everything in between.
As the doctor removed bandages, Neal could see the stitches where the worst of the wounds had been. "These are doing well. The stitches will be ready to come out in a few days." The doctor stepped back, his eyes meeting Neal's again. "I have one of the nurses prepping fresh bandages. I would like her to assist me."
Neal nodded and he went to the door, talking to someone before coming back to Neal. A few minutes later a nurse came in with a cart loaded up with supplies, closing the door behind her. "Start with the foot." Dr. Bell said.
The woman looked at Neal with a soft smile before she donned a pair of gloves and set about re-bandaging his foot. While she did that, Dr. Bell turned his attention to Neal's right arm. There were burn marks up the inside, from wrist to elbow. Neal's stomach churned as the memory surged. He'd been strapped down, his arms over his head, his feet held in manacles, spread open and held up by chains while three men took turns fucking him, hitting him and burning him with a cigar. He knew there were matching burns on the backs of his left thigh.
Above the burns, on the outside of his upper arm the doctor removed another bandage, exposing the cuts, six in total, from a knife, one for each time a particular man had his fun. The nurse finished re-bandaging his thighs and folded the blanket down.
"Can you sit up?" the doctor asked softly, his hand on Neal's shoulder. The touch burned with memory of the way that shoulder had burned when it had been yanked out of socket for the first time. Neal pushed the memory away and did his best to sit up as the nurse came up his left side to help. "I'm going to loosen the gown so we can get to your chest and back now."
He felt fingers fumbling with the drawstring, then the meager fabric was sagging. His breath tightened as they moved over the expanse of his back, unable to even begin cataloguing all of the marks and pain. He remembered hours of torture, with various whips and sticks and fists, the burns, the cuts…but it all blurred together into a tapestry of torment that he couldn't put into any coherent order.
By the time they reached the start of his ass, Neal was trembling, partly from pain and partly from the cacophony of memories crashing into him.
"You're doing very well, Mr. Longabaugh. Just a few more minutes."
Neal clenched his teeth and closed his good eye, hands fisted in the blanket, panting through his nose as they finished re-bandaging and then slowly guided him to lay back. His back was alive with fiery pain and there was no way to lay comfortably as the doctor peeled the gown down to check Neal's chest.
There too were marks from the various whips and other tools, burns from everything from cigarettes on up to an iron rod they heated to glowing red before shoving it against his skin. Neal closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, the hands moving over his skin and the memories that bombarded him and finally he heard the doctor murmur that they were done.
Neal listened to the nurse and cart leave, then the doctor said, "Okay, I'm going to give you something for the pain now. You should rest."
Neal didn't fight the feeling as the drug leeched into him, just let it take him away from the pain and the fear that came with it.
The medical chart read like a litany of a lifetime's pains, the full account of the injuries unfathomable, even as she stared at it, the purloined tablet in her hands heavy. She set it down and paced to the door of the room and back, pointedly not looking at the bed, at Neal on that bed.
They'd taken him back to surgery twice in the last three days as his fever soared and the infection in his foot had gotten worse. He was still facing surgery on the knee, but they wanted to wait now until he had recovered more.
In all, it had been nearly a week since he first woke up, almost twice that since she first saw him in that cage in Monaco and she still couldn't believe any of it was real. Peter was working with Interpol, gone back to Monaco while they set up their plan, with promises to be back soon, which left her alone to be there for Neal.
She sank into the chair with a sigh. At least the staff at the hospital had been great, and the information they had provided had helped them build a profile of what Neal had been through, which had gone a long way in getting Interpol on board with the investigation.
Neal shifted on the bed, his breathing suddenly speeding up, his hands lifting as if to push someone away. His scream tore through the room, through her, his voice ripping under the strain as he thrashed. Sara jumped to her feet, but fell back to the chair as two nurses bustled in, getting their hands on Neal's body to calm him, holding him to the bed as he fought them. "He's bleeding again, page Dr. Bell."
"Mr. Longabough, I need you to listen to me. "
Neal's left eye snapped open, swiveling from the nurse to Sara and back again, fear filling the blue depths. He nodded and they loosened up their grip. "I can give you a sedative." Neal shook his head and visibly worked at getting his breathing slowed. "Okay good. It looks like you tore some stitches. I need you to lie still until Dr. Bell can evaluate the damage."
"I'm okay." Neal's voice was back to barely a whisper. He was calmer though, even as Dr. Bell joined them, going immediately to the side of the bed, his nimble fingers moving the gown to expose bloodied bandages on Neal's thigh and side.
Sara sat and watched as they worked on the problem. She blinked when she felt Neal's gaze, turning to look at him, uncertain what she saw in his eye.
"Okay, that should do it." Dr. Bell said as the nurse beside him taped down new bandages. "Mr. Longabough, I've left a standing order for something that should help you sleep without dreaming. All you need to do is ask. I am also going to have a colleague of mine come by to talk with you. Her name is Dr. Elizabeth Moore."
The medical staff withdrew, leaving Sara alone with Neal and no idea what to say. He shifted uncomfortably, grimacing. Sara stood, grabbing his plastic cup from the table. "Let me get you some water." She filled the cup in the bathroom sink and brought it back, setting it down on the table. "Is there anything…."
His hand lifted to touch hers and she stilled, her heart thumping. "Just…sit with me." Neal whispered, tangling their fingers together. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, letting him hold her hand. "Is it that bad?" Neal asked, his free hand moving to his face, brushing over the bruises and swelling.
"No, not at all." Sara said, looking at their fingers.
"You don't look at me."
She wasn't sure what to say, letting her thumb stroke over his hand. "I can't help but see you…there." She looked up at him, then away. "And I couldn't…" She shook her head.
"Not your fault." Neal whispered.
She knew it was. "I left you there for two days." God only knew what they had done to him in those two days. She didn't want to think about it, but it was all she could think about. "I am so sorry."
He closed his good eye and licked his lips. "I thought I was going to die there." He looked up at her, his hand tightening on hers. "I'd stopped looking for a way out. I gave up." Sara shivered under the weight of his gaze, the shadows of what happened in that place fighting with the truth that he had survived. "You saved me."
Peter hustled out of the airport and hailed a cab, giving the driver the name and address of the hospital. He had worked with Interpol and had gone home for a few days, but Interpol had contacted him, telling him that his witness continued to refuse to talk to them, and a request had been made for Peter to be officially assigned to the international task force that had been set up, specifically as the liaison between their only living witness and the task force.
Sara said that they had moved Neal out of ICU and into a private room. He had surgery scheduled for the knee at the end of the week, but was otherwise making progress. He paid the driver once they reached the hospital and headed inside, double checking the text from Sara for the room number.
He spotted the Interpol agents as he turned down the hallway, nodding to them as he passed. They were keeping an eye on Neal, even though no one believed he was in any danger. At least not yet. Of course, there was also the very real possibility that Neal would run, just as soon as he was strong enough to. Peter was aware of that.
The door to Neal's room was open and he paused only for a moment before stepping in. Neal was on the bed, his face pale except for the slowly fading bruises. His left leg was encased in a splint and his right foot was still wrapped in bandages. He turned his head slowly, a smile tugging at his lips as he spotted Peter.
"You look a lot better than the last time I saw you." Peter said, dropping his bag by the chair. The swelling on his face was mostly gone, though the eye was still taped closed and the red lines still stood out from the pale skin.
Neal shifted on the bed as Peter pulled the chair closer. "Sara said you had gone home." Neal said, his voice still raspy.
"I did. I came back to see how you were doing." He sat, trying to decide how to broach the subject, but now that he was here, and the reality of what had happened to Neal was visceral again, he wasn't sure he could. "So? How are you doing?"
Neal shrugged and he looked away. "I'm…better, I guess. Doc says the infection is under control. Can't really walk yet." He gestured at his feet. "But, you know…better."
Peter nodded, then inhaled slowly. "Interpol tells me that you haven't been willing to talk to them, and Sara tells me that you won't talk to the psychologist."
Neal made a face and crossed his arms, then dropped them again as pain crept into the grimace. He huffed out a sigh and shook his head. "I don't remember."
They both knew it was a lie. "Dr. Bell said some amnesia was to be expected." Peter said. "But, Neal, you need to talk to someone."
"See, this is why they need to fix my knee, so I can walk out of conversations like this." Neal said. "I don't want to talk to someone. I don't want to remember. I just want to…I want to forget it happened."
Peter couldn't begrudge him that. "You should know that Interpol is working to get Phillip Dedeaux, and all of his associates."
Neal squinted at him. "Who?"
"The man that…runs the place where Sara found you."
He nodded slowly, his face confused as he seemed to parse through whatever he did remember. "I…never…" He shook his head.
Peter put his hand on Neal's. "It's okay. You don't have to try so hard." He sighed and stood. "I'm going to let you get some rest. I need to check into my hotel and I should call El."
Neal stiffened and his hand caught Peter's. "She doesn't know. Please, Peter, tell me she doesn't know."
