FIC: "Nightmares," PG-13
Title: Nightmares
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Off-screen torture.
Word Count: 3,400
Notes: Originally posted to collarkink has done an amazing podfic of this fic, and it can be found here.]
Summary: Neal hasn't slept for a week when he and Peter are kidnapped.
"And I did wonder - because it's now three years ago since I left prison - whether there would come a time when I would forget it, or it would be in the past as anything else might be - no, it's there every day of my life."
-Jeffrey Archer
It's an unusually easy week for the white collar crime unit. They read through cold cases, Peter spends two grumpy days in court, and Neal writes out a report for an office in Dallas that requested a consult concerning a Renoir that had gone missing from a private collection. But despite the almost leisurely pace, boost to the ego, and relatively light workload, by the end of the week Neal looks terrible.
He'd come in on Monday with bags already heavy under his eyes and explained it away with a very entertaining story about some of June's friends, a 120-foot yacht, and a Dachshund (that all took place at the edge of Neal's radius and was, from the Marshal's report on Peter's desk, all false). By Wednesday even Jones was commenting on it - Neal's eyes looked almost bruised and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. After that Peter questioned him about it. Checked his accounts, his tracker, called June--but all that Neal would say is that he's been having trouble sleeping.
Peter drives him home after they finished up work on Friday, hoping to get some answers out of him. Neal says nothing the entire drive. "Get some sleep," he says, when Neal gets out of the car at June's. "I mean it." Neal is about to respond (always gotta have the last word, don't you, Caffrey) when a man steps up behind him, carefully shows both of them the gun he has pointed at Neal's stomach, and tells them to put their cell phones on the dashboard and get out of the car.
"Don't make any sudden moves," he says. "I don't want to have to shoot you."
"We're FBI agents - do you seriously think you can get away with this?"
"I think you're going to get out of that car in the next two seconds or Neal Caffrey's going to die," the man says. Peter gets out of the car.
The gunman points them towards a black van parked on the corner. "What a cliche," Neal says dismissively as the back door opens and they crawl in. Cloths soaked in chloroform are pressed over their mouths and the last thing Peter sees is Neal looking right at him, his eyes slowly closing.
*
When Neal was seven and cold and hungry he dreamed that he could fly. He'd learned in school that heat rose and thought clouds were like his breath in winter air: warm, foggy, smelling faintly of Colgate mint. In his dreams, he left everything behind. He would look down and through the clouds he would see his school and the boys who bullied him, the teachers who ignored him, the guidance counselors who asked him too many questions in soft, worried tones that made Neal nervous.
In his dreams he grew wings and shed his clothes. They didn't fit him well anyway, they were full of holes and out of style and told everyone who looked at him that he was different. His clothes were ugly and second-hand and got him teased, pushed around, got him noticed. Neal's wings were made of steel. In his dreams, Neal had armor.
He would be strong, he vowed, when he grew up. He would be free.
When Neal was seven and alone he dreamed that he could fly.
*
When Peter comes back to consciousness he's lying on a cold stone floor in a dark, damp room. A single dim light bulb hangs from the ceiling. There are no windows, and the door has no doorknob.
Neal's in a heap across from him. He's asleep, but it's obviously not restful. He's twitching almost constantly, moaning little half-words in a constant stream. Then he starts saying "no." Saying "stop," in a soft, surprised voice. Peter shakes him awake and for a half-second his expression is unguarded. Neal jerks backwards, away from Peter, throwing his hands up in front of him. Neal's afraid, Peter realizes.
Peter has seen Neal worried before. Nervous, angry, even desperate. But seeing him like this - when he isn't in control of himself, his masks off, vulnerable - and frightened? Peter feels like he's caught a glimpse of Neal naked and from the shame clearly visible on Neal's face as he recovers himself he can tell that Neal feels similarly.
"Sorry," Neal mutters. "Bad dreams."
"Right," Peter agrees. "Sure. Do you have any idea where we are? Or who those men were?"
Neal shakes his head and starts to explore the room. "I didn't recognize them." The room is small, maybe five feet by seven feet. The door secure. Peter guesses it was originally used for storage, but has obviously been vacant for some time. It smells like mold, and the corners are thick with cobwebs.
"No accents, no identifying marks on their clothing, the unmarked van waiting - these guys are professionals."
