Fic (White Collar): Devil's Breath
Title: Devil’s Breath
Author: cookielaura
Artist: kanarek13
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal, El, OMC, gen
Wordcount: 3,800
Rating: R
Warnings: Please note! Discussion of suicide; attempts to coerce suicide; non-consensual drug use. Not a deathfic.
Summary: One of Peter and Neal’s enemies is willing to go to great lengths to exact revenge on them, and he has a very specific type of revenge in mind.
Notes: Written for the whitecollarhc advent calendar day 16, for a prompt from kanarek13. Thank you for the beautiful artwork! ♥ Fills the square “suicide attempt” on my hc_bingo card. My knowledge of the drug used in the story comes entirely from the internet, so please forgive any mistakes.
It was cold. Too cold.
The thought nagged at the edge of Neal’s mind, dragging him into consciousness despite his best efforts to remain in the world of sleep.
Why was it so cold? Did he fall asleep with the window open?
He tried to open his eyes to see, but his eyelids were far heavier than they should be, loaded down with something stronger than sleep. And with that realization, the fear began. All his senses rushed in at once: a sudden, stabbing pain in his head, the taste of sand in his mouth, the feel of coarse rope against his forearms and the scent of dank, sour air in his nostrils.
Nothing about this was right.
With what felt like almost superhuman effort, he forced his eyes open.
Neal’s vision blurred for a moment, then cleared, and he forced himself to set aside the rising panic and focus on his surroundings. He was in what looked like a large storage container with a concrete floor, lit by a bare bulb and holding only him, the chair against the back wall that he was tied to, and another man who was standing directly in front of him, arms folded across his chest. There was no window, so he couldn’t tell what time it was, or hazard a guess as to where the storage container might be.
Neal blinked hard and looked more closely at the man opposite him. He was clean-shaven with neatly combed hair, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, and he would have appeared completely average were it not for the way that his mouth was set in a cold, hard line and his eyes were burning, alight with what Neal recognized as pure hatred. The thing that disturbed Neal most about him, though, was the fact that he was utterly unfamiliar. Neal had no idea who he was dealing with.
“Nice of you to finally join me, Mr. Caffrey,” said the man, with the self-satisfied tone of a person who has complete control.
Neal swallowed down the angry retort on his tongue and forced a smile: polite, easy, gentlemanly. Not the smile of a man whose arms and legs were bound to a chair.
“This hardly seems fair,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man’s mouth twisted into something ugly and bitter for a moment before he smoothed out his expression. “Of course you don’t. I’m sure you haven’t worried yourself for one second about me, or my family.”
Neal searched for any words that might help. “I’m…sorry about that,” he said, giving an apologetic shrug. He used the gesture to disguise a flex of his hands and his forearms, as he tried to subtly test the strength of the ropes holding him. There was no wiggle room, and the knots were underneath the chair arms and well out of his reach.
“I very much doubt that,” said the man. “But I’m guessing that your partner will be thinking about me every day, for a long, long time.”
Neal had thought he was tense before, but at the mention of a partner all of his muscles seemed to clench at once.
“My partner?” he asked, hedging. The man could mean Peter. Or Mozzie. Maybe even Alex, or Sara. Was one of them in danger too?
The man tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you call him your handler. I don’t really care. I’m told that you and Agent Burke are close, either way.”
Peter.
Neal took a deep, steadying breath. “Did you kidnap him, too?” he asked, anger seeping into his voice despite his attempt to remain calm.
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course not. I don’t need him yet. He’s out there right now, probably still sleeping. Maybe he’s just waking up, putting on his morning coffee, getting ready to go into work. Preparing to catch the bad guys.” His words dripped with disdain, but Neal took comfort from the fact that Peter was safe, at least for the moment. And though Neal’s legs were bound to the chair legs, he could feel the familiar weight of the anklet around his left ankle. He just hoped that by some miracle his kidnapper hadn’t thought to disable it, and that Peter would check its location when Neal didn’t show up to work.
“Come to think of it,” the man continued, carelessly, “I didn’t kidnap you either. You came willingly.”
Willingly? Neal felt like the concrete under his feet had shifted slightly. He tried to speak, but words failed him.
The man gave him a faux-sympathetic look. “You probably don’t remember, of course. That’ll be the drug. But you walked right out of your very fancy apartment with me, traveled happily in the car, and sat nice and still while I tied you down a couple of hours ago. You were very obliging. You even confirmed that the knots were tight enough to prevent you escaping.”
Neal’s heart was thudding against his chest. He didn’t remember any of that. The last memory he could latch onto in his mind was going to bed the night before. Or, at least, he assumed it was the night before. After that, everything was blank.
