White Collar - "Two Sugars, No Pain" - 2/3
Title: Two Sugars, No Pain
Chapter: 2 of 3
Author: TeeJay
Summary: Alex, Fowler, Kate, the music box and a secret code. Things come to a head and Mozzie ends up in the crosshairs. My take on the sequel to episode 2x09 'Point Blank'.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Mozzie, Peter/Elizabeth
Warning: Spoilers for anything up to and including 2x09 "Point Blank"
Author's Note: Thank you once again to the wonderful rabidchild67 for beta-reading.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Peter swiveled his chair around to face his office window. The world outside was shrouded in gray, heavy rain drops beating against the window panes, driven diagonally across them by gusts of wind.
He left his office, his eyes searching for the one person he wanted to see least but needed to talk to most. He came up empty. Jones was hunched over his desk, scribbling down something on a piece of paper.
Peter walked down the stairs and to his colleague's desk. "Where's Caffrey?"
Clinton looked up, surprised. "He's right-"
"Here?" Peter finished for him.
"He was here a minute ago."
"Dammit, Jones, didn't I tell you not to let him out of your sight?"
Jones had already pulled up Neal's tracking data on his computer. What he saw made his forehead crease in a frown. "Says he's right here, in the building."
Peter stared at the screen, just as baffled.
"Want me to check out his place, see if he's there? Or the hospital?"
"No. I think I might know where he is."
"Want me to come with you?"
"No. I'm good."
The elevator only went up to the 24th floor. To get onto the roof, you had to walk the last flight of stairs. The wind almost ripped the door out of his hand when Peter opened it. His instincts had been right. He could make out Neal's silhouette, hunched over the edge of the roof.
Peter wrapped his arms around himself to prevent the wind from flapping his jacket open. His hair was wet within seconds from the steady, heavy rainfall. He walked up to where Neal was standing, stopping next to him, keeping enough of a distance not to intrude. "You're not thinking about jumping, are you?"
"Not my method of choice."
"It'd be definite, though."
"Maybe, but the last few seconds before the impact would be terrifying."
There was an awkward silence. Peter looked sideways, unable to tell if Neal's face was wet from tears or the rain-or both. Unsure how to start, he stumbled over the words. "Neal, look..."
Neal lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. His voice was as icy as the sharp wind that turned the corners of the angular rooftop structures. "Don't."
It stopped Peter cold, but only for a second. "You understand that you're putting me in an impossible position, don't you? Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you?"
Neal just shrugged and hunched his back. Peter suspected he was on the verge of breaking down. He had caught the young man at his most vulnerable. He decided not to nudge the tightrope of Neal's delicate balancing act.
Small steps. "You could start by telling me where the evidence bag is."
It took a few seconds for Neal to regain his composure. "In the space behind the panel at the top left of the fireplace."
It was a start. "What did you find?"
"Nothing. It was squeaky clean." Neal turned towards Peter, meeting his eyes. "Tell me you have something."
Peter hesitated. He had sworn he wouldn't tell Neal about Larssen. "We have something," he just said.
"Care to elaborate?"
"No. This is where it stops. This is all you need to know. You have lost the right to be a part of this investigation. You have lost the right to be a part of this team. You will not, under any circumstance, and I mean any circumstance, do anything that has not been approved by me or Jones or Diana. Before you leave to go anywhere other than to the toilet, you will run it by me. If I catch you doing anything or going anywhere that has not been authorized, you are back in jail faster than you can say 'lawyer'. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Neal said with a clarity to his voice that surprised even Peter.
"Good." A silent minute passed, and Peter shuddered. "Damn, it's cold out here. Come on."
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Peter didn't pay any attention to the questioning gazes of his fellow agents as he ushered a dripping wet Neal through the office to the men's room. "Stay here."
A few minutes later he came back in with a towel and a pair of jeans, sneakers, a white t shirt and a dark blue hoodie that had the letters YALE sewn on the front. He handed them to Neal with the words, "This is the best I could find."
Neal looked at the clothes with a certain kind of disdain. He couldn't remember when he'd last worn a pair of blue jeans.
Peter could read it in the young man's face. He warningly lifted up his hands. "Don't say it. Be thankful for small favors, Caffrey."
Neal accepted the attire. "Thanks," he muttered.
Leaning against the sink, Peter had to hide a small grin that played at the corners of his mouth despite himself when Neal came out of the stall. The clothes fit well enough, and what he saw was almost like a younger version of himself during his college years. Well, maybe a little more attractive than the college version of himself.
"Don't you have work to do? Isn't there someone else who can babysit me?"
"No, what you need is a hot bath. Which is why I'm having Jones take you home."
"Peter," Neal protested, but to no avail.
Just as Neal was about to head for the door, Peter took him by the upper arm in a firm grip. "You need to understand that I mean what I said earlier. I will be checking your anklet. No stunts, no nothing. If you so much as move one inch outside of June's house without explicit permission, I am going to sic a patrol car on you. You will stay put and you will come to the office only when we need you to. You will not go to the hospital without my knowledge."
"Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect $200."
Peter's gaze on Neal was stern. "Neal, this is not a joke."
Neal's expression turned serious, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His voice was sincere. "I know." He looked down at the tiled floor, and in a low voice added, "And I do appreciate that you're not putting me back in jail."
Peter's eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin line. "Don't thank me yet. This isn't over."
Neal swallowed but let it go. Even though he'd tried not to let it show, jail had been difficult. He'd mostly kept to himself, kept his head buried in the books. He'd gotten his GED, done his duties in the laundry room and stayed away from the bullies and illicit power games as best as he could. He realized once more how lucky he should consider himself for Peter putting up with him, offering him a life outside of concrete walls and iron bars when he didn't have to.
He felt the grip on his upper arm loosen. "Jones is waiting outside."