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," Neal says, sitting down and making himself as comfortable as he can on the damp cement floor. "Might as well be settle in while we wait for the FBI to come charging in after us."
"Fine," Peter replies angrily. "We'll just sit around here like bumps on a log and wait for someone to come in and kill us."
"Sounds like a plan!"
"Strategic con-artist my ass," Peter says unhappily before settling down to sit across from Neal. They wait in silence. About five minutes later two men come in, guns drawn, and take Neal away.
*
When Neal was seventeen, high from the nerves and adrenaline of running his first big con, he dreamed he was in the rat pack. Some nights he would be Dean Martin, others Sinatra - one night after he'd been drinking heavily, he dreamed he was Lauren Bacall - it didn't really matter who. He was cool, slick, confident. He was in control of everything. When he opened his mouth to speak everyone around him stopped to listen. He had friends: partners-in-crime, peers, drinking buddies. In his dreams he had all the attention, all the answers, all the fame and money he could want. He didn't need his family. He didn't need anyone or anything.
When Neal was seventeen he dreamed he was untouchable.
*
When they bring Neal back he's shirtless, bloody, and beaten. He lets Peter check him over but assures him it's nothing serious. "They just want to prove they're not playing around."
"They broke at least two of your ribs," Peter replies angrily, carefully feeling around Neal's left side to check the damage there.
"And now we know they're serious."
"I think we got that message when they started pointing guns at us. What did they want? "
"My warehouses," Neal says, after spitting out some blood. "Stop looking at me like I'm going to fall over and die. I bit my cheek, I don't have internal bleeding."
"Your mom looks like she's going to fall over and die," is Peter's witty rejoinder as he helps Neal sit down. "Wait. Warehouses plural?"
"Alleged warehouses," Neal replies, "plural." He sighs with relief when he's comfortably seated, leaning against Peter's side for warmth in the cold room. "Someone tipped them off about how much I have stored away. I don't know who - Alex, probably. Or Kate. Or even Moz."
"Havisham wouldn't do that," Peter tells him, trying to get the sad, betrayed note out of Neal's voice. "Elizabeth likes him." Neal huffs a small laugh and then groans when it grates on his ribs. "Easy, Neal. Are you going to tell them where the warehouses are?"
"Yes. Eventually. They'll probably kill us once they find them, though, so there's not a lot of incentive to play show-and-tell anytime soon."
"Why not send them on a wild goose hunt? Give them a false address - maybe somewhere in Mexico. Or Russia."
"That's, uh. That's why you're here, Peter. They've threatened to kill you if I give them any false information. I'll buy us as much time as I can just keeping my mouth shut, but you better have your fingers crossed that Jones'll get here soon. These guys aren't the most skilled interrogator's I've had the misfortune of meeting, but they're good enough. I - I'll do the best I can, I just - "
"Everybody breaks," Peter says softly. "It's okay. I trust you." Neal's breath hitches against his side and Peter rubs a comforting hand down Neal's back. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"
"Don't want to."
"Bad dreams?"
Peter can almost hear Neal rolling his eyes. "Are you really going to psychoanalyze me while we're kidnapped?"
"Nothing better to do." Peter taps his foot against Neal's calf while he waits for Neal to say something. "Neal?" Neal ignores him. "Neal? Neal? Neal? Neal?"
"I don't know why you're so bad with children, as you're obviously at about the same stage of mental development as the average two-year-old."
"Two and a half," Peter says. "Seriously. I'm worried about you. I've been worried about you all week. Maybe if you talked about it - about whatever's been keeping you up at night - it'll help."
Neal turns to look at him. He looks - angry. And exhausted, and hurt, and frustrated. Eventually he breaks eye contact and starts talking. "When I fall asleep," he says, in an uneven voice, "I dream I'm back in prison. And I wake up and I can't tell myself that it's a nightmare, because most of the time it's just a memory." (No, Peter remembers Neal mumbling. Stop.) "And I can't tell myself that it's over and I'll never end up back there again, because for the next four years it's a very real possibility. If I take a wrong step or make a mistake or don't help you solve some especially important case quickly enough, then it's back to prison. And this time I'll have a great big flashing 'FBI snitch' target on my back.
"I mean, you remind me often enough how tenuous the conditions of my parole are. And of how many people there are even in our office who don't want me to be there. I know you like to fix things, and believe me, if there was anything you could do to help, I'd ask you to do it. But there's not. The situation is what it is."