“The drug?” he managed to ask. He needed to know what he’d taken.
An unpleasant smile spread across the man’s face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sachet of white powder, then dangled it in front of Neal’s face for a long moment.
“Scopolamine. Some people call it the zombie drug,” he said, casually. “But in Columbia, they call it Devil’s Breath. That sounds much more poetic to me. Blow a little in someone’s face and they become remarkably open to suggestion. I only needed to give you a little of it to make you get out of bed, get dressed and come here with me.”
Neal felt nauseous. He tried not to let himself think about what else the man might make him do under the influence of such a drug.
“I let it wear off,” the man continued, “because I wanted you to be aware for this part. I want you to know what you’re going to do, and why. I wanted to see your face when I told you. I’m guessing you’ll need quite a bit more Devil’s Breath for what’s coming later.”
“Later?” Neal asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “What comes later?”
The man’s smile widened sickeningly. “You kill yourself, of course.”
----
Neal squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the walls of the storage unit, which seemed to be closing in on him. The man’s words were echoing in his mind, the pain in his head was increasing and he thought he might throw up.
“Pull yourself together, Mr. Caffrey,” came the man’s voice.
Neal sucked in long breath after long breath until he felt like he could open his eyes and speak without vomiting.
“Why?” he said finally, making himself look up into the man’s face.
The smile fell away from the man’s face as he leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, bringing his face level with Neal’s, and just inches away.
“Because you deserve it,” he said, simply. He stared into Neal’s eyes, seemingly looking for something, though Neal didn’t know what. “My name is Kenneth Wilkinson,” he said. “I believe you’re familiar with my brother, Jerome.”
Jerome Wilkinson. It only took Neal a moment to remember him: a fraudster who Neal and Peter had taken down a couple of months previously. The last Neal had heard, he was out on bail, awaiting trial.
“Seriously? All this because my partner arrested your brother?” Neal gave the man - Kenneth - a contemptuous look. “He’ll get seven, eight years. He’ll be out defrauding people again in no time.”
Kenneth’s face darkened. “He’s in a coma,” he spat. “He threw himself off his balcony.”
Neal felt his stomach drop. “I - I didn’t know,” he said, mouth dry.
“I saw him do it,” Kenneth said. “I was there.” His words were like bullets, falling in the small room. “You took everything from him. And he told me - he told me that you and your Agent Burke were smiling as they took him away.”
Neal flinched. The pain and the bitterness in Jerome’s voice were hard to bear. “I’m sorry,” Neal said, trying to put all the sincerity he felt into the words. “I would never want -”
“I don’t care what you want!” Kenneth shouted, sending Neal recoiling as far as he could while bound to the chair. Kenneth leaned closer, until their faces were almost touching. “I don’t want to hear anything from you. Your only job is to sit there and listen as I tell you exactly how you’re going to kill yourself. And then you’re going to call your agent friend, and you’re going to let him know what you’re going to do, and where you’re going to do it. I take great satisfaction from knowing he'll turn up just in time to see your body.”
Neal set his jaw and forced himself to stare back into Kenneth’s eyes. “None of that is going to happen,” he said, doing all he could to keep his voice from shaking.
Kenneth straightened. “Oh, but it is,” he said, suddenly the epitome of calm. He put his hand into his pocket again, and brought out the clear packet of powder. He tipped a little, carefully, into his palm.
“Looks so innocuous, doesn’t it?” Kenneth said.
Neal pushed himself back as far as he could, straining against the ropes that tied him, his feet scrabbling against the ground. But there was nowhere to go.
Kenneth leant forward, brought his palm up, and blew the powder into Neal’s face.
----
Peter was standing by the kitchen window, swallowing down the last of his coffee as he watched the first few sparse snowflakes drift down from the overcast sky. It was seven thirty on another dull, gray January morning, made duller and grayer by the fact that El had been away on business last night and wasn’t due back until later today. He hadn’t slept well without her in bed next to him, and he was eager for the day to be over so that he could come back home and spend a quiet evening with her.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he put down his coffee mug so that he could fish it out and answer it. Caffrey.
“Hey, Neal,” he said, turning to head into the hallway. “I’m just leaving, I’ll be there to pick you up in twenty.” Neal had somehow persuaded him that a lift to work every day was essential in the month of January so that he could avoid catching any of the coughs and colds so prevalent on the subway, and thus be “more productive” at the office. Peter didn’t really mind, but he made sure to remind Neal how grateful he should be as often as possible anyway.
“Peter,” came Neal’s voice down the phone. It sounded strange. “You don’t need to pick me up.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to create a mystery illness to get the day off so you don’t have to get your hair wet in the snow -”
“I’m going to kill myself,” Neal said.