Neal just nodded and left the men's room.
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Two quavers, the half rest, the semiquavers, the clef. It just didn't make sense. Neal had been staring at what was supposed to be Mozzie's Eureka for over an hour, trying to figure out what it was supposed to mean.
"Dammit, Mozzie, what are you trying to show me?" he muttered to himself. He desperately needed his friend to wake up, to tell him the secrets of the music box.
Frustration was grabbing a hold of him, not only at his ineptitude to decipher the code's meaning, but also at the unmistakable signs that standing out in the pouring rain yesterday had not been the best of ideas.
His head was pounding, his throat hurt with every swallow, and he was feeling chills wash over him. The breakfast June had brought up stood untouched on the table in front of him. The half full mug of tea in front of him had gone lukewarm, and his stomach turned at the idea of eating solid foods.
He fought with the decision of going back to bed or getting dressed. Lying in his bed wasn't getting him or Mozzie anywhere, so he stood up and went into the bathroom to find some Tylenol.
Before he could leave the house, he'd have to make a phone call and ask for permission. He did it without thinking twice, knowing full well that this time, he had stretched the limits. It was a conscious choice on Neal's part to call Jones instead of Peter.
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This was progress. Neal noticed that the number of perfusors next to Mozzie's bed had gone down. Less painkillers? Less antibiotics? But that was the only visible change he could make out. The nurses couldn't tell him anything beyond that he was doing as well as expected.
He was smart enough not to actually go into Mozzie's room. A respiratory tract infection could wreak havoc on Moz's immune system, and Neal knew not to take that chance. He stood silent vigil outside the window that looked into the room, tuning out the noises around him.
There was an almost rhythmic quality to the up and down of the waves on Mozzie's heart monitor. Neal tried to replay the melody of the music box in his head, but only came up with nonsensical tones and notes. Snippets from a recent conversation with Mozzie played in his head.
"Additive code, Morse, Bordeaux, set theory, logarithmic and geographic-every kind of cipher. Unless, uhm, GLARVENDKKGLL means something to you, then it's still just noise."
"Aren't you gonna go in?" a familiar voice behind him pulled him from his reverie.
He turned around. "Elizabeth," he softly greeted her. "Did Peter send you to check up on me?"
She came to stand next to him, choosing not to answer the question. "How's he doing?"
Neal shrugged. "You know. No change."
"And you?"
Neal wasn't surprised at the question. Elizabeth was probably the most caring person in his life right now. "I'm fine." It had become his litany, almost like an automated reaction to a question posed too often.
Of course she knew he was far from fine. She looked up at him, taking in the paleness of his face, his slightly glassy eyes. She gently took his hand, he needed the support. It felt dry and hot in hers.
Concern immediately edged a frown into her features. "Neal, honey." She felt his forehead. "Are you running a fever?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine, Elizabeth," he reiterated, and maybe it was wasn't so much a lie as more a vain attempt to convince himself and his uncooperative body of the same thing.
"You should be in bed."
He looked at her, suddenly feeling very weak and feeble. He had to fight hard not to give in to the impulse to lean against her for support.
As if she could read his mind, she gently wrapped her arm around him and guided him away. "Come on, let's take you home."
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She took another look at Neal, now tucked in under the covers in his bed, already drifting off into an exhausted sleep. He'd protested multiple times that she didn't have to stay, but he hadn't been able to fool her with his perpetual 'I'm okay' reprise.
She felt a pang of sympathy as she watched him from across the room. He looked very innocent and child-like. It was hard to believe he could be capable of the willful deceit Peter and the FBI had been subjected to.
She felt very uncomfortable to be caught in the middle of this tug of war, especially since she had a certain understanding for both sides. Still, her loyalties lay with her husband, and she hoped that Peter would not be mad at her for trying to make this as easy for Neal as she could. With Mozzie put out of action, who did Neal have to turn to for help?
Her gaze wandered across the apartment. Neal was a nitpicker and very much a tidy person. She picked up the few stray items of clothing, putting them where she thought they belonged. She wasn't sure what he did with his suits. She'd have to ask June if she knew where he usually had them dry cleaned. An uncharacteristic pair of jeans and a hoodie had carelessly been dropped on the floor, and she briefly wondered where they had come from. She had never seen Neal anything other than impeccably clothed in suit and dress shirt, sometimes a turtleneck if he felt casual.
Over by the kitchenette sink she found a few dirty dishes, which she started washing, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She jumped when her phone went off in her purse.
"Hey Honey," she greeted her husband.
"El, where are you? Am I mixing up the dates? Weren't we supposed to have lunch together?"
She looked at her watch. "Oh shoot. I'm sorry. Time got away from me."
"Where are you? In the office? I can swing by."
"No, I'm at Neal's."
"Neal's?"
"Yeah. He's sick."
"Sick? What do you mean, sick?"
She smiled. Peter could be so adorably clueless sometimes. "You know, chills, fever, sore throat, headache. Also known as the common cold. You had it only last spring, remember?"
"How does Neal get sick?"
"Oh, come on, Honey. He's not superhuman."
"Is he going to live?"
"He's sleeping now. It'll be a few days before he's back on his feet. I'm just finishing up here. You want to meet at home?"
"Yeah. Twenty minutes?"
"Better make that half an hour. See you there."
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Peter impatiently drummed his fingers on the mouse pad of his computer. Server trouble with the FBI database again? His query was taking ages to load.
Nothing had been forthcoming about Larssen since yesterday, and Hughes had dropped another high profile case in his lap that he couldn't put on the backburner. Resources in the White Collar division were thin, and with Neal incapacitated, they were also a man short. Or rather, a CI short. He hated to admit it, but their cases moved along a lot faster when Neal was helping them.