Peter, who knows he's responsible for the entire fucked-up situation, knows that Neal is right, pulls him closer against his side and says nothing.
*
All four years he was in prison Neal dreamed of Kate.
After good days he'd dream they were alone on a boat, adrift on a wine-red sea. They'd make love with the sound of the waves crashing around them. She'd hold him, the dark water would rock them back and forth, she'd whisper promises to him in Ancient Greek, he dreamed she was a siren and he Odysseus. Kate couldn't hold a tune in a paper bag and Neal was no fighter, but he was on his way home and she wanted him (Homer couldn't have asked for more than that).
After bad days he dreamed about the look he would see on her face when he walked out of the prison doors and into her waiting arms. He daydreamed it so often during his waking hours that he had every detail down perfectly. The color of her hair and eyes and skin, the angles of her nose and cheekbones, the curves of her hips her lips her smile. He dreamed she would be be waiting for him.
When Neal dreamed of her in prison he dreamed that their love (I love you, she'd whispered, so close to him, so many times, so many nights) was real. Even after she left and he knew it was a lie, he dreamed her.
*
The next time they bring Neal back he's naked and all the fingers of his left hand are broken. There are red circles the size of cigarette burns on his arms, his face is heavily bruised. They drop him off right inside the door and he falls, unable to support his own weight. He doesn't argue when Peter lifts him up to lean against him, Neal's back against Peter's chest, both of them sitting on Peter's cheap suit jacket. He's pale and sweating. When he speaks, Peter can hear his teeth chatter, wracked with involuntary shudders.
"Do you think Jones will be here soon?" Neal asks.
Peter doubts that Jones is the one charge of whatever unit has been assigned to hunt them down, although he'll probably be included in the team that come in after them. And as his internal clock tells him that they're nearing the end of the second day of captivity, Peter is beginning to think that they might not be found. Not in time. "Yes," he tells Neal. "Try and get some rest. You want to be well-rested when the rescue party gets here, right?"
"You'll still be here?" Neal asks. "When I wake up?" He sounds so young that Peter's heart breaks for him. He's filled with fury, suddenly, to be so useless when Neal needs him so much.
"Yeah," Peter assures him. "I'm not going anywhere without you." He rubs his hands down Neal's sides, trying to keep him warm, to make him comfortable.
"When they asked for my hand," Neal says after a pause that's so long Peter had thought he'd succeeded in falling asleep, "I t- I told the guy he'd have to buy me dinner first."
"You're a funny man, Neal Caffrey," Peter tells him, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the way Neal's fingers are so horribly bent.
"They didn't think so. They - I think I'll tell them. About the vault in Albuquerque, Peter, I think I have to tell them where it is. Wait. I wasn't going to tell you where it is. In case - I wasn't going to tell you - "
Neal's attempts to pull away are pathetically weak. "Calm down, Neal, shhh, I didn't hear what you said. You were mumbling. I didn't hear anything." Peter already knew that Neal had a stash in Albuquerque (he hadn't known it was a vault, though, last time he looked, he'd thought it'd be a self-storage container).
"It's a secret," Neal tells him, getting his rapid breathing back under control.
"Okay," Peter says. "Calm down. You're safe. I got you." Neal doesn't sleep deeply enough to dream of anything at all, and Peter is selfishly grateful.
*
After Peter sprung him from the Super-Max, Neal dreamed about the FBI. He dreamed Satchmo wore Hughes' suit and yelled at him (in Elmer Fudd's voice) to fetch, roll over, play dead. He dreamed of running down endless aisles full of boxes and files marked with symbols he couldn't read, while Jones and Cruz flitted around him, their arms full of files with Neal's name on them. Files about Neal's career, his secrets, his life, his failure.
He had boring dreams about Peter's awful suit trying to take over the world, about shopping with Elizabeth, about Mozzie turning into a mole and being chased by Peter's socks.
After OPR sends him back to prison for a crime he didn't commit he dreams of nothing but black marks on grey walls, counting back the days.
*
When the door opens hours later and Clinton Jones steps in, gesturing for them to be quiet and follow him. Peter sends up a quick thank you to whatever saints heard his prayers and wakes Neal as gently as he can. "Jones is here," he whispers. "Just like you thought. You were right. So we have to go now, okay?"