Peter stopped stock still in the hallway, one foot half-slipped into his shoe. “Neal? Is this a joke?” he asked, his stomach twisting. Something told him Neal would never joke about that.
“No,” said Neal. And then he began to explain, sounding very much like he was reciting a speech that had been written for him. His words made Peter’s blood run cold.
Peter had only heard a couple of sentences before he had thrust his feet into his shoes, yanked the front door open and ran out into the cold morning air, the cell phone pressed to his ear.
----
Peter didn’t think he’d ever been this tense before. His hands were clenched around the steering wheel so hard that the tendons hurt, his chest was painfully tight and he kept forgetting to breathe.
The roads weren’t as busy as they could have been, as he was heading out of the city, but he still cursed every other car around, as well as the snow, the slick road surfaces, and most of all, the maniac who was holding Neal.
At any other time he would have been horrified and shaken to hear that someone he’d arrested had tried to commit suicide, even though the blame didn’t rest with him. But this morning, all he could think of was Neal. Neal’s slow, monotone voice as he read out Jerome Wilkinson’s words over the phone line replayed over and over in Peter’s head. He could still hear the chilling reasoning, the description of what Neal planned to do, and the recital of the location Wilkinson had chosen. But most of all, he could hear Neal’s last words, after he’d told Peter exactly where to go to.
“You’ll be too late.”
Peter gritted his teeth, swerved around another car and pushed his foot down on the gas. And though it had been a while since he’d prayed, he sent up a silent, desperate request that Wilkinson would be wrong, that he had miscalculated the timings and not counted on the speed of Peter’s driving, and that Neal wouldn’t reach the bridge before Peter.
----
“Neal!” The word ripped itself out of Peter’s mouth as the car screeched to a stop, mounting the side of the road near the end of the bridge. The traffic on the bridge was moving slowly, and Peter knew he’d be faster on foot. He was out of the car in a second, the door slamming shut behind him as he launched himself forwards, towards the lone figure approaching the side of the bridge. He could tell it was Neal even from this distance, but his gait was different than usual. He was walking slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance.
Peter raced along the thin strip of sidewalk by the bridge’s barrier, his heart pounding, his feet thumping hard against the wet ground. He was still a couple hundred yards away from Neal, who had stopped walking, and was pulling himself up to sit on the top of the barrier.
“Neal!” Peter yelled as loudly as he could, but the name seemed to drift back towards him on the cold winter wind. Neal didn’t even look around. The yards were disappearing as Peter pushed on, but there was still too much space between them. Neal had one leg already over the barrier - and now two. Neal sat still for a moment, his hands splayed across the top of the stone barrier, and Peter yelled his name again as the distance between them dwindled further still.
This time, Neal heard his name. He looked around, and Peter saw his face: slack, empty, utterly un-Neal-like.
“Stop!” Neal said, and Peter skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, ten or so yards away from him, desperate not to do anything that would make Neal move an inch further to the edge.
“Neal?” he said, hesitantly. “It’s me, Peter.” He didn’t know how much of Neal was present right now while he was under the influence of the drug, or if he even recognized Peter.
“I know who you are,” Neal said, his voice still a dull monotone. “I know what to do if you show up early. I tell you to stay back, or I jump.”
Peter felt his breath catch and shudder in his chest. Seeing and hearing Neal like this was so alien, it was difficult to comprehend.
He forced himself to assess the situation. If he rushed forward and grabbed for Neal, Neal would push himself off the ledge, and there was no way Peter could make up the distance in time to reach him first. But if he stayed back, Neal was going to jump anyway - Wilkinson’s message had made that perfectly clear, and Neal seemed completely in his kidnapper’s thrall. His only option was to try to talk Neal down.
“Neal,” he said, carefully, searching for the words that could break through Neal’s trance. “You don’t want to do this. You’ve been drugged. This isn’t really you.”
“I do want to do this,” Neal said, looking Peter in the eye, though there seemed to be nothing behind his stare, none of Neal’s usual spark. “I need to do it. Nobody wants me on this earth. I have no purpose. There’s nothing good in me.”
Peter’s jaw clenched, rage at Wilkinson filling him to the brim. The thought of Wilkinson telling Neal those things, forcing him to believe them, making them Neal’s last thoughts, made him feel ill.
“That is not true, Neal! There is so much good in you. So much! I’ve seen it. I see it every day.”
Neal shook his head. “I can’t be dissuaded from my goal,” he said, robotically, and he turned his gaze away from Peter, back towards the nothingness in front of him.
“Wait!” Peter shouted, though he used the second when Neal turned away to lurch further forward, closing the gap. As Neal’s head turned back to him, Peter stopped still again. He was close now. Almost close enough.