Peter offered him a smile. "She knows you're alive, and that you're in the hospital, but no. I didn't tell her anything else."
Neal's eye closed and he looked relieved as he let go of Peter's hand.
He pushed the chair back and retrieved his bag. "Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours."
It was safe to say that Elizabeth suspected that the situation was more dire than he'd let on. After all, he'd married an intelligent woman. He pulled his phone out , debating calling her, but he didn't make the decision before it was ringing though, with her caller ID.
"Hey, hon." Peter said, stepping out of the hospital doors.
"How is he?"
"Better." Peter said. "At least physically."
"My parents are here. I'm coming to you."
Peter stopped walking, shaking his head. "I don't think that's a great idea, El."
"Nonsense. I'm already packed and have my plane ticket. I'll be there tomorrow."
Peter sighed, knowing he'd never talk her out of it. "Okay, I'm heading to my hotel to check in now. I'll leave you a key at the front desk. Just wait for me there."
He was still tethered to the IV, and he wasn't supposed to walk on the bad knee, but sitting in the bed had gotten old and he'd convinced the nurses to bring him a wheel chair so he could at least sit in that, move around some. It helped him feel less trapped to know he could sit in the chair or hobble to the bathroom, even look out the window, though his view only included part of a parking lot.
Interpol had come several times, but Neal had sent them away. He wasn't ready for the questions. Sara visited often, but he felt awkward and she couldn't seem to look at him and then he would remember what she had seen and his face would burn. She would apologize and leave.
She'd only been gone a few minutes, and Neal was staring out the window, tears burning the corners of his eyes. He knew it was wrong to feel the way he did, knew he'd be dead know if she hadn't seen him, hadn't called in favors and risked her life to save his.
His face was still burning when he heard Peter behind him. Peter didn't say anything, just sat in the chair and waited. Neal exhaled and turned slowly, trying to avoid stretching scabbing skin on his back or rub still healing cuts the wrong way. "I don't know…." He sounded more like himself and it didn't hurt to talk anymore. He didn't know what he was trying to say, so he shook his head and turned back to the window.
His reflection still seemed like it belonged to someone else, the welts a little less angry, but still red and stark against the paleness of his face. His eye was less painful, and even opened and closed on its own, though they had kept it taped down. He knew Peter wanted him to give names, descriptions. Sara had told him that they needed Neal to tell Interpol what he knew, expected him to just tell strangers the darkest secrets he'd ever had to hold on to.
The psychologist had encouraged him to tell Peter what he could, once Neal finally let her do more than sit in the chair beside him. She had been there when he woke up from a screaming nightmare, when he'd been more vulnerable and couldn't hide behind his carefully constructed veneer.
He blinked back tears as he stared out the window. "I never saw him," he said finally. "The man you want." He licked his lips and stared at a faded blue car out in the lot. "I mean…I'm sure I did, but I don't know him."
He knew the voice, the way it claimed him, made him feel small and alone, like an object to be owned. It had come in those first few hours, when he was loopy from the drugs and couldn't keep his eyes open, when they stripped him and prepped him for the first man to abuse him.
But that man…Neal knew him.
He inhaled slowly and let it out just as slowly, trying to calm the sudden flare of fear and the rapidly increasing rate of his heart. He hid behind adjusting the way his left leg sat in front of him, fiddling with the brace and shifting in the chair.
He opened his mouth twice before he finally got the words to come out, and he couldn't look at Peter when they did. "His name was Efram Milton." Neal said, his voice soft and trembling. He couldn't look at him and say what needed to be said. "Lord Efram Milton. He…"
His hands were shaking and he made fists with them, his eyes closing. He could almost see it, the moment they met, the moment he was marked for what would follow. "I was there for the art, the gallery. He introduced himself while I was admiring a Matisse."
The music had been soft, the crowd dressed to the nines. He'd sipped at his champagne as he analyzed all the possible ways he could steal the pieces he liked most. He hadn't actually planned on stealing anything, but it was a reflex. "We talked art for a few minutes. He said something about liking to own beautiful things. He liked being able to keep them where no one else could see them. He made me uncomfortable."
Something had sparked when the man had touched his arm. It wasn't a casual touch, it was like the answer was a forgone conclusion, the question a formality. "He asked me to dinner."
"He was hitting on you?" Peter asked. His voice was gentle, but Neal still started. He'd nearly forgotten Peter was in the room.
He nodded. "I guess. I politely excused myself, mingled with the crowd. I left not long after, and I forgot about him. The next night I saw him again, in the lobby of my hotel. A few hours later, my room went dark and I…." Something in his dinner had been dosed with something. Before the lights went out he'd already been feeling the effects, and by the time large hands were holding him down, he'd been unable to fight.
He was shaking, he could feel it. "He told me that I should have gone with him, had dinner, let him…but I didn't and so I would have to pay." He needed to move, but he covered his face with his hands, hiding the shame that was filling him. His face burned as he remembered the moment he understood, when he was naked and already hurting, his body tied down and stretched open. Milton had waited until his cock had filled Neal's ass, then pulled the blindfold off, grinning down at him as he fucked hard and fast into Neal.
"Neal, I know this has to be hard, but I need you to tell me what he did." Peter said softly. Neal could tell that he'd moved, that he'd stood and was closer.
Neal nodded. "I know. I just…" His voice cracked and he swallowed. Tears burned and his stomach tightened. "It was just him, at first." For three days, Milton had raped him and assaulted him with his fists and various instruments, beating him and shoving them into him and when it was over, it had really only just begun. He swallowed, wishing he could go somewhere else, that they could not be here, in this room, at this window. "Can we….I need….air. I need some air."
"Just a sec." Peter moved his IV bag onto the chair's pole before pushing him out of the room.
They were quiet as Peter took them down corridors, down to the ground floor and out into a small courtyard. The air was brisk, but not really cold and there was weak sunlight filtering through thin clouds. Unconsciously, Neal turned his face up into the light, breathing in deep.
It had been so long since he'd breathed fresh air. He savored it for a moment while Peter got them settled where they wouldn't be casually overheard, even though the courtyard was empty at the moment.
Peter let him be for a long moment before he cleared his throat to draw Neal back. "So, tell me about Milton."
Neal opened his eyes and nodded. "He's mid-forties, British, uses the title like a weapon. Arrogant, brutal." He swallowed. "He, um. He paid them to grab me. Said I was worth the money." Peter was watching him intently, and he knew well enough that Peter was likely recording the conversation. He needed to if they were going to convict the men who had hurt him. "He spent hours with me over three days." Back then he'd still had a sense of time, and there had been a rhythm to the whole thing.
Milton came in the early evening, and left near midnight. "I don't remember pieces." He rubbed at the spot on his head that still hurt the most.
"The doctor said that might happen." Peter offered gently.
Neal was staling and they both knew it. He looked down at the paving stones that made up the courtyard. "Milton…had them tie me down. He hit me. He…" Neal breathed through the rush of memory, the realization of what was about to happen, the thrashing against the restraints, the panic, the pain. His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair as he dragged air in, trying to keep himself from vomiting onto the ground beneath him.
"It's okay." Peter murmured, his hand on Neal's. "You're not ready."
"NO!" He hadn't meant to yell it, but Peter pulled his hand back. His face was wet, his gaze unfocused someplace over Peter's shoulder. "He wasn't gentle. It hurt, not like anything I'd ever…" He knew Peter needed him to say it. "He r-raped me. More times than I can count." In fact he could count them. Every one of them. Each time he fucked him, each time he used something to fuck him. Neal knew exactly, but Peter didn't need to know that, they wouldn't need an exact number to arrest the bastard.
Tears rolled unchecked down his face. "He beat me and when he was done with me, he gave me to the others, but by then…." He shook his head, sniffling and wiping at his face.
Peter's hand was on his again, a gentle caress that was comforting. For a long time they sat in the gathering shadows as the sun moved behind the building on its way to setting. "Those first few nights…I wondered if you….but I knew you'd never even know." He looked up and Peter offered him a smile.
"You disappeared really well that last time, Neal. If Sara hadn't gotten mixed up with Phillip Dedeaux, we would never have found you."
Neal nodded, his mind flashing back to the memory that he knew was real now, not just some fantasy of his mind as he prepared to die. "She never told me how…just…" He brought his hands together, fingers weaving together and out and back again before he clenched them and stretched them and rubbed up his arms. It was becoming a habit whenever he woke or felt the panic of being caged in the leather mitts creep up on him. He felt Peter's eyes and crooked a half smile before returning his hands to the arms of the chair. "I…After the first time with Milton, I managed to pick the lock on my cage. That was when they put the mitts on me. They also kept me pretty drugged when I wasn't being…used."
They were both quiet then for a long time as the dark settled around them. Finally Peter stirred. "I should get you back inside." He stood, but stopped before he got behind Neal, turning to look down at him. "Thank you. For trusting me."
