Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter woke, his heart racing, struggling for a moment to figure out what he had heard. It was too dark in the room for his alarm to be going off but then he realized--it was his phone. Middle of the night phone calls were never a good thing, and when he saw it was June calling Peter's dread kicked up a notch.

"Hon?" El asked, pushing herself up onto her elbows.

Peter nodded and answered the phone. "June? What's going on?"

"I'm sorry to wake you so early, Peter, but I'm…concerned about Neal. I heard some shouts from up there, as well as some crashing sounds, and when I knocked on his door he told me to go away." She paused for a moment and then added, "He didn't sound like himself."

"He doesn't have Sara or any other guests up there, does he?"

"I'm quite sure it's not that type of situation. He came home alone, and I haven't heard any other voices, but I don't know if somebody could have broken in or if he might be ill. I looked in through the windows from the terrace but the room is dark and I couldn't see him anywhere."

Peter sighed, running a hand over his face. "I'll be there soon." He hung up just on the heels of June's "thank you" and climbed out of bed.

"What's going on with Neal?"

"I have no idea. Maybe nothing, could be anything." Peter pulled on a mostly clean pair of jeans and a gray henley, then slipped on his shoulder holster and got his service weapon from the gun safe. "I'll let you know when I know." He kissed Elizabeth and left, jogging down the stairs and to his car.

At 3 a.m., the streets were as quiet as they ever were, with most of the late-night crowd having made their way home and the daytime multitudes still fast asleep, so the drive into Manhattan and uptown to June's passed far more quickly than usual. As Peter climbed the steps to June's front door he saw she was waiting for him, her thick robe tied snugly over some kind of fancy pajamas.

"Thank goodness," she said as she pulled the door shut behind Peter.

"Have you heard anything else since we spoke?"

"No, and that worries me more. It's been very quiet, but he won't answer me. If I hadn't known you were on your way over I would have let myself in but--"

"No, I'm glad you waited for me. Just try to relax and I'll go see what our favorite troublemaker has gotten himself into now."

Peter climbed the stairs and listened for a moment. He couldn't hear anything from within Neal's apartment so he unlocked the door as silently as possible then turned the knob and entered the room with his weapon in hand. The room was lit only by the streetlights from outside, but a quick visual sweep showed Peter some overturned chairs and a lamp that was missing, possibly broken, but no immediate sign of Neal or anybody else. "Neal?" Peter called, keeping his voice deliberately calm. "Neal, are you in here?"

"Stay away from the windows."

The words were a harsh, urgent whisper from up ahead to the right, and Peter froze, moving his finger to cover the trigger on his gun. "Are you hurt?" Peter asked, whispering now. Neal didn't answer, and Peter ducked down as he slowly moved in the direction of Neal's voice. "Is somebody in here?"

"They're breathing."

"Who?"

"The windows," Neal repeated, the words almost a sob.

Peter pulled his finger back from the trigger and thumbed on the safety before tucking his weapon back in the holster and snapping it in securely. "Neal, I'm going to turn on a light." Before Neal could protest, Peter snapped on the light over the kitchen sink. It was dim but enough to let Peter see Neal where he sat, huddled under the dining table like a child. A sick feeling sank into Peter's gut, and he walked over to crouch down in front of Neal.

He looked up and Peter sighed at the sight of his dilated pupils, just a thin ring of blue around deep pools of black. He'd never known Neal to take drugs, but he was clearly high on something, and however he'd come to that state he wasn't having a good time. "It's just you and me breathing in here, Neal. Did you take something?"

Neal shook his head, looking aggrieved. "I didn't steal anything! But the windows, they were breathing. All that glass, if they breathe too hard, if they sneeze. They were cracking already and letting through colors. I don't--"

Peter reached out and cupped his hand around Neal's jaw, quieting him. Neal's skin was cool and clammy, his pulse fast if not quite racing, but he was breathing steadily. Whatever he'd taken, whether accidentally or on purpose, it had to have been hours before, enough time that an overdose would be apparent. Peter sank down onto his heels and thought about the merits of taking Neal to the hospital; it would definitely agitate him further, and the last thing Neal needed on his record was any kind of illegal drugs charge. Even the suspicion of it could get him sent back to prison, at least temporarily. Peter was almost certain this had been done to Neal against his will, but he couldn't rely on the Marshals to be equally understanding.

Peter let his hand fall to Neal's shoulder and pulled out his phone to call first June and then El, giving them both the smallest amount of detail he could get away with. While Peter talked quietly, Neal sat watching things Peter couldn't see, his gaze moving around. Fear, panic and occasionally wonder flickered across Neal's expressive face, his normal walls completely fallen. The temptation to take advantage of that, to learn more of Neal's secrets, was very real and very wrong; Peter didn't want to be that kind of man. Instead, he moved to kneel directly in front of Neal with both hands on his shoulders.

"Hey, Neal? You think you can get out from under there if I help you?"

Neal glanced behind himself, shivering under Peter's hands. "The windows--I don't--"

"Do you trust me?" Peter asked with deliberate slowness.

"Peter?"

"That's me."

Neal's breathing picked up speed as he looked around, his gaze darting to either side of Peter as he shivered. "Is it safe?"

"You're safe. You're home. Everything is okay." Peter squeezed Neal's shoulders. "Everything's safe."

"Your voice is like--" Neal whispered, biting his lip as he searched for the simile. "Like blankets."