“Please, Neal,” he said, trying to put everything he felt into his voice, trying to reach inside the fog that was enveloping Neal’s mind. “I want you here, alive, with me. You want that too, I know you do. Please think, Neal.”
Neal watched him with glassy eyes, his expression unmoving, and Peter started to despair. But then, for just a moment, a second, something flickered in Neal’s face. Peter wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something, some sign that Neal was there, and Peter didn’t stop to think. He just sprang forwards, banking on that second’s distraction from Neal’s goal to buy him the time to grab him.
And his hand closed around Neal’s arm, grasping damp suit jacket and solid muscle and salvation.
“No,” Neal protested weakly, but Peter was dragging him back over the barrier, pulling him to the ground and wrapping him so tightly in his embrace that Neal’s attempts to resist came to nothing. Kneeling next to him on the cold ground, Peter held Neal more fiercely than he would have thought possible, gripping him against his own body as if he would never - could never - let go. He wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking - perhaps it was both - but he didn’t care. Neal’s efforts to pull away slowed and then stopped completely, and Peter stayed exactly where he was.
“I’ve got you,” he said, over and over, into Neal’s hair, reassuring himself as much as Neal.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, holding Neal - he barely noticed the snow still gently falling on him, the traffic slowing on the bridge, the people approaching them, the enquiring words, the sound of sirens in the distance. He barely noticed anything apart from the solidity of Neal’s body in his arms, present and alive.
It was only when the ambulance arrived, called by some concerned driver, that Peter was persuaded to loosen his grip on Neal. Neal stirred in his arms, and looked up, his eyes unfocused. “Peter?” he said, softly.
“I’ve got you,” Peter said again.
----
It was warm. Wonderfully warm.
Neal woke slowly to a dull throbbing in his head, a gritty feeling in his mouth and the sound of Peter and Elizabeth talking softly nearby. He yawned, feeling groggy and slightly sick, but he could tell he was on the Burkes’ sofa, under a blanket, and he was safe.
“hospital… full check-up…” Peter was saying as Neal drifted on the edge of awareness. “….vitals all fine… monitor for a few… memory affected…”
Neal blinked a few times and tried to listen properly.
“And you’re sure the doctor said it was okay to bring him home?” Elizabeth was saying, her voice edgy with concern.
“He said to take him back tomorrow for a - oh, Neal, you’re awake!” Peter moved swiftly from the doorway where he’d been standing with El and sat down carefully on the edge of the sofa, next to Neal. He put a hand out and squeezed Neal’s shoulder, holding on for a moment and then giving a second squeeze as if to convince himself that Neal was really there. El came and sat at the end of the sofa, reaching to put her hand gently on Neal’s foot.
Neal squinted up at Peter, the living room light seeming unusually bright. “What happened?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” Peter said, carefully. His face looked drawn and tired, as if he’d been through the ringer.
“Cliff Notes version?” Neal said.
Peter smiled slightly. “You got kidnapped and drugged. I found you. You’re okay.”
Neal nodded slowly, taking it in. The gaping hole in his memory was concerning, but he was too lethargic to worry much about it right now. “Okay,” he said. “More details later. After a drink. Please.”
El patted his foot and got up, heading for the kitchen. Peter stayed where he was.
“You said I was in hospital?” Neal asked.
“You don’t remember it? You were there all day. You were conscious for most of it, but the doctor said you’re likely to have some amnesia. They did a lot of tests, though. You’re gonna be fine. You’re okay.”
Neal smiled. “You said that already.”
Peter smiled back gently. “Well…it’s important.” His gaze rested on Neal’s face, heavy with what looked like relief, and Neal wondered exactly what Peter had been through today.
“Did you catch the kidnapper?” Neal asked, though it was getting harder to form words as tiredness crept up on him again.
Peter shook his head. “Not yet. I will.”
“I know,” Neal said, yawning.
El returned with a glass of water, knelt down carefully by the couch and put the glass into Neal’s hand. He drank gratefully, letting the water soothe away some of the rough dryness from his tongue.
“Thank you,” he said when he was done and El took the glass from him. “And thank you,” he said to Peter. “For whatever you did today.” He shifted and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. “Can I sleep?”
“Sure,” Peter said, quietly. “We’ll talk more later.” He started to get up, though he looked somewhat reluctant to leave his position on the couch, even through Neal’s half-closed eyes.
“We’re gonna stay here in the room, okay?” Peter said.
“Thank you,” Neal said again. Sleep started to claim him, but as he drifted off, he felt Peter reach down and touch his shoulder one more time.