"Peter, you're probably the only person in the world that I trust." Neal said sincerely. Peter pushed him toward the doors and into the hospital. They were nearly to Neal's room when he heard a familiar voice and reached out a hand to stop them. "Peter, please tell me…"
But Peter didn't have to say anything as a woman standing at the nurse's station near his room turned. Neal's hands grabbed at the wheels to stop their forward movement, even as Peter realized. "El? What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't wait any more." Her eyes were on Neal's face, even as Peter left him and went to his wife.
Neal was suddenly very conscious of the scars and scabs and bandages in places that showed, turning his face so that the bad eye and the welts and bruising wouldn't be the first thing she saw. He pulled the arms of his robe down and made the wheel chair move, keeping his face averted as he maneuvered into his room. Peter must have sensed his discomfort, keeping her distracted while he did.
Neal got close to the bed and leveraged himself out of the chair, fighting to get up and into the bed with his legs under the blanket before Elizabeth got a good look. His knees wobbled and the IV was pulling and he was trembling with the effort, already so far past his point of exhaustion.
He got as far as sitting on the bed, panting, unable to do more without moving the IV bag, and not sure he could stand again. Peter was there then, bringing the chair closer and getting the bag off it. Neal could see Elizabeth in the door way as Peter leaned over him to hang the bag back up, but Peter blocked her as he moved to help Neal lift his legs up and sooth the blanket over him.
Peter's eyes met his, clearly asking if it was okay, or if he should send her away. He wanted to beg for Peter to make her go, but now that she'd seen him, it wouldn't be easy to keep her away, so he nodded guardedly. Peter withdrew and moved the wheelchair out of the way, holding out his hand to Elizabeth.
She came slowly, tears in her eyes as she looked him over, but he fought to smile at her, sure it didn't fully come across. "It's not as bad as it looks."
She blinked and tears fell as she got closer. "Neal…" She seemed at a loss for words though and instead just took his hand and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Her eyes moved from the nearly flawless skin of his hands up over the myriad marks and scars and bandages on his arm, like she was cataloguing all of the injuries she could see.
"I'm going to be fine, Elizabeth." Neal said, drawing her eyes to his face. Her eyes widened a little and he turned to show her his good side. "Really. The doctor is very encouraging."
Her fingers touched his chin, turning his head back so that she could see the bruises and the welt that stretched from his hairline, over the eye and down over his cheek and onto his neck. He took her hands and kissed them lightly, but he couldn't look her in the eye, because her tears only made him ready to cry. It took a long moment, but she breathed in deep and wiped her face. "Peter says you have the best doctor here, and that he's taking good care of you," she said once she'd pulled herself together.
"And Peter tells me that you have a beautiful baby boy." Neal said, hoping she would take the hint and move the conversation in a less direction less directed at him.
She smiled. "He's beautiful, and amazing."
"Peter won't tell me what you named him."
She slapped at Peter playfully. Peter held up his hands. "To be fair, we have been occupied by other things."
"We named him after you." Elizabeth said proudly, smiling at him.
"To be fair, you were dead at the time." Peter added, sliding his arm around El.
"I bet that went over well." Neal said, smiling himself. It felt good to smile. And if he let himself relax, it felt a little bit like home. At least until he closed his eyes.
The bedroom on the ground floor of Sara's London home felt safe, more so than the hospital ever had. The dark wood paneling seemed to stifle sound, like no one could raise their voice in the presence of walls that had stood since the eighteenth century.
Neal slid his legs into the pants Sara had bought him, then slipped the brace on over it. He tightened the Velcro straps and stood, zipping his pants as he limped toward the chair his shirt was draped over. The reflection that looked back at him still didn't look like the man he had been before he'd met Lord Efram Milton, but maybe that was a good thing. His eye was back to normal and the welts had faded to faint scars that altered his face. His chest was marked, some of the wounds had healed with scarcely a sign they'd been there, others left puffy pink scar tissue to mark their place.
Peter had gone home, or at least back to work. He hadn't said much beyond telling Neal he'd be back. Elizabeth had stayed, helped him get moved into Sara's house after the last surgery so that he could finish recovering, though he was pretty convinced that her real reason for staying was to talk him into returning to New York. She wanted him to come home.
At the moment he could only think about getting past the fear that rode him whenever he had to be with people he didn't know. The panic would grip him and he'd freeze and terror would drop memory bombs on him until he couldn't breathe.
There was a brief knock at his door, then he heard Elizabeth gasp behind him. Neal pulled the shirt on quickly, covering the evidence of his trauma. She'd only ever seen his arms and part of his legs and knew only a small amount about what had happened. He turned and she blinked, pulled her focus back and nodded, even smiled. "Neal, I mean Henry, the Interpol agent is here."
"You would think Peter could have come up with a better name." Neal said, shaking his head as he tucked the shirt in. "I mean, obvious much?"
She came into the room, fussing with his shirt and picking at some lint. "You'll always be the Sundance to his Butch Cassidy." Her eyes met his, asking permission without saying anything. He nodded and she hugged him close. It was warm and familiar and comfortable, and if he could he might like to just wallow in it, but there were people waiting and he still had a job to do, a character to play.
He kissed her hair and she stepped back. "Thank you, Elizabeth."
He reached for the cane and went out to greet the agent who had been assigned to be his liaison to a task force that had become a giant international operation. She was waiting in the formal living room, admiring the art on the walls. "Agent Cauly, it's good to see you again."
She turned, smiling. "Mr. Longabough, it is good to see you up and around."
"And wearing pants." Neal joked, gesturing for her to sit. "And I told you before, it's Henry." He sat opposite her, settling the cane against the couch.
"Okay, Henry, I came by to let you know that Efram Milton has been arrested in Madrid."
Neal's heart sped up and he shook his head lightly, trying to clear it of a sudden buzz of white noise. "He…what?" Some part of him had been convinced the man would never be found, that he wasn't real, just a name hung out for a particular purpose much like Nick Halden or any of the names he'd used for a con. "I mean, that's good."
She offered a soft smile. "We're going to want you to come in and make a positive ID, of course."
He nodded, but his head was still scrambling over his last memories of the man. He had left Neal bleeding, his head ringing, his body trembling on the dirty floor, spitting on him in contempt. Neal had watched him walk away, knowing he had been condemned to die for the sin of brushing off the man's attempt to seduce him.
He blinked himself back into an awareness of the room and the uncomfortable feeling of someone trying to gracefully give him the space to deal with his inner turmoil. He looked up at the agent and exhaled. "Yes, of course."
"Good. He should be in our custody this afternoon."
He nodded, looking up as Sara came into the room with a file folder. "Sorry to interrupt, but I finished putting my information together. I wanted you to have a copy."
Agent Cauley stood and Neal withdrew from the conversation, breathing through the knot of fear that was tied around his stomach. It was silly. None of the men involved could trace anything to him. They wouldn't come looking. He was safe.
Except for how he suddenly didn't feel so safe at all. He struggled to his feet and limped out of the room, wanting to escape out into the garden where he could breathe. The air was chill and a thick rain was falling, but it didn't matter. He stood in the open air and let the rain drench him, tilting his face up into it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rain on his skin.
The chill settled into him after a few minutes, and he knew he should head inside, but inside was filled with too much expectation and he wasn't ready to face it. Leaving New York, leaving behind Neal Caffrey had been supposed to set him free, but he wasn't free and Neal Caffrey was still with him. Neal Caffrey had saved him in a lot of ways. Or maybe just dragged him back from the brink of the only freedom he was beginning to believe existed.
"Neal."
He didn't look up from his packing. "I'm almost done."
"No." Her hand came down on his. "Don't leave. Not like this."
He turned to her. "Sara, you've been…I've stayed too long." He knew that he was making her uncomfortable. He couldn't shake the fear, the terror that gripped him randomly. Any conversation could kick him into a spiral of fists and rods, being forced to his knees, kicked, bent over…until he was choking on air, struggling to breathe, to shake free.
She took his hands and turned him to face her, her eyes searching his. "No, you haven't. You should stay."
He sighed and lifted their hands, kissing over her knuckles. "We both know you've done more than your share here. You have a life to get back to. You don't need to be nurse-maiding me."
"Where will you go? You can't even cope with me in the same room, how are you going to handle being out there?"
He went back to his packing. Part of him knew she was right, but he knew he was too. He couldn't keep hurting her with how much he hurt. "I'll find somewhere." He fit the last of the clothes into the duffle bag and zipped it up. "I don't know."
"I don't want you to go." Sara said softly.
"I know the feeling." Neal responded. Elizabeth had gone home to Peter, and their son. She'd told him he was always welcome, but he knew he couldn't be there any more than he could be here. They knew too much, he could see it in their eyes when he pulled himself out of the memory, when he woke from the nightmares, his throat raw from screaming. Their guilt was crushing him. He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "I can't ever thank you."
The truth was, at times he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she had left him there, if she had let him die there. More than once he'd considered the unthinkable…usually in the early hours of the morning, when he hadn't slept in days because he was afraid of his dreams. Something stopped him every time, but he was pretty sure that if he didn't start finding a way to cope, one day there would be nothing left to stop him.