Peter laughed, despite himself. "Good, okay. I think you could use some blankets. What do you say we move to the couch?"

Neal nodded jerkily, and Peter scooted backwards, encouraging Neal to come out from under the table and then to stand. Neal swayed when he stood, but he walked steadily enough as Peter led him to the comfortable leather couch. Neal had pulled off his jacket, tie and dress shirt in his altered state, and it would've been too difficult to get him to change into warmer, more comfortable clothes so Peter just pulled off Neal's shoes and belt and wrapped him in a thick cotton blanket as he helped Neal settle himself on the couch.

Peter stood and looked down at Neal; he'd thought that Neal had looked pathetic sitting on the floor of an empty apartment with an equally empty bottle in his hands, but this was something else. Peter turned on the small lamp at the other end of the couch, but the apartment was still dim, and Neal sat huddled in the blanket, his face drawn with barely-blunted panic. Peter had seen and read enough to know that Neal had most likely been dosed with LSD, and Neal had probably suffered through the worst of a bad trip on his own but they'd have a few more hours until he felt more like himself.

"It's loud," Neal said, his voice small.

"The windows again?"

Neal shook his head. "It's loud in my brain, loud and bright. And out here is so quiet. And it's not equal. And the inside wants to be on the outside but I don't--" He looked up at Peter, his eyes still dilated into the blackness of space. "I don't want to lose the inside."

"Aw, kid. I don't want you to lose your inside either. How about some music?" Peter went over to Neal's stereo, saw that there was a classical music CD inside, and hit play. The music was mellow, gentle, and he thought it might be just what Neal needed until he started shouting.

"No! No!" Neal pulled the blanket over his face and folded himself in half on the sofa. "The windows--they're--it makes them weaker. Peter!"

Peter slammed his hand on the stereo's power button. "Okay. Neal? It's okay."

Neal slowly unfolded himself and pulled the blanket back from his face, but Peter could see him gearing up for another round of too loud/too quiet. He wished dearly for some kind of medicine to calm Neal down and thought about calling June to ask if she had anything on hand, but he couldn't take the risk to Neal's health or his own career. Grasping at straws, he noticed the pile of books sitting on the coffee table.

"How about a book, huh?"

Neal blinked hard. "I can't--I can't--"

"I can only imagine what you would see if you tried to read. No, how about I read a book to you?"

Neal didn't respond, but Peter took the lack of response as encouragement so he looked through the books at hand. Two were art books that Peter didn't think would have enough text to be worthwhile, and one was some kind of conspiracy theory quote-unquote non-fiction that clearly came from Mozzie and definitely wouldn't be a soothing read. At the bottom of the pile was a skinny, cheaply bound paperback copy of The Great Gatsby, and Peter decided that it would have to do.

He pulled his glasses out of his jacket pocket then sat down next to the light and opened the book. The idea of reading aloud felt strange, but he doubted that Neal was in the mood to be much of a critic. He cleared his throat and began. "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since."

Peter glanced over at Neal and thought that perhaps a tiny bit of the urgency in his eyes had faded so he continued. "'Whenever you feel like criticising any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'" Peter continued for another two pages, and then looked up as he heard a terrible whimper from Neal.

Neal turned toward Peter, halfway into the empty area of cushion between them,and pressed his face against the back of the couch, panting anxiously.

"Neal?" Peter asked, forcing his voice to be low and patient. Like blankets, he thought. "What's wrong?"

"The windows. I'm sorry--you said it's okay. But I keep seeing them and I can't--" He knelt up on the couch, turning his body entirely away from the windows where just a hint of dawn lightened the sky. Peter could see him shaking, the exhaustion and fear too much for him after such a long night; watching him made Peter's chest ache in sympathy. Neal needed to rest and feel safe, and Peter needed to make that happen.

He closed his eyes and shook his head; only Neal Caffrey could bring him to this. He put the book on the end table, grabbed a small pillow that he'd displaced, then reached over to tug Neal across the space between them.

"No," Neal whined. "I don't want to see."

"You don't have to see anything, just come here." Finally, awkwardly, Peter coaxed Neal to lie down on his side with his head on the pillow on Peter's lap, his closed eyes facing the bland gray of Peter's henley. He rearranged the blanket to cover Neal better and rubbed a hand over his shoulder until the worst of his shivers subsided. "You want me to keep reading?"

Neal nodded his head against Peter's belly, so Peter picked up the book again. "The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea."

Peter kept reading until his throat was dry, craving water but not willing to disturb Neal who was quiet but not asleep. He mumbled words occasionally, his eyes opening wide, his breath speeding up, but then he'd take in his surroundings--Peter, the couch, the blanket, the words flowing over him, and relax again. Peter paused in his reading to call in sick to work, the scratchy sound of his voice lending credence to the message he left for Hughes.

As he hung up, he looked down and saw more blue visible around the black of Neal's pupils. Soon, Peter would sit Neal up, feed him toast and juice and put him to bed. Soon, he would call El to tell her that everything was okay and then go downstairs to talk to June. Later, he would talk to Neal and try to figure out how he had managed to get drugged and what they could do about it. But right then, Peter had gotten used to the dry ache in his throat, and he'd found a comfortable rhythm for reading. He didn't remember what came next in the story, so he picked up the book from where he'd left it open on the arm of the sofa and started reading again.

"When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of girls, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight..."

Neal closed his eyes and sighed, and Peter couldn't see a trace of fear left on his face.