Neal closes his eyes against the light of Jones' flashlights and clenches his teeth against the pain when Peter starts to move him. "No," he gasps. "Please - "
"It's okay, Neal. I'm going to carry you and we're going to get out of here, okay? Real slow, real careful." He lifts Neal into a bridal carry. Jones takes his jacket off and drapes it over Neal's torso, careful not to bump his left arm.
Neal is lighter than he should be, but is heavy enough that Peter's grateful the exit is only a few halls down. "We've got about two minutes before the cavalry starts blaring sirens and flashing lights," Jones tells him.
"How'd you know where we were?"
"Neal's friend gave us everything. The building, the blueprints, the exact room where they were keeping you."
It's daytime, Peter realizes when the last door opens. Other agents hurry them quickly towards the ambulance, and as they drive away Peter can hear the sounds of sirens and gunshots.
*
When the FBI first started chasing him, Neal dreamed Peter like a dance. A slow waltz, sometimes, or an Argentine tango, depending on how close to his trail Peter was. He'd seen Peter from afar, and dreamed he would look stunning all dressed up in a tuxedo asking Neal if he'd like to dance.
Kate had laughed when Neal told her about it. "You want to dance with Mr. Tall Dark and Hates You?"
"He doesn't hate me," Neal had admonished. "He wants me."
"Not more than I do," Kate had said, pushing him back into the mattress like it was a challenge.
The reality of Peter was very different. Neal hadn't dreamed Peter's suits or his sense of humor, hadn't dreamed the long hours or rigid moral code. He hadn't dreamed Peter's wife. The reality of Peter is that he'd look horribly awkward in a tuxedo, and step all over Neal's toes if they tried to waltz.
Sometimes, after Moz had gone back to the hole he called home and June's staff had all departed and if he had no urgent cases to work on, Neal would lie awake and think about the way Peter had smiled at him in his dreams, and the way he smiled now.
*
June meets them at the hospital. She hugs Peter first, then Elizabeth (whose face is still blotchy, tissues at the ready in her hand). "How's Neal? He's okay?"
"He will be," Elizabeth answers. "The doctors said that he has some cracked ribs, and they - they hurt his hands - "
"Broke his fingers," Peter interjected.
"Which hand?" June asks. Elizabeth looks at her, confused.
"His left," Peter answers. "He'll still be able to paint."
"And when do they think he will be released?"
Elizabeth answers before he has a chance to. "Tomorrow morning. They're still treating him for dehydration. Peter should still be in one of those beds himself - "
"I'm fine," he says. "Compared to Neal I'm fine."
"He won't be able to come back to my house," June informs them. "Your agents, operating under the mistaken belief that Neal had something to do with his own abduction, took it upon themselves to conduct an unnecessarily thorough search of his room. I'll need more than a day to clean everything and replace the couch and mattress."
"Oh, June, I'm so sorry - " June waves his apology away.
"Please. This is hardly the first time a search warrant's been issued for my address. Although your office will still be getting a very strongly worded letter from my lawyers in the morning, believe you me."
The next morning, they take him back to their home. He's about as graceful as a drunk kitten, and only Peter's arm around him keeps him moving forward. Elizabeth clears the path to the master bedroom but Neal stalls in the doorway. "Not my room," he says.
"No, it's not, but you're going to sleep here for now.
Neal looks confused. "Where are you going to sleep?"
"In the bed, if it's okay with you."
Neal blinks at him. "What bed?"
"You are going to sleep in this bed, and so are we. That way we can keep an eye on you."
Elizabeth looks up from fluffing the pillows. "There's absolutely no way I'm going to let you sleep on the couch in the condition you're in right now, mister, so don't even think about it!"
Neal reluctantly lies down on their bed, still looking around like he doesn't quite know where he is or what they're doing.
"Neal," Peter says to him quietly while making sure his ribs aren't stressed unnecessarily the position he's in, "when we were - when we were kidnapped, I noticed that you seemed to rest a bit easier when I was close by. But if you don't want me or Elizabeth here, just tell us, and we'll leave."
"I told Kate you wanted me," Neal mumbles. Elizabeth raises an skeptical eyebrow. "But you don't get your dance until you let Elizabeth buy you a new suit." Peter shakes his head, Elizabeth laughs and agrees, and Neal falls asleep.
*
In the Burke's bed, with the sound of Peter snoring away behind him and Elizabeth's absentminded mutterings as she reads the New York Times in front of him, Neal dreams that he can fly.