- end -
Author: cookielaura
Artist: kanarek13
Beta: sherylyn
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal, El, OMC, gen
Wordcount: 3,800
Rating: R
Warnings: Please note! Discussion of suicide; attempts to coerce suicide; non-consensual drug use. Not a deathfic.
Summary: One of Peter and Neal’s enemies is willing to go to great lengths to exact revenge on them, and he has a very specific type of revenge in mind.
Notes: Written for the whitecollarhc advent calendar day 16, for a prompt from kanarek13. Thank you for the beautiful artwork! ♥ Fills the square “suicide attempt” on my hc_bingo card. My knowledge of the drug used in the story comes entirely from the internet, so please forgive any mistakes.
It was cold. Too cold.
The thought nagged at the edge of Neal’s mind, dragging him into consciousness despite his best efforts to remain in the world of sleep.
Why was it so cold? Did he fall asleep with the window open?
He tried to open his eyes to see, but his eyelids were far heavier than they should be, loaded down with something stronger than sleep. And with that realization, the fear began. All his senses rushed in at once: a sudden, stabbing pain in his head, the taste of sand in his mouth, the feel of coarse rope against his forearms and the scent of dank, sour air in his nostrils.
Nothing about this was right.
With what felt like almost superhuman effort, he forced his eyes open.
Neal’s vision blurred for a moment, then cleared, and he forced himself to set aside the rising panic and focus on his surroundings. He was in what looked like a large storage container with a concrete floor, lit by a bare bulb and holding only him, the chair against the back wall that he was tied to, and another man who was standing directly in front of him, arms folded across his chest. There was no window, so he couldn’t tell what time it was, or hazard a guess as to where the storage container might be.
Neal blinked hard and looked more closely at the man opposite him. He was clean-shaven with neatly combed hair, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, and he would have appeared completely average were it not for the way that his mouth was set in a cold, hard line and his eyes were burning, alight with what Neal recognized as pure hatred. The thing that disturbed Neal most about him, though, was the fact that he was utterly unfamiliar. Neal had no idea who he was dealing with.
“Nice of you to finally join me, Mr. Caffrey,” said the man, with the self-satisfied tone of a person who has complete control.
Neal swallowed down the angry retort on his tongue and forced a smile: polite, easy, gentlemanly. Not the smile of a man whose arms and legs were bound to a chair.
“This hardly seems fair,” he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The man’s mouth twisted into something ugly and bitter for a moment before he smoothed out his expression. “Of course you don’t. I’m sure you haven’t worried yourself for one second about me, or my family.”
Neal searched for any words that might help. “I’m…sorry about that,” he said, giving an apologetic shrug. He used the gesture to disguise a flex of his hands and his forearms, as he tried to subtly test the strength of the ropes holding him. There was no wiggle room, and the knots were underneath the chair arms and well out of his reach.
“I very much doubt that,” said the man. “But I’m guessing that your partner will be thinking about me every day, for a long, long time.”
Neal had thought he was tense before, but at the mention of a partner all of his muscles seemed to clench at once.
“My partner?” he asked, hedging. The man could mean Peter. Or Mozzie. Maybe even Alex, or Sara. Was one of them in danger too?
The man tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you call him your handler. I don’t really care. I’m told that you and Agent Burke are close, either way.”
Peter.
Neal took a deep, steadying breath. “Did you kidnap him, too?” he asked, anger seeping into his voice despite his attempt to remain calm.
The man gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course not. I don’t need him yet. He’s out there right now, probably still sleeping. Maybe he’s just waking up, putting on his morning coffee, getting ready to go into work. Preparing to catch the bad guys.” His words dripped with disdain, but Neal took comfort from the fact that Peter was safe, at least for the moment. And though Neal’s legs were bound to the chair legs, he could feel the familiar weight of the anklet around his left ankle. He just hoped that by some miracle his kidnapper hadn’t thought to disable it, and that Peter would check its location when Neal didn’t show up to work.
“Come to think of it,” the man continued, carelessly, “I didn’t kidnap you either. You came willingly.”
Willingly? Neal felt like the concrete under his feet had shifted slightly. He tried to speak, but words failed him.
The man gave him a faux-sympathetic look. “You probably don’t remember, of course. That’ll be the drug. But you walked right out of your very fancy apartment with me, traveled happily in the car, and sat nice and still while I tied you down a couple of hours ago. You were very obliging. You even confirmed that the knots were tight enough to prevent you escaping.”
Neal’s heart was thudding against his chest. He didn’t remember any of that. The last memory he could latch onto in his mind was going to bed the night before. Or, at least, he assumed it was the night before. After that, everything was blank.
“The drug?” he managed to ask. He needed to know what he’d taken.