"I'm serious, Neal."
"I know you are, Sara. I do. But I can't…I can't be here with you right now." He closed his eyes and inhaled, letting it out slowly. "When I was in the hospital, and you wouldn't look at me, do you remember what you said?"
"That I kept seeing you there, in that place."
He nodded. "I look at you and I am there. I'm broken and dirty and waiting in a cage for whatever came next…the next time someone would whip me so bad the blood covered my body, or the next time they chained me over that bench so that they could fuck me over and over again." Sara flinched and took a step back, but he knew it was how he would get her to let him go. "And I know that isn't fair to you, but I can't seem to stop and I can't…I can't be myself again until I can stop being him." His hand tightened on the bag and he lifted it, stepping around her. He paused at the door to the bedroom for his cane and his hat. "Goodbye, Sara."
She wouldn't follow him, he knew that. The cab was waiting at the curb to take him away, to wherever it was he was going. He just wasn’t sure exactly where that was.
Someplace that wasn't here. Anywhere but here.
Epilogue
Thunder shook the house and Peter padded on bare feet around the end of the bed to find El walking the nursery with Neal, trying to cajole him back to sleep. Peter watched her for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder, certain he'd heard something more than the heavy rain that the storm was dropping on them.
He moved back to the bedroom for his gun, taking the stairs quietly and looking through the downstairs. He was about ready to go back upstairs, convinced it was nothing, when a shadow moved outside. He moved to the door to look, squinting into the darkness. It was nearly four in the morning and the storm made it darker still.
Peter eased the door open, eyes sliding across the street for anything out of place. There was a bit off sound, part sob, part fear and Peter looked down. He frowned as he tried to figure out the dark shape huddled on his front step. He opened the screen door, gun still at his side, and stepped out onto the top step.
"Neal?"
He was soaked with rain, his thin frame shaking. Peter stepped down one step, shivering as the rain started pelting him. "Neal?"
He pulled away as Peter touched him, moving enough that Peter could see the gun in his hand. "Neal, it's Peter."
He lifted his head a little, enough for Peter to see his face in the dim light spilling from inside. His eyes were sunken and rimmed in red and didn't seem to focus on anything. "Help me?" Neal asked, his voice barely audible.
Peter nodded, putting his gun down on the floor just inside the door and coming down to the same step as Neal. "How, Neal? How can I help?"
Water dripped from his face and he lifted the gun with a wobbly hand. "I can't….I can't…" He brought the gun up to his ear.
Peter reached for his hand, but stopped short of touching him. "Give me the gun, Neal." His eyes looked up at Peter, begging him to take the pain away. "Let me help, Neal. Give me the gun."
"Make it stop."
Peter nodded, his hand closing over Neal's, dragging it away from his head. "Okay, that's it. Let me have the gun and I'll get you the help you need."
"Honey, the baby's down--Peter?" Elizabeth appeared at the door, gasping as Peter finally got Neal to let go of the gun.
"El, we're going to need some towels, and I need you to take this." He leaned toward her with the gun, handing it off to El who reached out to meet him part way. "Get mine too."
"Towels, right. I'll be right back."
She disappeared into the house with the weapons and Peter inched closer to Neal. He could smell the alcohol now. "Okay, Neal, how about we get you inside?"
He didn't respond, but didn't jerk away from him as Peter got his hands under Neal's shoulders and pulled him up. They stumbled up the steps and in through the door as El appeared with towels, handing some to Peter as she shook out others.
Peter draped a towel around Neal's shoulders, rubbing to try to warm him. Elizabeth echoed the motion with him. "Maybe some coffee?" Elizabeth nodded to herself and went to start the coffee while he stood with Neal, soaking up as much of the rain as he could with towels.
Once he wasn't dripping, Peter led him to the dining room table, getting him to sit. He stared dully at the floor, but it let Peter get a better look at him.
He had disappeared from Sara's house in London almost three months before, gone without a trace. He was still very thin, painfully so. The scars on his arms were healed, but garish and white or shades of pink, some sunken like they'd been etched into him, others raised and soft looking.
El appeared with coffee and Peter set a cup in Neal's hands, wrapping his fingers around it. Peter didn't know how to begin to help. "Maybe we should call someone. He needs more help than we're going to be able to give him, El."
She nodded. "I'll be back."
She left the room and Neal sort of shook, blinking and lifting his head to look around him. "Peter?"
He pulled a chair close and sat. "It's okay, Neal. Try to get some of this coffee into you, warm you up."
Tears were spilling from Neal's eyes as he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't make it stop." He looked up, lifted his hands, spilling coffee over them. Peter rescued the cup and Neal grabbed him. "You made it stop. Before. You saved me. Why? Why, Peter? I can't….no more…no more…"
He curled forward, crying into Peter's lap, his shoulders quaking as he sobbed. Peter caressed over Neal's head and shoulders, uncertain what else he could do. Elizabeth reappeared a few minutes later.
"My father is calling in a favor. There's a private facility just outside the city. He suggested we try to get him warmed up, get him to sleep. He'll call when he's made the arrangements." El said softly.
Peter nodded. Neal's sobs had quieted, and Peter shifted so that he could help Neal sit up. He didn't look up, his eyes dazed and unfocused. "I'll see if I can get him into the shower. Why don't you make up the couch for him."
Neal was vaguely aware of Peter cajoling him into a hot shower, dressing him in sweats and a t-shirt, of Elizabeth settling a blanket over him. It wasn't sleep, but he didn't have the energy to fight anymore. He'd tried to outrun it, keep moving, keep drinking, keep hiding…but it was too strong and he was slipping away into the darkness of it.
He closed his eyes and it gripped him a little tighter.
He could hear Peter and Elizabeth talking softly, could hear something…someone else…
A tiny hand touched his face and Neal opened his eyes. "Neal, leave…"
The boy was standing there, smiling at him, his hand on Neal's face as Elizabeth came toward them, kneeling beside the boy, her smile warm, her voice soft. "Neal, this is Neal."
He clapped his little hands and laughed, then leaned forward, his mouth wet and open as he pressed his lips to Neal's chin. He lifted a hand from under the blankets, tracing a finger over the tiny face. "Neal…"
Elizabeth was holding him now, and she wiped the baby drool off of his face. Neal felt himself smiling…not the forced image he'd projected to make people around him feel better, but a genuine smile, his hand chasing after baby Neal to touch his soft skin. "He's beautiful." Neal whispered.
"Our ride is here." Peter said from the door.
Neal sat up, pushing the blanket away. He wasn't sure where they were going, but he trusted Peter to make it better…even if he wasn't sure what better looked like. He hurt all over, the ache of too much and not enough, as he stood, drawing Elizabeth in to hug her and the baby, kissing that soft head. "Thank you."
He let Peter guide him out the door. The sun was rising as they came down the steps where he'd found himself hours before, not even sure how he'd gotten there. For the first time in a while, he welcomed the warmth, turning his face into the glow. The road seemed to shimmer, like a promise that something better waited for him.
Title: The Resurrection of Neal Caffrey
Characters: Neal Caffrey, Sara Ellis, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke
Word Count: 14723
Rating: NC-17 (for strong language, memory & concequences of rape and torture)
Summary: SPOILER WARNING for the series finale. Sara Ellis is working what she thought was a simple art theft ring, but finds herself in a world where anything, even lives, can be bought, sold or rented out for the right price. When she finds a familiar face in that dark, disturbing world she knows she has to do something.
A/Ns & Warnings: THIS IS VERY DARK FIC. Warnings include graphic violence and rape (off screen), memories of graphic violence and rape, talk of suicide. There are spoilers for the series finale.
Peter was gone the next time he woke up, the chair empty and for a minute terror pounded through him. He sat up slowly, wincing as pain blossomed across his back and around his ribs. He didn't get much further than that before he realized he wasn't going anywhere and sank back down.
His body thundered it's response to his movement, deep aches around his chest and searing shots of pain flaring in a number of places. His head throbbed hard enough it brought tears to his eyes. There was a shadow across the door and Neal tensed up, half expecting one of his tormentors had found him.
Instead, it was an older man in a lab coat, a tablet in his hand. He paused in the doorway and looked up, meeting Neal's gaze. "Hello, Mr. Longabaugh. I'm Dr. Bell. Is it okay if I come in and speak with you?"
Neal nodded guardedly. The doctor smiled slightly and came into the room, stopping at the end of the bed. "We pulled back a little on your meds, how are you feeling?"
"It hurts." Neal responded, his voice only a little stronger than it had been before.
"I imagine it does. If it's intolerable, I can give you something."
Part of him wanted to ask for it, for the escape into the peace of sleep, away from the pain and the memory it brought to mind. "I'm okay for now."
"Good. Do you know how you got here?"
Neal licked his dry lips. "My friend, Peter…I don't really remember how…"
The doctor nodded and tapped at the tablet. "That's okay. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Neal looked away. He didn't want to remember. "Enough," he responded.
"Can you tell me?"
