Chapter Text
When you’re a conman, a criminal and a convict on work release, who pushed the limits, broke the law so many times, you should know that one day someone would catch you and wouldn’t let your wrongdoings to be swept under the rug. If you were Neal Caffrey, you could easily name the person who could do such a thing. You just wished that for once that it hadn’t been Peter. But of course, it had been him.
* * * * * *
So when one day Peter told Neal that this was a punishment he had to accept, that if he were good, he would be given a second chance here in New York but for the time being he had to leave, Neal was only little surprised. Peter didn’t tell him how disappointed he was since he had found out about Neal’s recent lie slash con slash illegal activity– even if it was supposed to bring some criminals to justice in the end, even if it was for the greater good. This time it didn’t work and Peter just couldn’t turn a blind eye on Neal’s activities. It was just a bit too much for the agent. Peter didn’t have to tell Neal how pissed he was because Peter’s actions spoke louder than any words possible could.
Peter personally called and asked his colleague in Boston to take Neal. Peter personally escorted Neal to June’s to pack some things and handed him to the Marshals who transported him to his new city. Peter personally made sure that John Smith – Peter’s buddy and a decent agent would handle Neal – not become him – and that neither June, nor Moz (who was pissed at Neal for whatever reason) would try to help him escape. Of course, they could contact Neal and comfort him but Peter made himself crystal clear what he would do if he found out about any kind of illegal activities.
Peter explicitly told Neal that there would be no other option – not now, not after what he had done or what he had been doing since the beginning of his prison release. Peter had made a list of all his wrongdoings, mistakes, ways Neal broke, cracked or omitted the law – he did write it all down, thank you very much – and presented Neal the list. It wasn’t a short one. And Peter somehow didn’t manage to see that in many cases Neal did it working for him and it led to some great accomplishments, put so many criminals behind bars. No, Peter decided to see only his part of the story – and fed himself the lie that Neal was nothing more than a criminal and if given the chance – he would run cons for himself, not the FBI.
So Neal bowed his head and did it – he changed one city for another, one handler for another. He had no other option but to accept what had been thrown at him. All the bitter words, all the long hours, all the ways of humiliating him. He accepted all of these because he believed that one day a miracle would happen and he would be forgiven (not that he was even sure what his sin was in the first place, but he decided to play Peter’s game for now).
After three weeks this faith was still present and even blossoming. After six – forget the blossoming. After nine – he wasn’t sure that the faith had ever been there – if some of it remained, there were just shreds – like in a convict facing the capital punishment and waiting for the Governor’s call two minutes to midnight, like in a dying person who thinks that the sudden improvement was a sign of life, not of death. And Neal needed a miracle, right here, right now. Because of what just happened (Neal was sure that there would be more to come), there would be no more Neal working for the FBI. He made his decision. Enough was enough. No more accepting the unacceptable, no more pain – not the physical one, but the pain of knowing that technically someone had all rights in the world to do it. If freedom were to come at the highest cost, let it be.
And then the miracle happened – a sort of. Not that Neal had seen it right from the beginning but he saw it eventually.
Neal would have laughed at the irony of the situation if he wasn’t busy multitasking – calling for an ambulance and trying to pull his handler out of the car – he just couldn’t let him die there. Neal was many things but not a murderer. The smell of gasoline was about to become the smell of a burnt car (and burnt bodies if he wasn’t quick enough). Their car and their bodies. He managed to take Smith to safety before the SUV exploded and immediately started pressing a too rapidly bleeding wound when the cavalry arrived. He stepped aside while the medics did their job. He felt hollow and drained – but suspected that nobody gave a damn about his well-being. Smith’s agents decided that their medical knowledge was good enough to assess that he was unscratched. And because it was Friday early in the evening, they also decided that he would have to spend the weekend in the holding cell until they figured out what had just happened. They handed him to the Marshals and promised to be back first thing Monday morning. No, Neal didn’t see a miracle in that.