(please reply if you've got the time!)
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Off-screen torture.
Word Count: 3,400
Notes: Originally posted to collarkink has done an amazing podfic of this fic, and it can be found here.]
Summary: Neal hasn't slept for a week when he and Peter are kidnapped.
"And I did wonder - because it's now three years ago since I left prison - whether there would come a time when I would forget it, or it would be in the past as anything else might be - no, it's there every day of my life."
-Jeffrey Archer
It's an unusually easy week for the white collar crime unit. They read through cold cases, Peter spends two grumpy days in court, and Neal writes out a report for an office in Dallas that requested a consult concerning a Renoir that had gone missing from a private collection. But despite the almost leisurely pace, boost to the ego, and relatively light workload, by the end of the week Neal looks terrible.
He'd come in on Monday with bags already heavy under his eyes and explained it away with a very entertaining story about some of June's friends, a 120-foot yacht, and a Dachshund (that all took place at the edge of Neal's radius and was, from the Marshal's report on Peter's desk, all false). By Wednesday even Jones was commenting on it - Neal's eyes looked almost bruised and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. After that Peter questioned him about it. Checked his accounts, his tracker, called June--but all that Neal would say is that he's been having trouble sleeping.
Peter drives him home after they finished up work on Friday, hoping to get some answers out of him. Neal says nothing the entire drive. "Get some sleep," he says, when Neal gets out of the car at June's. "I mean it." Neal is about to respond (always gotta have the last word, don't you, Caffrey) when a man steps up behind him, carefully shows both of them the gun he has pointed at Neal's stomach, and tells them to put their cell phones on the dashboard and get out of the car.
"Don't make any sudden moves," he says. "I don't want to have to shoot you."
"We're FBI agents - do you seriously think you can get away with this?"
"I think you're going to get out of that car in the next two seconds or Neal Caffrey's going to die," the man says. Peter gets out of the car.
The gunman points them towards a black van parked on the corner. "What a cliche," Neal says dismissively as the back door opens and they crawl in. Cloths soaked in chloroform are pressed over their mouths and the last thing Peter sees is Neal looking right at him, his eyes slowly closing.
*
When Neal was seven and cold and hungry he dreamed that he could fly. He'd learned in school that heat rose and thought clouds were like his breath in winter air: warm, foggy, smelling faintly of Colgate mint. In his dreams, he left everything behind. He would look down and through the clouds he would see his school and the boys who bullied him, the teachers who ignored him, the guidance counselors who asked him too many questions in soft, worried tones that made Neal nervous.
In his dreams he grew wings and shed his clothes. They didn't fit him well anyway, they were full of holes and out of style and told everyone who looked at him that he was different. His clothes were ugly and second-hand and got him teased, pushed around, got him noticed. Neal's wings were made of steel. In his dreams, Neal had armor.
He would be strong, he vowed, when he grew up. He would be free.
When Neal was seven and alone he dreamed that he could fly.
*
When Peter comes back to consciousness he's lying on a cold stone floor in a dark, damp room. A single dim light bulb hangs from the ceiling. There are no windows, and the door has no doorknob.
Neal's in a heap across from him. He's asleep, but it's obviously not restful. He's twitching almost constantly, moaning little half-words in a constant stream. Then he starts saying "no." Saying "stop," in a soft, surprised voice. Peter shakes him awake and for a half-second his expression is unguarded. Neal jerks backwards, away from Peter, throwing his hands up in front of him. Neal's afraid, Peter realizes.
Peter has seen Neal worried before. Nervous, angry, even desperate. But seeing him like this - when he isn't in control of himself, his masks off, vulnerable - and frightened? Peter feels like he's caught a glimpse of Neal naked and from the shame clearly visible on Neal's face as he recovers himself he can tell that Neal feels similarly.
"Sorry," Neal mutters. "Bad dreams."
"Right," Peter agrees. "Sure. Do you have any idea where we are? Or who those men were?"
Neal shakes his head and starts to explore the room. "I didn't recognize them." The room is small, maybe five feet by seven feet. The door secure. Peter guesses it was originally used for storage, but has obviously been vacant for some time. It smells like mold, and the corners are thick with cobwebs.
"No accents, no identifying marks on their clothing, the unmarked van waiting - these guys are professionals."
"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," Neal says, sitting down and making himself as comfortable as he can on the damp cement floor. "Might as well be settle in while we wait for the FBI to come charging in after us."