Neal's face was hot and his hands clenched up. "I was…grabbed." He shook his head. "I…they hurt me."
Dr. Bell took a step closer, setting the tablet down. "Do you know who hurt you?"
Faces flashed through his mind, none of them complete, none of them more than another in the long string of men who had abused him. "No."
"Okay. You should know that your friend contacted Interpol. They've asked several times if you were well enough for them to come talk to you."
"I don't…I don't think I'm ready for that." Neal said, his fingers clenching at the thin hospital blanket.
Dr. Bell nodded. "I told them that, but they are an insistent bunch. Now, I'd like to examine you, check your wounds, if that's okay." He watched Neal's face as his hands moved to the blanket at the end of the bed, pulling it up and folding it so that Neal's legs were exposed from mid-thigh down.
His right foot was bandaged, covering the damage done by a nail gun as he'd hung from chains around his wrists, his feet barely touching the floor. Three nails were shot through his foot into the floor. It had been early on in his captivity, when he still had a voice to scream.
The doctor put on a pair of gloves and lifted the bandage, frowning a little. "This isn't healing as well as I would like. Can you tell me what made this wound?"
"Nail gun." Neal said softly, shifting uncomfortably.
Dr. Bell picked up the tablet and tapped on it a few times. "We may have to go in to clean this out. I'm going to switch your antibiotic and see if that helps." He moved his attention then, up Neal's legs. There were matching bruises, an inch apart like a ladder up his legs. There were matching marks, he knew, on the back of his calves.
Neal's left knee was wrapped in an elastic bandage, which Dr. Bell gently removed to reveal the spectacular color and size of a knee that had been kicked, slammed into concrete, hit with a number of objects and purposefully wrenched out of place more than once.
"The swelling has come down. Not enough to get a really good idea of the damage, but it's better. Once you're a little stronger, we'll get an MRI and decide if it needs surgery."
Neal flushed with heat as the doctor's hands moved up his thighs to the marks left by the whip. It had ripped open the tender skin. The man who had done it had followed it up with a stick of some kind, beating his thighs and stomach...and everything in between.
As the doctor removed bandages, Neal could see the stitches where the worst of the wounds had been. "These are doing well. The stitches will be ready to come out in a few days." The doctor stepped back, his eyes meeting Neal's again. "I have one of the nurses prepping fresh bandages. I would like her to assist me."
Neal nodded and he went to the door, talking to someone before coming back to Neal. A few minutes later a nurse came in with a cart loaded up with supplies, closing the door behind her. "Start with the foot." Dr. Bell said.
The woman looked at Neal with a soft smile before she donned a pair of gloves and set about re-bandaging his foot. While she did that, Dr. Bell turned his attention to Neal's right arm. There were burn marks up the inside, from wrist to elbow. Neal's stomach churned as the memory surged. He'd been strapped down, his arms over his head, his feet held in manacles, spread open and held up by chains while three men took turns fucking him, hitting him and burning him with a cigar. He knew there were matching burns on the backs of his left thigh.
Above the burns, on the outside of his upper arm the doctor removed another bandage, exposing the cuts, six in total, from a knife, one for each time a particular man had his fun. The nurse finished re-bandaging his thighs and folded the blanket down.
"Can you sit up?" the doctor asked softly, his hand on Neal's shoulder. The touch burned with memory of the way that shoulder had burned when it had been yanked out of socket for the first time. Neal pushed the memory away and did his best to sit up as the nurse came up his left side to help. "I'm going to loosen the gown so we can get to your chest and back now."
He felt fingers fumbling with the drawstring, then the meager fabric was sagging. His breath tightened as they moved over the expanse of his back, unable to even begin cataloguing all of the marks and pain. He remembered hours of torture, with various whips and sticks and fists, the burns, the cuts…but it all blurred together into a tapestry of torment that he couldn't put into any coherent order.
By the time they reached the start of his ass, Neal was trembling, partly from pain and partly from the cacophony of memories crashing into him.
"You're doing very well, Mr. Longabaugh. Just a few more minutes."
Neal clenched his teeth and closed his good eye, hands fisted in the blanket, panting through his nose as they finished re-bandaging and then slowly guided him to lay back. His back was alive with fiery pain and there was no way to lay comfortably as the doctor peeled the gown down to check Neal's chest.
There too were marks from the various whips and other tools, burns from everything from cigarettes on up to an iron rod they heated to glowing red before shoving it against his skin. Neal closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, the hands moving over his skin and the memories that bombarded him and finally he heard the doctor murmur that they were done.
Neal listened to the nurse and cart leave, then the doctor said, "Okay, I'm going to give you something for the pain now. You should rest."
Neal didn't fight the feeling as the drug leeched into him, just let it take him away from the pain and the fear that came with it.
The medical chart read like a litany of a lifetime's pains, the full account of the injuries unfathomable, even as she stared at it, the purloined tablet in her hands heavy. She set it down and paced to the door of the room and back, pointedly not looking at the bed, at Neal on that bed.
They'd taken him back to surgery twice in the last three days as his fever soared and the infection in his foot had gotten worse. He was still facing surgery on the knee, but they wanted to wait now until he had recovered more.
In all, it had been nearly a week since he first woke up, almost twice that since she first saw him in that cage in Monaco and she still couldn't believe any of it was real. Peter was working with Interpol, gone back to Monaco while they set up their plan, with promises to be back soon, which left her alone to be there for Neal.
She sank into the chair with a sigh. At least the staff at the hospital had been great, and the information they had provided had helped them build a profile of what Neal had been through, which had gone a long way in getting Interpol on board with the investigation.
Neal shifted on the bed, his breathing suddenly speeding up, his hands lifting as if to push someone away. His scream tore through the room, through her, his voice ripping under the strain as he thrashed. Sara jumped to her feet, but fell back to the chair as two nurses bustled in, getting their hands on Neal's body to calm him, holding him to the bed as he fought them. "He's bleeding again, page Dr. Bell."
"Mr. Longabough, I need you to listen to me. "
Neal's left eye snapped open, swiveling from the nurse to Sara and back again, fear filling the blue depths. He nodded and they loosened up their grip. "I can give you a sedative." Neal shook his head and visibly worked at getting his breathing slowed. "Okay good. It looks like you tore some stitches. I need you to lie still until Dr. Bell can evaluate the damage."
"I'm okay." Neal's voice was back to barely a whisper. He was calmer though, even as Dr. Bell joined them, going immediately to the side of the bed, his nimble fingers moving the gown to expose bloodied bandages on Neal's thigh and side.
Sara sat and watched as they worked on the problem. She blinked when she felt Neal's gaze, turning to look at him, uncertain what she saw in his eye.
"Okay, that should do it." Dr. Bell said as the nurse beside him taped down new bandages. "Mr. Longabough, I've left a standing order for something that should help you sleep without dreaming. All you need to do is ask. I am also going to have a colleague of mine come by to talk with you. Her name is Dr. Elizabeth Moore."
The medical staff withdrew, leaving Sara alone with Neal and no idea what to say. He shifted uncomfortably, grimacing. Sara stood, grabbing his plastic cup from the table. "Let me get you some water." She filled the cup in the bathroom sink and brought it back, setting it down on the table. "Is there anything…."
His hand lifted to touch hers and she stilled, her heart thumping. "Just…sit with me." Neal whispered, tangling their fingers together. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, letting him hold her hand. "Is it that bad?" Neal asked, his free hand moving to his face, brushing over the bruises and swelling.
"No, not at all." Sara said, looking at their fingers.
"You don't look at me."
She wasn't sure what to say, letting her thumb stroke over his hand. "I can't help but see you…there." She looked up at him, then away. "And I couldn't…" She shook her head.
"Not your fault." Neal whispered.
She knew it was. "I left you there for two days." God only knew what they had done to him in those two days. She didn't want to think about it, but it was all she could think about. "I am so sorry."
He closed his good eye and licked his lips. "I thought I was going to die there." He looked up at her, his hand tightening on hers. "I'd stopped looking for a way out. I gave up." Sara shivered under the weight of his gaze, the shadows of what happened in that place fighting with the truth that he had survived. "You saved me."
Peter hustled out of the airport and hailed a cab, giving the driver the name and address of the hospital. He had worked with Interpol and had gone home for a few days, but Interpol had contacted him, telling him that his witness continued to refuse to talk to them, and a request had been made for Peter to be officially assigned to the international task force that had been set up, specifically as the liaison between their only living witness and the task force.
Sara said that they had moved Neal out of ICU and into a private room. He had surgery scheduled for the knee at the end of the week, but was otherwise making progress. He paid the driver once they reached the hospital and headed inside, double checking the text from Sara for the room number.
He spotted the Interpol agents as he turned down the hallway, nodding to them as he passed. They were keeping an eye on Neal, even though no one believed he was in any danger. At least not yet. Of course, there was also the very real possibility that Neal would run, just as soon as he was strong enough to. Peter was aware of that.