At least he was keeping his end of the bargain. So far he'd called in any trip he had made (Peter had checked), which meant there was hope for him yet. Sometimes all it took was a little rattle of the cage to bring someone to their senses. Only Neal's cage had been hit by something more like an earthquake-sized tremor.
Peter's cell phone rang, and he picked it up, even though the caller ID didn't look familiar.
"Agent Burke?" a female voice asked.
"Speaking."
"This is Kathleen Salinger, from Downtown Hospital. You said you wanted to be notified when Mr. Haversham regained consciousness."
"Yes, thank you. I'm on my way."
He hung up and put his finger to his pursed lips, contemplating whether to call Neal or not. They hadn't talked since yesterday, and if he was honest with himself, Peter didn't feel the urge to engage in any kind of conversation with him right now.
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"Hello?"
Peter hardly recognized the groggy voice at the other end of the phone.
He didn't feel like bothering with pleasantries. "Get dressed. I will pick you up in half an hour."
"To go where?" Neal asked.
"Just be ready." Peter hung up after that.
Neal let his head sink back onto the pillow. A dull ache throbbed in his throat and behind his eyes and he closed them again. 'Just five more minutes,' he thought, trying to gather the strength to leave the warm comfort of his bed.
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Standing in front of Neal's apartment, the rap on the door didn't elicit any response from its occupant. June's housekeeper had let him in. Most of June's staff knew who he was by now.
He knocked again, but there was no answer. He considered his next move for a second, and then turned the doorknob. It was open.
He closed the door behind him, surveying the scene. He could make out Neal's form underneath the covers in his bed, and suddenly he felt like an intruder. He considered leaving again, or maybe just going outside again to hammer on the door until he woke up, but then thought the better of either idea.
Directing his gaze at the antique oak bed, there still was no response, no stir. Unexpected worry scraped at Peter's innards, which prompted him to take a hesitant few steps closer. There was a distinct possibility Neal had taken a turn for the worse and needed professional medical assistance.
Just then, the young man stirred just slightly, shifting to another position. Peter held his breath, unsure how to react. He started to reach out his hand to shake Neal's shoulder, but stopped just shy of touching him. Neal's chest rose and fell with even breaths, and the resentment in Peter's gut gave way to something more akin to fatherly concern.
"Neal?" he asked. "Neal?" he tried again a little louder.
Neal opened his eyes, bewildered and disoriented for a second. "Peter?" he said in a croaky voice.
"Yeah. In the flesh. Elizabeth was right, you are pretty out of it. Didn't think I'd see the day."
"Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," Neal quipped with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Get dressed. Mozzie's starting to regain consciousness."
Neal was on his feet in two seconds. Unfortunately, his brain and blood pressure weren't keeping up with the rest of his body, so he momentarily swayed and had to grab a hold of the bed's headrest.
"Whoa, easy there." Peter was by his side in one stride.
Neal held up a hand to stop him.
Peter could feel another one of the countless attestations of 'fine' coming. With a weary eye, he stood back, trying to fill the space with something meaningful to say for the long few seconds until Neal had steadied himself.
Before he could jerk out something that would undoubtedly sound awkward, Neal asked, "Did you see him?"
"Yes. Just before I got here."
"How is he doing?"
"Okay, under the circumstances. They've taken him off the ventilator. They didn't let me into his room."
Neal started rummaging through his wardrobe, then made his way towards the bathroom.
Peter watched him carefully. "You know, suddenly I'm not sure anymore if it's such a good idea to take you to the hospital. You can barely walk straight."
Neal turned to face him, looked him square in the eyes. "You'd want to be there if it was your friend."
Peter narrowed his eyes for a moment, then softened. As much as he deserved to be punished for screwing up, it was apparent to Peter that he couldn't be cruel enough to keep Neal away from one of the few true friends that he had in his life.
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Neal was sweating even before he entered Mozzie's room. He wasn't sure if it was from his overactive immune system, the heavy, impermeable hospital gown they had been told to put on, or both. Apparently, there was a case of MRSA going around in the ICU, and everyone was asked to take precautions to prevent further spreading.
Neal felt a drop of sweat trickling down his spine. He tried to adjust the surgical mask, noticing out of the corner of his eyes that Peter looked just as uncomfortable. Still, this was probably for the better, seeing how the cold still had Neal tight in its grasp.
It wasn't lost on Neal that Peter was trying to stay close. Peter was many things, but he clearly wasn't stupid. He knew full well that Mozzie and Neal had their own secrets, their own theories, their own world of intellectual hiding places and conman mutuality. And he wasn't about to let Neal get a foot in the door that led to Mozzie's almost-assassin.
Entering Mozzie's room, Neal felt his confidence crumbling. This frightened him, confidence was his middle name, it was ingrained in his very being. He was out of his element here-in every way imaginable. He swallowed and stepped closer to the bed, unsure what to expect.
Mozzie was awake, though his eyelids were drooping a little. Recognition flickered across his friend's face when Neal came into view. His voice was croaky, almost chipper. "So nice of you to come."
Neal couldn't hide a smile. "Of course, Moz. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one."
"Emerson," Mozzie replied feebly.
"I see you haven't lost your touch."
Moz turned his head slightly to look at Peter. "You brought the Suit."
Peter quipped, "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."
It took Mozzie some effort to try to sound buoyant, and he didn't quite succeed. "Sun Tzu, though the origin is still in dispute."
There was a brief silence. Neal's gaze wandered across the bed to Peter, his eyes quietly begging to have a moment alone with Moz, but Peter didn't acquiesce. They both knew there was no sense in beating around the bush.
Peter made the first move. "Mozzie, do you remember who shot you?"
"I was shot?"
Peter's eyes widened. Memory loss?
But then Mozzie continued. "Of course I was shot. In the park. I was holding a cup of peppermint tea. Two sugars. No pain. Very strange sensation."