"Fine," Peter replies angrily. "We'll just sit around here like bumps on a log and wait for someone to come in and kill us."
"Sounds like a plan!"
"Strategic con-artist my ass," Peter says unhappily before settling down to sit across from Neal. They wait in silence. About five minutes later two men come in, guns drawn, and take Neal away.
*
When Neal was seventeen, high from the nerves and adrenaline of running his first big con, he dreamed he was in the rat pack. Some nights he would be Dean Martin, others Sinatra - one night after he'd been drinking heavily, he dreamed he was Lauren Bacall - it didn't really matter who. He was cool, slick, confident. He was in control of everything. When he opened his mouth to speak everyone around him stopped to listen. He had friends: partners-in-crime, peers, drinking buddies. In his dreams he had all the attention, all the answers, all the fame and money he could want. He didn't need his family. He didn't need anyone or anything.
When Neal was seventeen he dreamed he was untouchable.
*
When they bring Neal back he's shirtless, bloody, and beaten. He lets Peter check him over but assures him it's nothing serious. "They just want to prove they're not playing around."
"They broke at least two of your ribs," Peter replies angrily, carefully feeling around Neal's left side to check the damage there.
"And now we know they're serious."
"I think we got that message when they started pointing guns at us. What did they want? "
"My warehouses," Neal says, after spitting out some blood. "Stop looking at me like I'm going to fall over and die. I bit my cheek, I don't have internal bleeding."
"Your mom looks like she's going to fall over and die," is Peter's witty rejoinder as he helps Neal sit down. "Wait. Warehouses plural?"
"Alleged warehouses," Neal replies, "plural." He sighs with relief when he's comfortably seated, leaning against Peter's side for warmth in the cold room. "Someone tipped them off about how much I have stored away. I don't know who - Alex, probably. Or Kate. Or even Moz."
"Havisham wouldn't do that," Peter tells him, trying to get the sad, betrayed note out of Neal's voice. "Elizabeth likes him." Neal huffs a small laugh and then groans when it grates on his ribs. "Easy, Neal. Are you going to tell them where the warehouses are?"
"Yes. Eventually. They'll probably kill us once they find them, though, so there's not a lot of incentive to play show-and-tell anytime soon."
"Why not send them on a wild goose hunt? Give them a false address - maybe somewhere in Mexico. Or Russia."
"That's, uh. That's why you're here, Peter. They've threatened to kill you if I give them any false information. I'll buy us as much time as I can just keeping my mouth shut, but you better have your fingers crossed that Jones'll get here soon. These guys aren't the most skilled interrogator's I've had the misfortune of meeting, but they're good enough. I - I'll do the best I can, I just - "
"Everybody breaks," Peter says softly. "It's okay. I trust you." Neal's breath hitches against his side and Peter rubs a comforting hand down Neal's back. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"
"Don't want to."
"Bad dreams?"
Peter can almost hear Neal rolling his eyes. "Are you really going to psychoanalyze me while we're kidnapped?"
"Nothing better to do." Peter taps his foot against Neal's calf while he waits for Neal to say something. "Neal?" Neal ignores him. "Neal? Neal? Neal? Neal?"
"I don't know why you're so bad with children, as you're obviously at about the same stage of mental development as the average two-year-old."
"Two and a half," Peter says. "Seriously. I'm worried about you. I've been worried about you all week. Maybe if you talked about it - about whatever's been keeping you up at night - it'll help."
Neal turns to look at him. He looks - angry. And exhausted, and hurt, and frustrated. Eventually he breaks eye contact and starts talking. "When I fall asleep," he says, in an uneven voice, "I dream I'm back in prison. And I wake up and I can't tell myself that it's a nightmare, because most of the time it's just a memory." (No, Peter remembers Neal mumbling. Stop.) "And I can't tell myself that it's over and I'll never end up back there again, because for the next four years it's a very real possibility. If I take a wrong step or make a mistake or don't help you solve some especially important case quickly enough, then it's back to prison. And this time I'll have a great big flashing 'FBI snitch' target on my back.
"I mean, you remind me often enough how tenuous the conditions of my parole are. And of how many people there are even in our office who don't want me to be there. I know you like to fix things, and believe me, if there was anything you could do to help, I'd ask you to do it. But there's not. The situation is what it is."