The door to Neal's room was open and he paused only for a moment before stepping in. Neal was on the bed, his face pale except for the slowly fading bruises. His left leg was encased in a splint and his right foot was still wrapped in bandages. He turned his head slowly, a smile tugging at his lips as he spotted Peter.
"You look a lot better than the last time I saw you." Peter said, dropping his bag by the chair. The swelling on his face was mostly gone, though the eye was still taped closed and the red lines still stood out from the pale skin.
Neal shifted on the bed as Peter pulled the chair closer. "Sara said you had gone home." Neal said, his voice still raspy.
"I did. I came back to see how you were doing." He sat, trying to decide how to broach the subject, but now that he was here, and the reality of what had happened to Neal was visceral again, he wasn't sure he could. "So? How are you doing?"
Neal shrugged and he looked away. "I'm…better, I guess. Doc says the infection is under control. Can't really walk yet." He gestured at his feet. "But, you know…better."
Peter nodded, then inhaled slowly. "Interpol tells me that you haven't been willing to talk to them, and Sara tells me that you won't talk to the psychologist."
Neal made a face and crossed his arms, then dropped them again as pain crept into the grimace. He huffed out a sigh and shook his head. "I don't remember."
They both knew it was a lie. "Dr. Bell said some amnesia was to be expected." Peter said. "But, Neal, you need to talk to someone."
"See, this is why they need to fix my knee, so I can walk out of conversations like this." Neal said. "I don't want to talk to someone. I don't want to remember. I just want to…I want to forget it happened."
Peter couldn't begrudge him that. "You should know that Interpol is working to get Phillip Dedeaux, and all of his associates."
Neal squinted at him. "Who?"
"The man that…runs the place where Sara found you."
He nodded slowly, his face confused as he seemed to parse through whatever he did remember. "I…never…" He shook his head.
Peter put his hand on Neal's. "It's okay. You don't have to try so hard." He sighed and stood. "I'm going to let you get some rest. I need to check into my hotel and I should call El."
Neal stiffened and his hand caught Peter's. "She doesn't know. Please, Peter, tell me she doesn't know."
Peter offered him a smile. "She knows you're alive, and that you're in the hospital, but no. I didn't tell her anything else."
Neal's eye closed and he looked relieved as he let go of Peter's hand.
He pushed the chair back and retrieved his bag. "Get some rest. I'll be back in a few hours."
It was safe to say that Elizabeth suspected that the situation was more dire than he'd let on. After all, he'd married an intelligent woman. He pulled his phone out , debating calling her, but he didn't make the decision before it was ringing though, with her caller ID.
"Hey, hon." Peter said, stepping out of the hospital doors.
"How is he?"
"Better." Peter said. "At least physically."
"My parents are here. I'm coming to you."
Peter stopped walking, shaking his head. "I don't think that's a great idea, El."
"Nonsense. I'm already packed and have my plane ticket. I'll be there tomorrow."
Peter sighed, knowing he'd never talk her out of it. "Okay, I'm heading to my hotel to check in now. I'll leave you a key at the front desk. Just wait for me there."
He was still tethered to the IV, and he wasn't supposed to walk on the bad knee, but sitting in the bed had gotten old and he'd convinced the nurses to bring him a wheel chair so he could at least sit in that, move around some. It helped him feel less trapped to know he could sit in the chair or hobble to the bathroom, even look out the window, though his view only included part of a parking lot.
Interpol had come several times, but Neal had sent them away. He wasn't ready for the questions. Sara visited often, but he felt awkward and she couldn't seem to look at him and then he would remember what she had seen and his face would burn. She would apologize and leave.
She'd only been gone a few minutes, and Neal was staring out the window, tears burning the corners of his eyes. He knew it was wrong to feel the way he did, knew he'd be dead know if she hadn't seen him, hadn't called in favors and risked her life to save his.
His face was still burning when he heard Peter behind him. Peter didn't say anything, just sat in the chair and waited. Neal exhaled and turned slowly, trying to avoid stretching scabbing skin on his back or rub still healing cuts the wrong way. "I don't know…." He sounded more like himself and it didn't hurt to talk anymore. He didn't know what he was trying to say, so he shook his head and turned back to the window.
His reflection still seemed like it belonged to someone else, the welts a little less angry, but still red and stark against the paleness of his face. His eye was less painful, and even opened and closed on its own, though they had kept it taped down. He knew Peter wanted him to give names, descriptions. Sara had told him that they needed Neal to tell Interpol what he knew, expected him to just tell strangers the darkest secrets he'd ever had to hold on to.
The psychologist had encouraged him to tell Peter what he could, once Neal finally let her do more than sit in the chair beside him. She had been there when he woke up from a screaming nightmare, when he'd been more vulnerable and couldn't hide behind his carefully constructed veneer.
He blinked back tears as he stared out the window. "I never saw him," he said finally. "The man you want." He licked his lips and stared at a faded blue car out in the lot. "I mean…I'm sure I did, but I don't know him."
He knew the voice, the way it claimed him, made him feel small and alone, like an object to be owned. It had come in those first few hours, when he was loopy from the drugs and couldn't keep his eyes open, when they stripped him and prepped him for the first man to abuse him.
But that man…Neal knew him.
He inhaled slowly and let it out just as slowly, trying to calm the sudden flare of fear and the rapidly increasing rate of his heart. He hid behind adjusting the way his left leg sat in front of him, fiddling with the brace and shifting in the chair.
He opened his mouth twice before he finally got the words to come out, and he couldn't look at Peter when they did. "His name was Efram Milton." Neal said, his voice soft and trembling. He couldn't look at him and say what needed to be said. "Lord Efram Milton. He…"
His hands were shaking and he made fists with them, his eyes closing. He could almost see it, the moment they met, the moment he was marked for what would follow. "I was there for the art, the gallery. He introduced himself while I was admiring a Matisse."
The music had been soft, the crowd dressed to the nines. He'd sipped at his champagne as he analyzed all the possible ways he could steal the pieces he liked most. He hadn't actually planned on stealing anything, but it was a reflex. "We talked art for a few minutes. He said something about liking to own beautiful things. He liked being able to keep them where no one else could see them. He made me uncomfortable."
Something had sparked when the man had touched his arm. It wasn't a casual touch, it was like the answer was a forgone conclusion, the question a formality. "He asked me to dinner."
"He was hitting on you?" Peter asked. His voice was gentle, but Neal still started. He'd nearly forgotten Peter was in the room.
He nodded. "I guess. I politely excused myself, mingled with the crowd. I left not long after, and I forgot about him. The next night I saw him again, in the lobby of my hotel. A few hours later, my room went dark and I…." Something in his dinner had been dosed with something. Before the lights went out he'd already been feeling the effects, and by the time large hands were holding him down, he'd been unable to fight.
He was shaking, he could feel it. "He told me that I should have gone with him, had dinner, let him…but I didn't and so I would have to pay." He needed to move, but he covered his face with his hands, hiding the shame that was filling him. His face burned as he remembered the moment he understood, when he was naked and already hurting, his body tied down and stretched open. Milton had waited until his cock had filled Neal's ass, then pulled the blindfold off, grinning down at him as he fucked hard and fast into Neal.
"Neal, I know this has to be hard, but I need you to tell me what he did." Peter said softly. Neal could tell that he'd moved, that he'd stood and was closer.
Neal nodded. "I know. I just…" His voice cracked and he swallowed. Tears burned and his stomach tightened. "It was just him, at first." For three days, Milton had raped him and assaulted him with his fists and various instruments, beating him and shoving them into him and when it was over, it had really only just begun. He swallowed, wishing he could go somewhere else, that they could not be here, in this room, at this window. "Can we….I need….air. I need some air."
"Just a sec." Peter moved his IV bag onto the chair's pole before pushing him out of the room.
They were quiet as Peter took them down corridors, down to the ground floor and out into a small courtyard. The air was brisk, but not really cold and there was weak sunlight filtering through thin clouds. Unconsciously, Neal turned his face up into the light, breathing in deep.
It had been so long since he'd breathed fresh air. He savored it for a moment while Peter got them settled where they wouldn't be casually overheard, even though the courtyard was empty at the moment.
Peter let him be for a long moment before he cleared his throat to draw Neal back. "So, tell me about Milton."
Neal opened his eyes and nodded. "He's mid-forties, British, uses the title like a weapon. Arrogant, brutal." He swallowed. "He, um. He paid them to grab me. Said I was worth the money." Peter was watching him intently, and he knew well enough that Peter was likely recording the conversation. He needed to if they were going to convict the men who had hurt him. "He spent hours with me over three days." Back then he'd still had a sense of time, and there had been a rhythm to the whole thing.
Milton came in the early evening, and left near midnight. "I don't remember pieces." He rubbed at the spot on his head that still hurt the most.
"The doctor said that might happen." Peter offered gently.
Neal was staling and they both knew it. He looked down at the paving stones that made up the courtyard. "Milton…had them tie me down. He hit me. He…" Neal breathed through the rush of memory, the realization of what was about to happen, the thrashing against the restraints, the panic, the pain. His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair as he dragged air in, trying to keep himself from vomiting onto the ground beneath him.