Peter fumbled awkwardly with the light green surgical garb, producing a photo from underneath it. "Is this the guy?"
Mozzie squinted his eyes. "Glasses," he said to Neal, who found them on the bedside table and gingerly put them on Mozzie's face.
He studied the photo, the effort straining him visibly. "My recall of recent events is somewhat hazy."
Peter sighed but tried not to show it. He'd hoped that Mozzie would be able to give them their next clue. Any clue.
Neal's eyes were intent on his friend. "And the music box code?"
"Point seven zero zero one zero."
"What does that mean?"
Moz frowned. "I don't know. It just popped into my head."
"It's the number that was on the note in the antique shop. It doesn't mean anything to you?"
Mozzie closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again with visible effort. His voice was beginning to slur slightly. "I'm afraid not."
"Dammit," Neal hissed. This startled Peter, Neal usually wasn't one to give in to mundane utterings such as swearing.
The look on Mozzie's face was somewhat apologetic, and Neal quickly touched his arm. "It's okay, Moz."
Peter looked at Mozzie who looked like he was drifting off to sleep, then at Neal. "We should let him get some rest."
Neal just nodded but didn't move. He looked like he was still hoping for a chance to have a private moment with his friend.
"Neal. Let's go," Peter urged a little more forcefully.
In the ICU's waiting room, they both discarded the scrubs into a laundry bag. The beads of sweat on Neal's forehead weren't lost on Peter, but he chose to ignore them. Neal faced him, asking without preamble, "That man in the photo, who is he?"
"That is confidential information that doesn't concern you."
"Doesn't concern me? Peter, he shot my best friend!"
"We don't know that."
"You wouldn't have asked Mozzie if you didn't have a strong suspicion."
Peter took a step closer, the bitterness in his voice barely contained. "Let me remind you of our current arrangement. You are not a part of this investigation. Before we let you in again, I need to know that you are going to play by the rules, and right now I don't have that assurance. Seriously, I don't know what you were thinking when you stormed off, gun in hand, to face Fowler. Oh, wait. That's it," he pointed a finger at Neal, "you weren't thinking at all."
Neal wanted to shoot back a defensive response, but he bit his tongue. In a way, Peter was right. He hadn't been thinking.
Peter's eyes were still on Neal, sizing him up. In a more composed voice, he asked, "Let me ask you something. If you were faced with the same situation right now, would you do it again?"
Neal hesitated. "I don't know," he finally offered.
"Well, at least you're being honest."
"So what happens now?"
"Now you go back to your apartment and work on recovering from this cold you're schlepping around."
"Can I visit Moz again?"
"After you call in."
"Fine."
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Neal was slowly going crazy. He wasn't made for solitude. He thrived on social interactions, on beguiling people, on flashing smiles and getting what he wanted. The confines of his apartment, while comfortable and familiar, just weren't enough to keep him sane.
He'd tried the television, but nothing could hold his interest for more than fifteen minutes. He'd tried reading, but ended up re-reading the same page over and over until he realized it was no use. He'd checked every single game on his cell phone (there were only three), and he'd played through all the levels they offered. He'd stood on the balcony, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to protect himself from the cold autumn air, and stared out at the cityscape below, but the streets in this neighborhood didn't provide much distraction either.
The only conversation he'd had all day was a quick but meaningless chat with Mihaela, June's housekeeper who had come to clean his apartment. Mihaela was very attractive (in an Eastern European kind of way), was from Romania, and barely spoke English. He had managed to find out that she was from Constanţa, one of the few Romanian holiday resorts by the Black Sea. He'd never been there, but had a pretty good mental picture from a trip to Bucharest when he was 22.
It didn't help that his nose was running nonstop now, sneezing attacks racking his body from time to time. He'd forgotten just how debilitating it was to be slave to your own physical weaknesses. At least the fever had waned and his appetite was slowly returning. The cold medication he assumed June had dropped off while he was taking a nap was doing its bidding.
Now sitting at his dining table, he idly played with one of the tangerines that Mihaela had left there in the fruit bowl. She had pointed at the citrus fruit, then at him, "You must eat. Is good for you."
Was this going to be his punishment? A life in isolation with nothing to keep his mind sharp and focused, nothing to distract him? He kept thinking it was barely better than prison, but quickly buried this thought. That wasn't fair to Peter, he'd tried hard not to lock Neal up again, and Neal acknowledged that.
He got up and stood by the window that overlooked the balcony. The two winged statues glowed orange in the setting sun, and he could almost feel the sun's warmth on his skin. On his back. Like the warmth-no, the searing heat of the explosion.
He hadn't thought about that moment in a long time, but it brought with it a whole menagerie of other unpleasant visitors. Where had it all gone wrong? That day Kate came to visit him in prison, telling him that she would leave him? Everything surrounding her since then had quite literally blown up in his face, and now it had all but taken down Neal's world and the people around him.
Mozzie seemed to be on the road to recovery, but how could he ever make it up to him? How on earth was this ever going to be all right again? And Peter? The man had kept him going for the past year. His work with the FBI had brought some semblance of meaning to his life. Neal clenched his fist until his knuckles were white and the fingernails unpleasantly dug into his palms. Had all of this been worth it?
He knew the answer to that question. No. Or rather, what? Had what been worth it? What if he'd killed Fowler? He still wouldn't have killed Kate's murderer.
He felt another sneeze tickling its way up his nose, and he could do nothing but succumb to the barrage of sneezing fits that followed. Five, six times. He had to hold on to the window frame, and it left him drained and depleted. The tears in his eyes weren't only from the physical strain on his respiratory system. He bit his lip and cursed the universe.
And there was only one word-a word he rarely used-that he found solace in speaking it out loud.
"Fuck."