Peter, who knows he's responsible for the entire fucked-up situation, knows that Neal is right, pulls him closer against his side and says nothing.
*
All four years he was in prison Neal dreamed of Kate.
After good days he'd dream they were alone on a boat, adrift on a wine-red sea. They'd make love with the sound of the waves crashing around them. She'd hold him, the dark water would rock them back and forth, she'd whisper promises to him in Ancient Greek, he dreamed she was a siren and he Odysseus. Kate couldn't hold a tune in a paper bag and Neal was no fighter, but he was on his way home and she wanted him (Homer couldn't have asked for more than that).
After bad days he dreamed about the look he would see on her face when he walked out of the prison doors and into her waiting arms. He daydreamed it so often during his waking hours that he had every detail down perfectly. The color of her hair and eyes and skin, the angles of her nose and cheekbones, the curves of her hips her lips her smile. He dreamed she would be be waiting for him.
When Neal dreamed of her in prison he dreamed that their love (I love you, she'd whispered, so close to him, so many times, so many nights) was real. Even after she left and he knew it was a lie, he dreamed her.
*
The next time they bring Neal back he's naked and all the fingers of his left hand are broken. There are red circles the size of cigarette burns on his arms, his face is heavily bruised. They drop him off right inside the door and he falls, unable to support his own weight. He doesn't argue when Peter lifts him up to lean against him, Neal's back against Peter's chest, both of them sitting on Peter's cheap suit jacket. He's pale and sweating. When he speaks, Peter can hear his teeth chatter, wracked with involuntary shudders.
"Do you think Jones will be here soon?" Neal asks.
Peter doubts that Jones is the one charge of whatever unit has been assigned to hunt them down, although he'll probably be included in the team that come in after them. And as his internal clock tells him that they're nearing the end of the second day of captivity, Peter is beginning to think that they might not be found. Not in time. "Yes," he tells Neal. "Try and get some rest. You want to be well-rested when the rescue party gets here, right?"
"You'll still be here?" Neal asks. "When I wake up?" He sounds so young that Peter's heart breaks for him. He's filled with fury, suddenly, to be so useless when Neal needs him so much.
"Yeah," Peter assures him. "I'm not going anywhere without you." He rubs his hands down Neal's sides, trying to keep him warm, to make him comfortable.
"When they asked for my hand," Neal says after a pause that's so long Peter had thought he'd succeeded in falling asleep, "I t- I told the guy he'd have to buy me dinner first."
"You're a funny man, Neal Caffrey," Peter tells him, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to look at the way Neal's fingers are so horribly bent.
"They didn't think so. They - I think I'll tell them. About the vault in Albuquerque, Peter, I think I have to tell them where it is. Wait. I wasn't going to tell you where it is. In case - I wasn't going to tell you - "
Neal's attempts to pull away are pathetically weak. "Calm down, Neal, shhh, I didn't hear what you said. You were mumbling. I didn't hear anything." Peter already knew that Neal had a stash in Albuquerque (he hadn't known it was a vault, though, last time he looked, he'd thought it'd be a self-storage container).
"It's a secret," Neal tells him, getting his rapid breathing back under control.
"Okay," Peter says. "Calm down. You're safe. I got you." Neal doesn't sleep deeply enough to dream of anything at all, and Peter is selfishly grateful.
*
After Peter sprung him from the Super-Max, Neal dreamed about the FBI. He dreamed Satchmo wore Hughes' suit and yelled at him (in Elmer Fudd's voice) to fetch, roll over, play dead. He dreamed of running down endless aisles full of boxes and files marked with symbols he couldn't read, while Jones and Cruz flitted around him, their arms full of files with Neal's name on them. Files about Neal's career, his secrets, his life, his failure.
He had boring dreams about Peter's awful suit trying to take over the world, about shopping with Elizabeth, about Mozzie turning into a mole and being chased by Peter's socks.
After OPR sends him back to prison for a crime he didn't commit he dreams of nothing but black marks on grey walls, counting back the days.
*
When the door opens hours later and Clinton Jones steps in, gesturing for them to be quiet and follow him. Peter sends up a quick thank you to whatever saints heard his prayers and wakes Neal as gently as he can. "Jones is here," he whispers. "Just like you thought. You were right. So we have to go now, okay?"