"It's okay." Peter murmured, his hand on Neal's. "You're not ready."
"NO!" He hadn't meant to yell it, but Peter pulled his hand back. His face was wet, his gaze unfocused someplace over Peter's shoulder. "He wasn't gentle. It hurt, not like anything I'd ever…" He knew Peter needed him to say it. "He r-raped me. More times than I can count." In fact he could count them. Every one of them. Each time he fucked him, each time he used something to fuck him. Neal knew exactly, but Peter didn't need to know that, they wouldn't need an exact number to arrest the bastard.
Tears rolled unchecked down his face. "He beat me and when he was done with me, he gave me to the others, but by then…." He shook his head, sniffling and wiping at his face.
Peter's hand was on his again, a gentle caress that was comforting. For a long time they sat in the gathering shadows as the sun moved behind the building on its way to setting. "Those first few nights…I wondered if you….but I knew you'd never even know." He looked up and Peter offered him a smile.
"You disappeared really well that last time, Neal. If Sara hadn't gotten mixed up with Phillip Dedeaux, we would never have found you."
Neal nodded, his mind flashing back to the memory that he knew was real now, not just some fantasy of his mind as he prepared to die. "She never told me how…just…" He brought his hands together, fingers weaving together and out and back again before he clenched them and stretched them and rubbed up his arms. It was becoming a habit whenever he woke or felt the panic of being caged in the leather mitts creep up on him. He felt Peter's eyes and crooked a half smile before returning his hands to the arms of the chair. "I…After the first time with Milton, I managed to pick the lock on my cage. That was when they put the mitts on me. They also kept me pretty drugged when I wasn't being…used."
They were both quiet then for a long time as the dark settled around them. Finally Peter stirred. "I should get you back inside." He stood, but stopped before he got behind Neal, turning to look down at him. "Thank you. For trusting me."
"Peter, you're probably the only person in the world that I trust." Neal said sincerely. Peter pushed him toward the doors and into the hospital. They were nearly to Neal's room when he heard a familiar voice and reached out a hand to stop them. "Peter, please tell me…"
But Peter didn't have to say anything as a woman standing at the nurse's station near his room turned. Neal's hands grabbed at the wheels to stop their forward movement, even as Peter realized. "El? What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't wait any more." Her eyes were on Neal's face, even as Peter left him and went to his wife.
Neal was suddenly very conscious of the scars and scabs and bandages in places that showed, turning his face so that the bad eye and the welts and bruising wouldn't be the first thing she saw. He pulled the arms of his robe down and made the wheel chair move, keeping his face averted as he maneuvered into his room. Peter must have sensed his discomfort, keeping her distracted while he did.
Neal got close to the bed and leveraged himself out of the chair, fighting to get up and into the bed with his legs under the blanket before Elizabeth got a good look. His knees wobbled and the IV was pulling and he was trembling with the effort, already so far past his point of exhaustion.
He got as far as sitting on the bed, panting, unable to do more without moving the IV bag, and not sure he could stand again. Peter was there then, bringing the chair closer and getting the bag off it. Neal could see Elizabeth in the door way as Peter leaned over him to hang the bag back up, but Peter blocked her as he moved to help Neal lift his legs up and sooth the blanket over him.
Peter's eyes met his, clearly asking if it was okay, or if he should send her away. He wanted to beg for Peter to make her go, but now that she'd seen him, it wouldn't be easy to keep her away, so he nodded guardedly. Peter withdrew and moved the wheelchair out of the way, holding out his hand to Elizabeth.
She came slowly, tears in her eyes as she looked him over, but he fought to smile at her, sure it didn't fully come across. "It's not as bad as it looks."
She blinked and tears fell as she got closer. "Neal…" She seemed at a loss for words though and instead just took his hand and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Her eyes moved from the nearly flawless skin of his hands up over the myriad marks and scars and bandages on his arm, like she was cataloguing all of the injuries she could see.
"I'm going to be fine, Elizabeth." Neal said, drawing her eyes to his face. Her eyes widened a little and he turned to show her his good side. "Really. The doctor is very encouraging."
Her fingers touched his chin, turning his head back so that she could see the bruises and the welt that stretched from his hairline, over the eye and down over his cheek and onto his neck. He took her hands and kissed them lightly, but he couldn't look her in the eye, because her tears only made him ready to cry. It took a long moment, but she breathed in deep and wiped her face. "Peter says you have the best doctor here, and that he's taking good care of you," she said once she'd pulled herself together.
"And Peter tells me that you have a beautiful baby boy." Neal said, hoping she would take the hint and move the conversation in a less direction less directed at him.
She smiled. "He's beautiful, and amazing."
"Peter won't tell me what you named him."
She slapped at Peter playfully. Peter held up his hands. "To be fair, we have been occupied by other things."
"We named him after you." Elizabeth said proudly, smiling at him.
"To be fair, you were dead at the time." Peter added, sliding his arm around El.
"I bet that went over well." Neal said, smiling himself. It felt good to smile. And if he let himself relax, it felt a little bit like home. At least until he closed his eyes.
The bedroom on the ground floor of Sara's London home felt safe, more so than the hospital ever had. The dark wood paneling seemed to stifle sound, like no one could raise their voice in the presence of walls that had stood since the eighteenth century.
Neal slid his legs into the pants Sara had bought him, then slipped the brace on over it. He tightened the Velcro straps and stood, zipping his pants as he limped toward the chair his shirt was draped over. The reflection that looked back at him still didn't look like the man he had been before he'd met Lord Efram Milton, but maybe that was a good thing. His eye was back to normal and the welts had faded to faint scars that altered his face. His chest was marked, some of the wounds had healed with scarcely a sign they'd been there, others left puffy pink scar tissue to mark their place.
Peter had gone home, or at least back to work. He hadn't said much beyond telling Neal he'd be back. Elizabeth had stayed, helped him get moved into Sara's house after the last surgery so that he could finish recovering, though he was pretty convinced that her real reason for staying was to talk him into returning to New York. She wanted him to come home.
At the moment he could only think about getting past the fear that rode him whenever he had to be with people he didn't know. The panic would grip him and he'd freeze and terror would drop memory bombs on him until he couldn't breathe.
There was a brief knock at his door, then he heard Elizabeth gasp behind him. Neal pulled the shirt on quickly, covering the evidence of his trauma. She'd only ever seen his arms and part of his legs and knew only a small amount about what had happened. He turned and she blinked, pulled her focus back and nodded, even smiled. "Neal, I mean Henry, the Interpol agent is here."
"You would think Peter could have come up with a better name." Neal said, shaking his head as he tucked the shirt in. "I mean, obvious much?"
She came into the room, fussing with his shirt and picking at some lint. "You'll always be the Sundance to his Butch Cassidy." Her eyes met his, asking permission without saying anything. He nodded and she hugged him close. It was warm and familiar and comfortable, and if he could he might like to just wallow in it, but there were people waiting and he still had a job to do, a character to play.
He kissed her hair and she stepped back. "Thank you, Elizabeth."
He reached for the cane and went out to greet the agent who had been assigned to be his liaison to a task force that had become a giant international operation. She was waiting in the formal living room, admiring the art on the walls. "Agent Cauly, it's good to see you again."
She turned, smiling. "Mr. Longabough, it is good to see you up and around."
"And wearing pants." Neal joked, gesturing for her to sit. "And I told you before, it's Henry." He sat opposite her, settling the cane against the couch.
"Okay, Henry, I came by to let you know that Efram Milton has been arrested in Madrid."
Neal's heart sped up and he shook his head lightly, trying to clear it of a sudden buzz of white noise. "He…what?" Some part of him had been convinced the man would never be found, that he wasn't real, just a name hung out for a particular purpose much like Nick Halden or any of the names he'd used for a con. "I mean, that's good."
She offered a soft smile. "We're going to want you to come in and make a positive ID, of course."
He nodded, but his head was still scrambling over his last memories of the man. He had left Neal bleeding, his head ringing, his body trembling on the dirty floor, spitting on him in contempt. Neal had watched him walk away, knowing he had been condemned to die for the sin of brushing off the man's attempt to seduce him.
He blinked himself back into an awareness of the room and the uncomfortable feeling of someone trying to gracefully give him the space to deal with his inner turmoil. He looked up at the agent and exhaled. "Yes, of course."
"Good. He should be in our custody this afternoon."
He nodded, looking up as Sara came into the room with a file folder. "Sorry to interrupt, but I finished putting my information together. I wanted you to have a copy."
Agent Cauley stood and Neal withdrew from the conversation, breathing through the knot of fear that was tied around his stomach. It was silly. None of the men involved could trace anything to him. They wouldn't come looking. He was safe.
Except for how he suddenly didn't feel so safe at all. He struggled to his feet and limped out of the room, wanting to escape out into the garden where he could breathe. The air was chill and a thick rain was falling, but it didn't matter. He stood in the open air and let the rain drench him, tilting his face up into it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rain on his skin.