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Part 3
Chapter: 2 of 3
Author: TeeJay
Summary: Alex, Fowler, Kate, the music box and a secret code. Things come to a head and Mozzie ends up in the crosshairs. My take on the sequel to episode 2x09 'Point Blank'.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Mozzie, Peter/Elizabeth
Warning: Spoilers for anything up to and including 2x09 "Point Blank"
Author's Note: Thank you once again to the wonderful rabidchild67 for beta-reading.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Peter swiveled his chair around to face his office window. The world outside was shrouded in gray, heavy rain drops beating against the window panes, driven diagonally across them by gusts of wind.
He left his office, his eyes searching for the one person he wanted to see least but needed to talk to most. He came up empty. Jones was hunched over his desk, scribbling down something on a piece of paper.
Peter walked down the stairs and to his colleague's desk. "Where's Caffrey?"
Clinton looked up, surprised. "He's right-"
"Here?" Peter finished for him.
"He was here a minute ago."
"Dammit, Jones, didn't I tell you not to let him out of your sight?"
Jones had already pulled up Neal's tracking data on his computer. What he saw made his forehead crease in a frown. "Says he's right here, in the building."
Peter stared at the screen, just as baffled.
"Want me to check out his place, see if he's there? Or the hospital?"
"No. I think I might know where he is."
"Want me to come with you?"
"No. I'm good."
The elevator only went up to the 24th floor. To get onto the roof, you had to walk the last flight of stairs. The wind almost ripped the door out of his hand when Peter opened it. His instincts had been right. He could make out Neal's silhouette, hunched over the edge of the roof.
Peter wrapped his arms around himself to prevent the wind from flapping his jacket open. His hair was wet within seconds from the steady, heavy rainfall. He walked up to where Neal was standing, stopping next to him, keeping enough of a distance not to intrude. "You're not thinking about jumping, are you?"
"Not my method of choice."
"It'd be definite, though."
"Maybe, but the last few seconds before the impact would be terrifying."
There was an awkward silence. Peter looked sideways, unable to tell if Neal's face was wet from tears or the rain-or both. Unsure how to start, he stumbled over the words. "Neal, look..."
Neal lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. His voice was as icy as the sharp wind that turned the corners of the angular rooftop structures. "Don't."
It stopped Peter cold, but only for a second. "You understand that you're putting me in an impossible position, don't you? Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you?"
Neal just shrugged and hunched his back. Peter suspected he was on the verge of breaking down. He had caught the young man at his most vulnerable. He decided not to nudge the tightrope of Neal's delicate balancing act.
Small steps. "You could start by telling me where the evidence bag is."
It took a few seconds for Neal to regain his composure. "In the space behind the panel at the top left of the fireplace."
It was a start. "What did you find?"
"Nothing. It was squeaky clean." Neal turned towards Peter, meeting his eyes. "Tell me you have something."
Peter hesitated. He had sworn he wouldn't tell Neal about Larssen. "We have something," he just said.
"Care to elaborate?"
"No. This is where it stops. This is all you need to know. You have lost the right to be a part of this investigation. You have lost the right to be a part of this team. You will not, under any circumstance, and I mean any circumstance, do anything that has not been approved by me or Jones or Diana. Before you leave to go anywhere other than to the toilet, you will run it by me. If I catch you doing anything or going anywhere that has not been authorized, you are back in jail faster than you can say 'lawyer'. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Neal said with a clarity to his voice that surprised even Peter.
"Good." A silent minute passed, and Peter shuddered. "Damn, it's cold out here. Come on."
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Peter didn't pay any attention to the questioning gazes of his fellow agents as he ushered a dripping wet Neal through the office to the men's room. "Stay here."
A few minutes later he came back in with a towel and a pair of jeans, sneakers, a white t shirt and a dark blue hoodie that had the letters YALE sewn on the front. He handed them to Neal with the words, "This is the best I could find."
Neal looked at the clothes with a certain kind of disdain. He couldn't remember when he'd last worn a pair of blue jeans.
Peter could read it in the young man's face. He warningly lifted up his hands. "Don't say it. Be thankful for small favors, Caffrey."
Neal accepted the attire. "Thanks," he muttered.
Leaning against the sink, Peter had to hide a small grin that played at the corners of his mouth despite himself when Neal came out of the stall. The clothes fit well enough, and what he saw was almost like a younger version of himself during his college years. Well, maybe a little more attractive than the college version of himself.
"Don't you have work to do? Isn't there someone else who can babysit me?"
"No, what you need is a hot bath. Which is why I'm having Jones take you home."
"Peter," Neal protested, but to no avail.
Just as Neal was about to head for the door, Peter took him by the upper arm in a firm grip. "You need to understand that I mean what I said earlier. I will be checking your anklet. No stunts, no nothing. If you so much as move one inch outside of June's house without explicit permission, I am going to sic a patrol car on you. You will stay put and you will come to the office only when we need you to. You will not go to the hospital without my knowledge."
"Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect $200."
Peter's gaze on Neal was stern. "Neal, this is not a joke."
Neal's expression turned serious, the twinkle gone from his eyes. His voice was sincere. "I know." He looked down at the tiled floor, and in a low voice added, "And I do appreciate that you're not putting me back in jail."
Peter's eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin line. "Don't thank me yet. This isn't over."
Neal swallowed but let it go. Even though he'd tried not to let it show, jail had been difficult. He'd mostly kept to himself, kept his head buried in the books. He'd gotten his GED, done his duties in the laundry room and stayed away from the bullies and illicit power games as best as he could. He realized once more how lucky he should consider himself for Peter putting up with him, offering him a life outside of concrete walls and iron bars when he didn't have to.
He felt the grip on his upper arm loosen. "Jones is waiting outside."
Neal just nodded and left the men's room.