An unpleasant smile spread across the man’s face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sachet of white powder, then dangled it in front of Neal’s face for a long moment.
“Scopolamine. Some people call it the zombie drug,” he said, casually. “But in Columbia, they call it Devil’s Breath. That sounds much more poetic to me. Blow a little in someone’s face and they become remarkably open to suggestion. I only needed to give you a little of it to make you get out of bed, get dressed and come here with me.”
Neal felt nauseous. He tried not to let himself think about what else the man might make him do under the influence of such a drug.
“I let it wear off,” the man continued, “because I wanted you to be aware for this part. I want you to know what you’re going to do, and why. I wanted to see your face when I told you. I’m guessing you’ll need quite a bit more Devil’s Breath for what’s coming later.”
“Later?” Neal asked, not wanting to hear the answer. “What comes later?”
The man’s smile widened sickeningly. “You kill yourself, of course.”
----
Neal squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the walls of the storage unit, which seemed to be closing in on him. The man’s words were echoing in his mind, the pain in his head was increasing and he thought he might throw up.
“Pull yourself together, Mr. Caffrey,” came the man’s voice.
Neal sucked in long breath after long breath until he felt like he could open his eyes and speak without vomiting.
“Why?” he said finally, making himself look up into the man’s face.
The smile fell away from the man’s face as he leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, bringing his face level with Neal’s, and just inches away.
“Because you deserve it,” he said, simply. He stared into Neal’s eyes, seemingly looking for something, though Neal didn’t know what. “My name is Kenneth Wilkinson,” he said. “I believe you’re familiar with my brother, Jerome.”
Jerome Wilkinson. It only took Neal a moment to remember him: a fraudster who Neal and Peter had taken down a couple of months previously. The last Neal had heard, he was out on bail, awaiting trial.
“Seriously? All this because my partner arrested your brother?” Neal gave the man - Kenneth - a contemptuous look. “He’ll get seven, eight years. He’ll be out defrauding people again in no time.”
Kenneth’s face darkened. “He’s in a coma,” he spat. “He threw himself off his balcony.”
Neal felt his stomach drop. “I - I didn’t know,” he said, mouth dry.
“I saw him do it,” Kenneth said. “I was there.” His words were like bullets, falling in the small room. “You took everything from him. And he told me - he told me that you and your Agent Burke were smiling as they took him away.”
Neal flinched. The pain and the bitterness in Jerome’s voice were hard to bear. “I’m sorry,” Neal said, trying to put all the sincerity he felt into the words. “I would never want -”
“I don’t care what you want!” Kenneth shouted, sending Neal recoiling as far as he could while bound to the chair. Kenneth leaned closer, until their faces were almost touching. “I don’t want to hear anything from you. Your only job is to sit there and listen as I tell you exactly how you’re going to kill yourself. And then you’re going to call your agent friend, and you’re going to let him know what you’re going to do, and where you’re going to do it. I take great satisfaction from knowing he'll turn up just in time to see your body.”
Neal set his jaw and forced himself to stare back into Kenneth’s eyes. “None of that is going to happen,” he said, doing all he could to keep his voice from shaking.
Kenneth straightened. “Oh, but it is,” he said, suddenly the epitome of calm. He put his hand into his pocket again, and brought out the clear packet of powder. He tipped a little, carefully, into his palm.
“Looks so innocuous, doesn’t it?” Kenneth said.
Neal pushed himself back as far as he could, straining against the ropes that tied him, his feet scrabbling against the ground. But there was nowhere to go.
Kenneth leant forward, brought his palm up, and blew the powder into Neal’s face.
----
Peter was standing by the kitchen window, swallowing down the last of his coffee as he watched the first few sparse snowflakes drift down from the overcast sky. It was seven thirty on another dull, gray January morning, made duller and grayer by the fact that El had been away on business last night and wasn’t due back until later today. He hadn’t slept well without her in bed next to him, and he was eager for the day to be over so that he could come back home and spend a quiet evening with her.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he put down his coffee mug so that he could fish it out and answer it. Caffrey.
“Hey, Neal,” he said, turning to head into the hallway. “I’m just leaving, I’ll be there to pick you up in twenty.” Neal had somehow persuaded him that a lift to work every day was essential in the month of January so that he could avoid catching any of the coughs and colds so prevalent on the subway, and thus be “more productive” at the office. Peter didn’t really mind, but he made sure to remind Neal how grateful he should be as often as possible anyway.
“Peter,” came Neal’s voice down the phone. It sounded strange. “You don’t need to pick me up.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to create a mystery illness to get the day off so you don’t have to get your hair wet in the snow -”
“I’m going to kill myself,” Neal said.