Neal closes his eyes against the light of Jones' flashlights and clenches his teeth against the pain when Peter starts to move him. "No," he gasps. "Please - "
"It's okay, Neal. I'm going to carry you and we're going to get out of here, okay? Real slow, real careful." He lifts Neal into a bridal carry. Jones takes his jacket off and drapes it over Neal's torso, careful not to bump his left arm.
Neal is lighter than he should be, but is heavy enough that Peter's grateful the exit is only a few halls down. "We've got about two minutes before the cavalry starts blaring sirens and flashing lights," Jones tells him.
"How'd you know where we were?"
"Neal's friend gave us everything. The building, the blueprints, the exact room where they were keeping you."
It's daytime, Peter realizes when the last door opens. Other agents hurry them quickly towards the ambulance, and as they drive away Peter can hear the sounds of sirens and gunshots.
*
When the FBI first started chasing him, Neal dreamed Peter like a dance. A slow waltz, sometimes, or an Argentine tango, depending on how close to his trail Peter was. He'd seen Peter from afar, and dreamed he would look stunning all dressed up in a tuxedo asking Neal if he'd like to dance.
Kate had laughed when Neal told her about it. "You want to dance with Mr. Tall Dark and Hates You?"
"He doesn't hate me," Neal had admonished. "He wants me."
"Not more than I do," Kate had said, pushing him back into the mattress like it was a challenge.
The reality of Peter was very different. Neal hadn't dreamed Peter's suits or his sense of humor, hadn't dreamed the long hours or rigid moral code. He hadn't dreamed Peter's wife. The reality of Peter is that he'd look horribly awkward in a tuxedo, and step all over Neal's toes if they tried to waltz.
Sometimes, after Moz had gone back to the hole he called home and June's staff had all departed and if he had no urgent cases to work on, Neal would lie awake and think about the way Peter had smiled at him in his dreams, and the way he smiled now.
*
June meets them at the hospital. She hugs Peter first, then Elizabeth (whose face is still blotchy, tissues at the ready in her hand). "How's Neal? He's okay?"
"He will be," Elizabeth answers. "The doctors said that he has some cracked ribs, and they - they hurt his hands - "
"Broke his fingers," Peter interjected.
"Which hand?" June asks. Elizabeth looks at her, confused.
"His left," Peter answers. "He'll still be able to paint."
"And when do they think he will be released?"
Elizabeth answers before he has a chance to. "Tomorrow morning. They're still treating him for dehydration. Peter should still be in one of those beds himself - "
"I'm fine," he says. "Compared to Neal I'm fine."
"He won't be able to come back to my house," June informs them. "Your agents, operating under the mistaken belief that Neal had something to do with his own abduction, took it upon themselves to conduct an unnecessarily thorough search of his room. I'll need more than a day to clean everything and replace the couch and mattress."
"Oh, June, I'm so sorry - " June waves his apology away.
"Please. This is hardly the first time a search warrant's been issued for my address. Although your office will still be getting a very strongly worded letter from my lawyers in the morning, believe you me."
The next morning, they take him back to their home. He's about as graceful as a drunk kitten, and only Peter's arm around him keeps him moving forward. Elizabeth clears the path to the master bedroom but Neal stalls in the doorway. "Not my room," he says.
"No, it's not, but you're going to sleep here for now.
Neal looks confused. "Where are you going to sleep?"
"In the bed, if it's okay with you."
Neal blinks at him. "What bed?"
"You are going to sleep in this bed, and so are we. That way we can keep an eye on you."
Elizabeth looks up from fluffing the pillows. "There's absolutely no way I'm going to let you sleep on the couch in the condition you're in right now, mister, so don't even think about it!"
Neal reluctantly lies down on their bed, still looking around like he doesn't quite know where he is or what they're doing.
"Neal," Peter says to him quietly while making sure his ribs aren't stressed unnecessarily the position he's in, "when we were - when we were kidnapped, I noticed that you seemed to rest a bit easier when I was close by. But if you don't want me or Elizabeth here, just tell us, and we'll leave."
"I told Kate you wanted me," Neal mumbles. Elizabeth raises an skeptical eyebrow. "But you don't get your dance until you let Elizabeth buy you a new suit." Peter shakes his head, Elizabeth laughs and agrees, and Neal falls asleep.
*
In the Burke's bed, with the sound of Peter snoring away behind him and Elizabeth's absentminded mutterings as she reads the New York Times in front of him, Neal dreams that he can fly.
(please reply if you've got the time!)