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Two quavers, the half rest, the semiquavers, the clef. It just didn't make sense. Neal had been staring at what was supposed to be Mozzie's Eureka for over an hour, trying to figure out what it was supposed to mean.
"Dammit, Mozzie, what are you trying to show me?" he muttered to himself. He desperately needed his friend to wake up, to tell him the secrets of the music box.
Frustration was grabbing a hold of him, not only at his ineptitude to decipher the code's meaning, but also at the unmistakable signs that standing out in the pouring rain yesterday had not been the best of ideas.
His head was pounding, his throat hurt with every swallow, and he was feeling chills wash over him. The breakfast June had brought up stood untouched on the table in front of him. The half full mug of tea in front of him had gone lukewarm, and his stomach turned at the idea of eating solid foods.
He fought with the decision of going back to bed or getting dressed. Lying in his bed wasn't getting him or Mozzie anywhere, so he stood up and went into the bathroom to find some Tylenol.
Before he could leave the house, he'd have to make a phone call and ask for permission. He did it without thinking twice, knowing full well that this time, he had stretched the limits. It was a conscious choice on Neal's part to call Jones instead of Peter.
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This was progress. Neal noticed that the number of perfusors next to Mozzie's bed had gone down. Less painkillers? Less antibiotics? But that was the only visible change he could make out. The nurses couldn't tell him anything beyond that he was doing as well as expected.
He was smart enough not to actually go into Mozzie's room. A respiratory tract infection could wreak havoc on Moz's immune system, and Neal knew not to take that chance. He stood silent vigil outside the window that looked into the room, tuning out the noises around him.
There was an almost rhythmic quality to the up and down of the waves on Mozzie's heart monitor. Neal tried to replay the melody of the music box in his head, but only came up with nonsensical tones and notes. Snippets from a recent conversation with Mozzie played in his head.
"Additive code, Morse, Bordeaux, set theory, logarithmic and geographic-every kind of cipher. Unless, uhm, GLARVENDKKGLL means something to you, then it's still just noise."
"Aren't you gonna go in?" a familiar voice behind him pulled him from his reverie.
He turned around. "Elizabeth," he softly greeted her. "Did Peter send you to check up on me?"
She came to stand next to him, choosing not to answer the question. "How's he doing?"
Neal shrugged. "You know. No change."
"And you?"
Neal wasn't surprised at the question. Elizabeth was probably the most caring person in his life right now. "I'm fine." It had become his litany, almost like an automated reaction to a question posed too often.
Of course she knew he was far from fine. She looked up at him, taking in the paleness of his face, his slightly glassy eyes. She gently took his hand, he needed the support. It felt dry and hot in hers.
Concern immediately edged a frown into her features. "Neal, honey." She felt his forehead. "Are you running a fever?"
"It's nothing. I'm fine, Elizabeth," he reiterated, and maybe it was wasn't so much a lie as more a vain attempt to convince himself and his uncooperative body of the same thing.
"You should be in bed."
He looked at her, suddenly feeling very weak and feeble. He had to fight hard not to give in to the impulse to lean against her for support.
As if she could read his mind, she gently wrapped her arm around him and guided him away. "Come on, let's take you home."
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She took another look at Neal, now tucked in under the covers in his bed, already drifting off into an exhausted sleep. He'd protested multiple times that she didn't have to stay, but he hadn't been able to fool her with his perpetual 'I'm okay' reprise.
She felt a pang of sympathy as she watched him from across the room. He looked very innocent and child-like. It was hard to believe he could be capable of the willful deceit Peter and the FBI had been subjected to.
She felt very uncomfortable to be caught in the middle of this tug of war, especially since she had a certain understanding for both sides. Still, her loyalties lay with her husband, and she hoped that Peter would not be mad at her for trying to make this as easy for Neal as she could. With Mozzie put out of action, who did Neal have to turn to for help?
Her gaze wandered across the apartment. Neal was a nitpicker and very much a tidy person. She picked up the few stray items of clothing, putting them where she thought they belonged. She wasn't sure what he did with his suits. She'd have to ask June if she knew where he usually had them dry cleaned. An uncharacteristic pair of jeans and a hoodie had carelessly been dropped on the floor, and she briefly wondered where they had come from. She had never seen Neal anything other than impeccably clothed in suit and dress shirt, sometimes a turtleneck if he felt casual.
Over by the kitchenette sink she found a few dirty dishes, which she started washing, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She jumped when her phone went off in her purse.
"Hey Honey," she greeted her husband.
"El, where are you? Am I mixing up the dates? Weren't we supposed to have lunch together?"
She looked at her watch. "Oh shoot. I'm sorry. Time got away from me."
"Where are you? In the office? I can swing by."
"No, I'm at Neal's."
"Neal's?"
"Yeah. He's sick."
"Sick? What do you mean, sick?"
She smiled. Peter could be so adorably clueless sometimes. "You know, chills, fever, sore throat, headache. Also known as the common cold. You had it only last spring, remember?"
"How does Neal get sick?"
"Oh, come on, Honey. He's not superhuman."
"Is he going to live?"
"He's sleeping now. It'll be a few days before he's back on his feet. I'm just finishing up here. You want to meet at home?"
"Yeah. Twenty minutes?"
"Better make that half an hour. See you there."
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Peter impatiently drummed his fingers on the mouse pad of his computer. Server trouble with the FBI database again? His query was taking ages to load.
Nothing had been forthcoming about Larssen since yesterday, and Hughes had dropped another high profile case in his lap that he couldn't put on the backburner. Resources in the White Collar division were thin, and with Neal incapacitated, they were also a man short. Or rather, a CI short. He hated to admit it, but their cases moved along a lot faster when Neal was helping them.