Peter stopped stock still in the hallway, one foot half-slipped into his shoe. “Neal? Is this a joke?” he asked, his stomach twisting. Something told him Neal would never joke about that.
“No,” said Neal. And then he began to explain, sounding very much like he was reciting a speech that had been written for him. His words made Peter’s blood run cold.
Peter had only heard a couple of sentences before he had thrust his feet into his shoes, yanked the front door open and ran out into the cold morning air, the cell phone pressed to his ear.
----
Peter didn’t think he’d ever been this tense before. His hands were clenched around the steering wheel so hard that the tendons hurt, his chest was painfully tight and he kept forgetting to breathe.
The roads weren’t as busy as they could have been, as he was heading out of the city, but he still cursed every other car around, as well as the snow, the slick road surfaces, and most of all, the maniac who was holding Neal.
At any other time he would have been horrified and shaken to hear that someone he’d arrested had tried to commit suicide, even though the blame didn’t rest with him. But this morning, all he could think of was Neal. Neal’s slow, monotone voice as he read out Jerome Wilkinson’s words over the phone line replayed over and over in Peter’s head. He could still hear the chilling reasoning, the description of what Neal planned to do, and the recital of the location Wilkinson had chosen. But most of all, he could hear Neal’s last words, after he’d told Peter exactly where to go to.
“You’ll be too late.”
Peter gritted his teeth, swerved around another car and pushed his foot down on the gas. And though it had been a while since he’d prayed, he sent up a silent, desperate request that Wilkinson would be wrong, that he had miscalculated the timings and not counted on the speed of Peter’s driving, and that Neal wouldn’t reach the bridge before Peter.
----
“Neal!” The word ripped itself out of Peter’s mouth as the car screeched to a stop, mounting the side of the road near the end of the bridge. The traffic on the bridge was moving slowly, and Peter knew he’d be faster on foot. He was out of the car in a second, the door slamming shut behind him as he launched himself forwards, towards the lone figure approaching the side of the bridge. He could tell it was Neal even from this distance, but his gait was different than usual. He was walking slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance.
Peter raced along the thin strip of sidewalk by the bridge’s barrier, his heart pounding, his feet thumping hard against the wet ground. He was still a couple hundred yards away from Neal, who had stopped walking, and was pulling himself up to sit on the top of the barrier.
“Neal!” Peter yelled as loudly as he could, but the name seemed to drift back towards him on the cold winter wind. Neal didn’t even look around. The yards were disappearing as Peter pushed on, but there was still too much space between them. Neal had one leg already over the barrier - and now two. Neal sat still for a moment, his hands splayed across the top of the stone barrier, and Peter yelled his name again as the distance between them dwindled further still.
This time, Neal heard his name. He looked around, and Peter saw his face: slack, empty, utterly un-Neal-like.
“Stop!” Neal said, and Peter skidded to a halt on the sidewalk, ten or so yards away from him, desperate not to do anything that would make Neal move an inch further to the edge.
“Neal?” he said, hesitantly. “It’s me, Peter.” He didn’t know how much of Neal was present right now while he was under the influence of the drug, or if he even recognized Peter.
“I know who you are,” Neal said, his voice still a dull monotone. “I know what to do if you show up early. I tell you to stay back, or I jump.”
Peter felt his breath catch and shudder in his chest. Seeing and hearing Neal like this was so alien, it was difficult to comprehend.
He forced himself to assess the situation. If he rushed forward and grabbed for Neal, Neal would push himself off the ledge, and there was no way Peter could make up the distance in time to reach him first. But if he stayed back, Neal was going to jump anyway - Wilkinson’s message had made that perfectly clear, and Neal seemed completely in his kidnapper’s thrall. His only option was to try to talk Neal down.
“Neal,” he said, carefully, searching for the words that could break through Neal’s trance. “You don’t want to do this. You’ve been drugged. This isn’t really you.”
“I do want to do this,” Neal said, looking Peter in the eye, though there seemed to be nothing behind his stare, none of Neal’s usual spark. “I need to do it. Nobody wants me on this earth. I have no purpose. There’s nothing good in me.”
Peter’s jaw clenched, rage at Wilkinson filling him to the brim. The thought of Wilkinson telling Neal those things, forcing him to believe them, making them Neal’s last thoughts, made him feel ill.
“That is not true, Neal! There is so much good in you. So much! I’ve seen it. I see it every day.”
Neal shook his head. “I can’t be dissuaded from my goal,” he said, robotically, and he turned his gaze away from Peter, back towards the nothingness in front of him.