The chill settled into him after a few minutes, and he knew he should head inside, but inside was filled with too much expectation and he wasn't ready to face it. Leaving New York, leaving behind Neal Caffrey had been supposed to set him free, but he wasn't free and Neal Caffrey was still with him. Neal Caffrey had saved him in a lot of ways. Or maybe just dragged him back from the brink of the only freedom he was beginning to believe existed.
"Neal."
He didn't look up from his packing. "I'm almost done."
"No." Her hand came down on his. "Don't leave. Not like this."
He turned to her. "Sara, you've been…I've stayed too long." He knew that he was making her uncomfortable. He couldn't shake the fear, the terror that gripped him randomly. Any conversation could kick him into a spiral of fists and rods, being forced to his knees, kicked, bent over…until he was choking on air, struggling to breathe, to shake free.
She took his hands and turned him to face her, her eyes searching his. "No, you haven't. You should stay."
He sighed and lifted their hands, kissing over her knuckles. "We both know you've done more than your share here. You have a life to get back to. You don't need to be nurse-maiding me."
"Where will you go? You can't even cope with me in the same room, how are you going to handle being out there?"
He went back to his packing. Part of him knew she was right, but he knew he was too. He couldn't keep hurting her with how much he hurt. "I'll find somewhere." He fit the last of the clothes into the duffle bag and zipped it up. "I don't know."
"I don't want you to go." Sara said softly.
"I know the feeling." Neal responded. Elizabeth had gone home to Peter, and their son. She'd told him he was always welcome, but he knew he couldn't be there any more than he could be here. They knew too much, he could see it in their eyes when he pulled himself out of the memory, when he woke from the nightmares, his throat raw from screaming. Their guilt was crushing him. He leaned in, kissed her cheek. "I can't ever thank you."
The truth was, at times he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she had left him there, if she had let him die there. More than once he'd considered the unthinkable…usually in the early hours of the morning, when he hadn't slept in days because he was afraid of his dreams. Something stopped him every time, but he was pretty sure that if he didn't start finding a way to cope, one day there would be nothing left to stop him.
"I'm serious, Neal."
"I know you are, Sara. I do. But I can't…I can't be here with you right now." He closed his eyes and inhaled, letting it out slowly. "When I was in the hospital, and you wouldn't look at me, do you remember what you said?"
"That I kept seeing you there, in that place."
He nodded. "I look at you and I am there. I'm broken and dirty and waiting in a cage for whatever came next…the next time someone would whip me so bad the blood covered my body, or the next time they chained me over that bench so that they could fuck me over and over again." Sara flinched and took a step back, but he knew it was how he would get her to let him go. "And I know that isn't fair to you, but I can't seem to stop and I can't…I can't be myself again until I can stop being him." His hand tightened on the bag and he lifted it, stepping around her. He paused at the door to the bedroom for his cane and his hat. "Goodbye, Sara."
She wouldn't follow him, he knew that. The cab was waiting at the curb to take him away, to wherever it was he was going. He just wasn’t sure exactly where that was.
Someplace that wasn't here. Anywhere but here.
Epilogue
Thunder shook the house and Peter padded on bare feet around the end of the bed to find El walking the nursery with Neal, trying to cajole him back to sleep. Peter watched her for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder, certain he'd heard something more than the heavy rain that the storm was dropping on them.
He moved back to the bedroom for his gun, taking the stairs quietly and looking through the downstairs. He was about ready to go back upstairs, convinced it was nothing, when a shadow moved outside. He moved to the door to look, squinting into the darkness. It was nearly four in the morning and the storm made it darker still.
Peter eased the door open, eyes sliding across the street for anything out of place. There was a bit off sound, part sob, part fear and Peter looked down. He frowned as he tried to figure out the dark shape huddled on his front step. He opened the screen door, gun still at his side, and stepped out onto the top step.
"Neal?"
He was soaked with rain, his thin frame shaking. Peter stepped down one step, shivering as the rain started pelting him. "Neal?"
He pulled away as Peter touched him, moving enough that Peter could see the gun in his hand. "Neal, it's Peter."
He lifted his head a little, enough for Peter to see his face in the dim light spilling from inside. His eyes were sunken and rimmed in red and didn't seem to focus on anything. "Help me?" Neal asked, his voice barely audible.
Peter nodded, putting his gun down on the floor just inside the door and coming down to the same step as Neal. "How, Neal? How can I help?"
Water dripped from his face and he lifted the gun with a wobbly hand. "I can't….I can't…" He brought the gun up to his ear.
Peter reached for his hand, but stopped short of touching him. "Give me the gun, Neal." His eyes looked up at Peter, begging him to take the pain away. "Let me help, Neal. Give me the gun."
"Make it stop."
Peter nodded, his hand closing over Neal's, dragging it away from his head. "Okay, that's it. Let me have the gun and I'll get you the help you need."
"Honey, the baby's down--Peter?" Elizabeth appeared at the door, gasping as Peter finally got Neal to let go of the gun.
"El, we're going to need some towels, and I need you to take this." He leaned toward her with the gun, handing it off to El who reached out to meet him part way. "Get mine too."
"Towels, right. I'll be right back."
She disappeared into the house with the weapons and Peter inched closer to Neal. He could smell the alcohol now. "Okay, Neal, how about we get you inside?"
He didn't respond, but didn't jerk away from him as Peter got his hands under Neal's shoulders and pulled him up. They stumbled up the steps and in through the door as El appeared with towels, handing some to Peter as she shook out others.
Peter draped a towel around Neal's shoulders, rubbing to try to warm him. Elizabeth echoed the motion with him. "Maybe some coffee?" Elizabeth nodded to herself and went to start the coffee while he stood with Neal, soaking up as much of the rain as he could with towels.
Once he wasn't dripping, Peter led him to the dining room table, getting him to sit. He stared dully at the floor, but it let Peter get a better look at him.
He had disappeared from Sara's house in London almost three months before, gone without a trace. He was still very thin, painfully so. The scars on his arms were healed, but garish and white or shades of pink, some sunken like they'd been etched into him, others raised and soft looking.
El appeared with coffee and Peter set a cup in Neal's hands, wrapping his fingers around it. Peter didn't know how to begin to help. "Maybe we should call someone. He needs more help than we're going to be able to give him, El."
She nodded. "I'll be back."
She left the room and Neal sort of shook, blinking and lifting his head to look around him. "Peter?"
He pulled a chair close and sat. "It's okay, Neal. Try to get some of this coffee into you, warm you up."
Tears were spilling from Neal's eyes as he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't make it stop." He looked up, lifted his hands, spilling coffee over them. Peter rescued the cup and Neal grabbed him. "You made it stop. Before. You saved me. Why? Why, Peter? I can't….no more…no more…"
He curled forward, crying into Peter's lap, his shoulders quaking as he sobbed. Peter caressed over Neal's head and shoulders, uncertain what else he could do. Elizabeth reappeared a few minutes later.
"My father is calling in a favor. There's a private facility just outside the city. He suggested we try to get him warmed up, get him to sleep. He'll call when he's made the arrangements." El said softly.
Peter nodded. Neal's sobs had quieted, and Peter shifted so that he could help Neal sit up. He didn't look up, his eyes dazed and unfocused. "I'll see if I can get him into the shower. Why don't you make up the couch for him."
Neal was vaguely aware of Peter cajoling him into a hot shower, dressing him in sweats and a t-shirt, of Elizabeth settling a blanket over him. It wasn't sleep, but he didn't have the energy to fight anymore. He'd tried to outrun it, keep moving, keep drinking, keep hiding…but it was too strong and he was slipping away into the darkness of it.
He closed his eyes and it gripped him a little tighter.
He could hear Peter and Elizabeth talking softly, could hear something…someone else…
A tiny hand touched his face and Neal opened his eyes. "Neal, leave…"
The boy was standing there, smiling at him, his hand on Neal's face as Elizabeth came toward them, kneeling beside the boy, her smile warm, her voice soft. "Neal, this is Neal."
He clapped his little hands and laughed, then leaned forward, his mouth wet and open as he pressed his lips to Neal's chin. He lifted a hand from under the blankets, tracing a finger over the tiny face. "Neal…"
Elizabeth was holding him now, and she wiped the baby drool off of his face. Neal felt himself smiling…not the forced image he'd projected to make people around him feel better, but a genuine smile, his hand chasing after baby Neal to touch his soft skin. "He's beautiful." Neal whispered.
"Our ride is here." Peter said from the door.
Neal sat up, pushing the blanket away. He wasn't sure where they were going, but he trusted Peter to make it better…even if he wasn't sure what better looked like. He hurt all over, the ache of too much and not enough, as he stood, drawing Elizabeth in to hug her and the baby, kissing that soft head. "Thank you."
He let Peter guide him out the door. The sun was rising as they came down the steps where he'd found himself hours before, not even sure how he'd gotten there. For the first time in a while, he welcomed the warmth, turning his face into the glow. The road seemed to shimmer, like a promise that something better waited for him.