At least he was keeping his end of the bargain. So far he'd called in any trip he had made (Peter had checked), which meant there was hope for him yet. Sometimes all it took was a little rattle of the cage to bring someone to their senses. Only Neal's cage had been hit by something more like an earthquake-sized tremor.
Peter's cell phone rang, and he picked it up, even though the caller ID didn't look familiar.
"Agent Burke?" a female voice asked.
"Speaking."
"This is Kathleen Salinger, from Downtown Hospital. You said you wanted to be notified when Mr. Haversham regained consciousness."
"Yes, thank you. I'm on my way."
He hung up and put his finger to his pursed lips, contemplating whether to call Neal or not. They hadn't talked since yesterday, and if he was honest with himself, Peter didn't feel the urge to engage in any kind of conversation with him right now.
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"Hello?"
Peter hardly recognized the groggy voice at the other end of the phone.
He didn't feel like bothering with pleasantries. "Get dressed. I will pick you up in half an hour."
"To go where?" Neal asked.
"Just be ready." Peter hung up after that.
Neal let his head sink back onto the pillow. A dull ache throbbed in his throat and behind his eyes and he closed them again. 'Just five more minutes,' he thought, trying to gather the strength to leave the warm comfort of his bed.
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Standing in front of Neal's apartment, the rap on the door didn't elicit any response from its occupant. June's housekeeper had let him in. Most of June's staff knew who he was by now.
He knocked again, but there was no answer. He considered his next move for a second, and then turned the doorknob. It was open.
He closed the door behind him, surveying the scene. He could make out Neal's form underneath the covers in his bed, and suddenly he felt like an intruder. He considered leaving again, or maybe just going outside again to hammer on the door until he woke up, but then thought the better of either idea.
Directing his gaze at the antique oak bed, there still was no response, no stir. Unexpected worry scraped at Peter's innards, which prompted him to take a hesitant few steps closer. There was a distinct possibility Neal had taken a turn for the worse and needed professional medical assistance.
Just then, the young man stirred just slightly, shifting to another position. Peter held his breath, unsure how to react. He started to reach out his hand to shake Neal's shoulder, but stopped just shy of touching him. Neal's chest rose and fell with even breaths, and the resentment in Peter's gut gave way to something more akin to fatherly concern.
"Neal?" he asked. "Neal?" he tried again a little louder.
Neal opened his eyes, bewildered and disoriented for a second. "Peter?" he said in a croaky voice.
"Yeah. In the flesh. Elizabeth was right, you are pretty out of it. Didn't think I'd see the day."
"Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," Neal quipped with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Get dressed. Mozzie's starting to regain consciousness."
Neal was on his feet in two seconds. Unfortunately, his brain and blood pressure weren't keeping up with the rest of his body, so he momentarily swayed and had to grab a hold of the bed's headrest.
"Whoa, easy there." Peter was by his side in one stride.
Neal held up a hand to stop him.
Peter could feel another one of the countless attestations of 'fine' coming. With a weary eye, he stood back, trying to fill the space with something meaningful to say for the long few seconds until Neal had steadied himself.
Before he could jerk out something that would undoubtedly sound awkward, Neal asked, "Did you see him?"
"Yes. Just before I got here."
"How is he doing?"
"Okay, under the circumstances. They've taken him off the ventilator. They didn't let me into his room."
Neal started rummaging through his wardrobe, then made his way towards the bathroom.
Peter watched him carefully. "You know, suddenly I'm not sure anymore if it's such a good idea to take you to the hospital. You can barely walk straight."
Neal turned to face him, looked him square in the eyes. "You'd want to be there if it was your friend."
Peter narrowed his eyes for a moment, then softened. As much as he deserved to be punished for screwing up, it was apparent to Peter that he couldn't be cruel enough to keep Neal away from one of the few true friends that he had in his life.
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Neal was sweating even before he entered Mozzie's room. He wasn't sure if it was from his overactive immune system, the heavy, impermeable hospital gown they had been told to put on, or both. Apparently, there was a case of MRSA going around in the ICU, and everyone was asked to take precautions to prevent further spreading.
Neal felt a drop of sweat trickling down his spine. He tried to adjust the surgical mask, noticing out of the corner of his eyes that Peter looked just as uncomfortable. Still, this was probably for the better, seeing how the cold still had Neal tight in its grasp.
It wasn't lost on Neal that Peter was trying to stay close. Peter was many things, but he clearly wasn't stupid. He knew full well that Mozzie and Neal had their own secrets, their own theories, their own world of intellectual hiding places and conman mutuality. And he wasn't about to let Neal get a foot in the door that led to Mozzie's almost-assassin.
Entering Mozzie's room, Neal felt his confidence crumbling. This frightened him, confidence was his middle name, it was ingrained in his very being. He was out of his element here-in every way imaginable. He swallowed and stepped closer to the bed, unsure what to expect.
Mozzie was awake, though his eyelids were drooping a little. Recognition flickered across his friend's face when Neal came into view. His voice was croaky, almost chipper. "So nice of you to come."
Neal couldn't hide a smile. "Of course, Moz. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one."
"Emerson," Mozzie replied feebly.
"I see you haven't lost your touch."
Moz turned his head slightly to look at Peter. "You brought the Suit."
Peter quipped, "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer."
It took Mozzie some effort to try to sound buoyant, and he didn't quite succeed. "Sun Tzu, though the origin is still in dispute."
There was a brief silence. Neal's gaze wandered across the bed to Peter, his eyes quietly begging to have a moment alone with Moz, but Peter didn't acquiesce. They both knew there was no sense in beating around the bush.
Peter made the first move. "Mozzie, do you remember who shot you?"
"I was shot?"
Peter's eyes widened. Memory loss?
But then Mozzie continued. "Of course I was shot. In the park. I was holding a cup of peppermint tea. Two sugars. No pain. Very strange sensation."