The Marshals who transported him were pissed that they had to do it - it interrupted some down time they were having. They searched him, took his mobile and gave him a clean uniform to replace his blood-soaked clothes. They assumed that a) he was checked over at the scene, and b) all the blood belonged to Smith. Neal knew that neither was correct. He was not checked and there were parts of his body bleeding prior to the unfortunate encounter with the vehicle at the crossroad but he was a conman after all – he wasn’t about to throw a tantrum about some mistreatment, not after nine weeks of mistreatment by federal agents. Besides some part of his brain screamed at him ‘no hospital.’ If he weren’t so tired, he would figure it out. The Marshals threw him in the cell and informed that he was entitled to use the shower once in every three days so he would have to wait. Not an exact definition of a miracle, either.
Neal lay down on the cot and decided to close his eyes just for a second. He knew that sleeping in prison wasn’t the best choice but he was the only occupant of the cell and it was made clear that it would stay that way (maybe a small miracle, but staying awake and thinking was way too tiring). He felt bone tired – he hadn’t slept well, he hadn’t eaten well, he hadn’t felt well for a while – like three to nine weeks. The only thing he did well these days was accepting the punishment or punishments – plural he would say. And today – it was just too much. Neal closed his eyes and saw New York – his apartment, his desk, his routes around the city. Peter told him that maybe there would be a second chance, didn’t he? Neal wasn’t sure any more but the tiniest shreds of hope and faith lulled him to sleep.
He was awakened by a hand shaking him gently. When he blinked his eyes, he saw an older man standing next to him and holding a torch and a mug. It didn’t make any sense so Neal thought that he was just dreaming and closed his eyes again. He was tired after all. The person stubbornly insisted on talking to him.
“Sir, wake up. We have electrical problems and it means no light and no heating. You are the only prisoner tonight and we don’t have a place to transport you to. Here is some hot tea and more blankets.”
Neal blinked tiredly and pushed himself up. He didn’t see the point in the blankets, nor in the tea. He was cold but he was cold often so it didn’t make any difference. And he was tired so he would prefer to sleep. The guy was decent enough not to yell, drag or pull him. He just waited and then out of the sudden he cursed under his breath and Neal couldn’t figure what he had done wrong this time. And then he was gently lowered back – and neither gently, nor lying back again when he just had been asked to sit up made any sense. And definitely there was no sense in the fact the guy-with-the-mug yelled at someone else. Bleeding, making sure he was ok, ambulance, what were you thinking – confused Neal further so he decided to sleep. But the guy-with-the-mug (he should have thought of a shorter nickname because it was way too long one) was back and was asking Neal not to close his eyes. There were some other questions but Neal didn’t really follow. Pain, remember, hospital – didn’t make much sense and Neal wasn’t sure if he nodded or not.
And then there was a pinch of a needle, an oxygen mask, blankets, hands on his body, a sound of gurney on the pavement, sirens, lights of the ER, commotion, more hands, more words.
His name’s Neal. Semiconscious but barely responsive. Car accident over 10 hours ago. Low BP. Possible head and abdominal trauma. Someone told someone. The ER doctor yelled at the guy-with-the-mug (of course he didn’t have the mug anymore) and Neal thought that it was strange – people mad not at him. He was lifted and put on the bed and then the world stopped because they cut his clothes and spotted blood where there shouldn’t be any blood. Neal found it equally hilarious and frightening that everyone stopped. He was sure (more or less) that it must have to do something with the ‘no hospital’ rule. No sure any more. And no miracle, either. And the ER doctor and the guy-with-the-mug decided to put up a fight and Neal wasn’t sure if they weren’t speaking some kind of a code because it didn’t make a sense. Again.
You better question your men.
It’s not possible. They wouldn’t have.
Oh, really? Because it took you a lot of time to bring him here!
Neal wondered if they were talking about him – and he would love to enjoy the awkward conversation but his dropping BP decided to offer some humble assistance in putting the world back into motion. There were even more hands and sad glances. Neal couldn’t figure out why they were sad. Or maybe they weren’t? Internal bleeding, CT scan ready, OR on standby, remove the anklet – he wanted to protest that his handler would be pissed but everything was too fuzzy and too tiring. Neal, I’m Dr Green, we’ll take care of you but please open your eyes. He obeyed because she asked so nicely but because she shined a light in his eyes, Neal decided to close them again quickly with a groan. Being poked and prodded by sad people wasn’t his definition of a miracle.