“Wait!” Peter shouted, though he used the second when Neal turned away to lurch further forward, closing the gap. As Neal’s head turned back to him, Peter stopped still again. He was close now. Almost close enough.
“Please, Neal,” he said, trying to put everything he felt into his voice, trying to reach inside the fog that was enveloping Neal’s mind. “I want you here, alive, with me. You want that too, I know you do. Please think, Neal.”
Neal watched him with glassy eyes, his expression unmoving, and Peter started to despair. But then, for just a moment, a second, something flickered in Neal’s face. Peter wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something, some sign that Neal was there, and Peter didn’t stop to think. He just sprang forwards, banking on that second’s distraction from Neal’s goal to buy him the time to grab him.
And his hand closed around Neal’s arm, grasping damp suit jacket and solid muscle and salvation.
“No,” Neal protested weakly, but Peter was dragging him back over the barrier, pulling him to the ground and wrapping him so tightly in his embrace that Neal’s attempts to resist came to nothing. Kneeling next to him on the cold ground, Peter held Neal more fiercely than he would have thought possible, gripping him against his own body as if he would never - could never - let go. He wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking - perhaps it was both - but he didn’t care. Neal’s efforts to pull away slowed and then stopped completely, and Peter stayed exactly where he was.
“I’ve got you,” he said, over and over, into Neal’s hair, reassuring himself as much as Neal.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, holding Neal - he barely noticed the snow still gently falling on him, the traffic slowing on the bridge, the people approaching them, the enquiring words, the sound of sirens in the distance. He barely noticed anything apart from the solidity of Neal’s body in his arms, present and alive.
It was only when the ambulance arrived, called by some concerned driver, that Peter was persuaded to loosen his grip on Neal. Neal stirred in his arms, and looked up, his eyes unfocused. “Peter?” he said, softly.
“I’ve got you,” Peter said again.
----
It was warm. Wonderfully warm.
Neal woke slowly to a dull throbbing in his head, a gritty feeling in his mouth and the sound of Peter and Elizabeth talking softly nearby. He yawned, feeling groggy and slightly sick, but he could tell he was on the Burkes’ sofa, under a blanket, and he was safe.
“hospital… full check-up…” Peter was saying as Neal drifted on the edge of awareness. “….vitals all fine… monitor for a few… memory affected…”
Neal blinked a few times and tried to listen properly.
“And you’re sure the doctor said it was okay to bring him home?” Elizabeth was saying, her voice edgy with concern.
“He said to take him back tomorrow for a - oh, Neal, you’re awake!” Peter moved swiftly from the doorway where he’d been standing with El and sat down carefully on the edge of the sofa, next to Neal. He put a hand out and squeezed Neal’s shoulder, holding on for a moment and then giving a second squeeze as if to convince himself that Neal was really there. El came and sat at the end of the sofa, reaching to put her hand gently on Neal’s foot.
Neal squinted up at Peter, the living room light seeming unusually bright. “What happened?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” Peter said, carefully. His face looked drawn and tired, as if he’d been through the ringer.
“Cliff Notes version?” Neal said.
Peter smiled slightly. “You got kidnapped and drugged. I found you. You’re okay.”
Neal nodded slowly, taking it in. The gaping hole in his memory was concerning, but he was too lethargic to worry much about it right now. “Okay,” he said. “More details later. After a drink. Please.”
El patted his foot and got up, heading for the kitchen. Peter stayed where he was.
“You said I was in hospital?” Neal asked.
“You don’t remember it? You were there all day. You were conscious for most of it, but the doctor said you’re likely to have some amnesia. They did a lot of tests, though. You’re gonna be fine. You’re okay.”
Neal smiled. “You said that already.”
Peter smiled back gently. “Well…it’s important.” His gaze rested on Neal’s face, heavy with what looked like relief, and Neal wondered exactly what Peter had been through today.
“Did you catch the kidnapper?” Neal asked, though it was getting harder to form words as tiredness crept up on him again.
Peter shook his head. “Not yet. I will.”
“I know,” Neal said, yawning.
El returned with a glass of water, knelt down carefully by the couch and put the glass into Neal’s hand. He drank gratefully, letting the water soothe away some of the rough dryness from his tongue.
“Thank you,” he said when he was done and El took the glass from him. “And thank you,” he said to Peter. “For whatever you did today.” He shifted and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. “Can I sleep?”
“Sure,” Peter said, quietly. “We’ll talk more later.” He started to get up, though he looked somewhat reluctant to leave his position on the couch, even through Neal’s half-closed eyes.
“We’re gonna stay here in the room, okay?” Peter said.
“Thank you,” Neal said again. Sleep started to claim him, but as he drifted off, he felt Peter reach down and touch his shoulder one more time.
- end -