Peter fumbled awkwardly with the light green surgical garb, producing a photo from underneath it. "Is this the guy?"
Mozzie squinted his eyes. "Glasses," he said to Neal, who found them on the bedside table and gingerly put them on Mozzie's face.
He studied the photo, the effort straining him visibly. "My recall of recent events is somewhat hazy."
Peter sighed but tried not to show it. He'd hoped that Mozzie would be able to give them their next clue. Any clue.
Neal's eyes were intent on his friend. "And the music box code?"
"Point seven zero zero one zero."
"What does that mean?"
Moz frowned. "I don't know. It just popped into my head."
"It's the number that was on the note in the antique shop. It doesn't mean anything to you?"
Mozzie closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them again with visible effort. His voice was beginning to slur slightly. "I'm afraid not."
"Dammit," Neal hissed. This startled Peter, Neal usually wasn't one to give in to mundane utterings such as swearing.
The look on Mozzie's face was somewhat apologetic, and Neal quickly touched his arm. "It's okay, Moz."
Peter looked at Mozzie who looked like he was drifting off to sleep, then at Neal. "We should let him get some rest."
Neal just nodded but didn't move. He looked like he was still hoping for a chance to have a private moment with his friend.
"Neal. Let's go," Peter urged a little more forcefully.
In the ICU's waiting room, they both discarded the scrubs into a laundry bag. The beads of sweat on Neal's forehead weren't lost on Peter, but he chose to ignore them. Neal faced him, asking without preamble, "That man in the photo, who is he?"
"That is confidential information that doesn't concern you."
"Doesn't concern me? Peter, he shot my best friend!"
"We don't know that."
"You wouldn't have asked Mozzie if you didn't have a strong suspicion."
Peter took a step closer, the bitterness in his voice barely contained. "Let me remind you of our current arrangement. You are not a part of this investigation. Before we let you in again, I need to know that you are going to play by the rules, and right now I don't have that assurance. Seriously, I don't know what you were thinking when you stormed off, gun in hand, to face Fowler. Oh, wait. That's it," he pointed a finger at Neal, "you weren't thinking at all."
Neal wanted to shoot back a defensive response, but he bit his tongue. In a way, Peter was right. He hadn't been thinking.
Peter's eyes were still on Neal, sizing him up. In a more composed voice, he asked, "Let me ask you something. If you were faced with the same situation right now, would you do it again?"
Neal hesitated. "I don't know," he finally offered.
"Well, at least you're being honest."
"So what happens now?"
"Now you go back to your apartment and work on recovering from this cold you're schlepping around."
"Can I visit Moz again?"
"After you call in."
"Fine."
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Neal was slowly going crazy. He wasn't made for solitude. He thrived on social interactions, on beguiling people, on flashing smiles and getting what he wanted. The confines of his apartment, while comfortable and familiar, just weren't enough to keep him sane.
He'd tried the television, but nothing could hold his interest for more than fifteen minutes. He'd tried reading, but ended up re-reading the same page over and over until he realized it was no use. He'd checked every single game on his cell phone (there were only three), and he'd played through all the levels they offered. He'd stood on the balcony, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to protect himself from the cold autumn air, and stared out at the cityscape below, but the streets in this neighborhood didn't provide much distraction either.
The only conversation he'd had all day was a quick but meaningless chat with Mihaela, June's housekeeper who had come to clean his apartment. Mihaela was very attractive (in an Eastern European kind of way), was from Romania, and barely spoke English. He had managed to find out that she was from Constanţa, one of the few Romanian holiday resorts by the Black Sea. He'd never been there, but had a pretty good mental picture from a trip to Bucharest when he was 22.
It didn't help that his nose was running nonstop now, sneezing attacks racking his body from time to time. He'd forgotten just how debilitating it was to be slave to your own physical weaknesses. At least the fever had waned and his appetite was slowly returning. The cold medication he assumed June had dropped off while he was taking a nap was doing its bidding.
Now sitting at his dining table, he idly played with one of the tangerines that Mihaela had left there in the fruit bowl. She had pointed at the citrus fruit, then at him, "You must eat. Is good for you."
Was this going to be his punishment? A life in isolation with nothing to keep his mind sharp and focused, nothing to distract him? He kept thinking it was barely better than prison, but quickly buried this thought. That wasn't fair to Peter, he'd tried hard not to lock Neal up again, and Neal acknowledged that.
He got up and stood by the window that overlooked the balcony. The two winged statues glowed orange in the setting sun, and he could almost feel the sun's warmth on his skin. On his back. Like the warmth-no, the searing heat of the explosion.
He hadn't thought about that moment in a long time, but it brought with it a whole menagerie of other unpleasant visitors. Where had it all gone wrong? That day Kate came to visit him in prison, telling him that she would leave him? Everything surrounding her since then had quite literally blown up in his face, and now it had all but taken down Neal's world and the people around him.
Mozzie seemed to be on the road to recovery, but how could he ever make it up to him? How on earth was this ever going to be all right again? And Peter? The man had kept him going for the past year. His work with the FBI had brought some semblance of meaning to his life. Neal clenched his fist until his knuckles were white and the fingernails unpleasantly dug into his palms. Had all of this been worth it?
He knew the answer to that question. No. Or rather, what? Had what been worth it? What if he'd killed Fowler? He still wouldn't have killed Kate's murderer.
He felt another sneeze tickling its way up his nose, and he could do nothing but succumb to the barrage of sneezing fits that followed. Five, six times. He had to hold on to the window frame, and it left him drained and depleted. The tears in his eyes weren't only from the physical strain on his respiratory system. He bit his lip and cursed the universe.
And there was only one word-a word he rarely used-that he found solace in speaking it out loud.
"Fuck."
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Part 3