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The dark building that Neal ducked into was a blessed relief. A refuge away from the nauseating lights outside that swirled and bounced and danced everywhere: street lamps blocking out the stars above, taillights bleeding red, windows barking out a cacophony of yellows and glaring whites. Away from the buzz of the crowded streets that would normally be a comfort to him, weaving between casual conversations and arguments and whispered gossip. Currently, each voice was a nonsensical auditory blur, each noise louder than the last, adding to the building pressure in his head until he wondered why his skull hadn’t split open yet. The thought was bizarrely alluring; he’d do anything to ease the pain.
Now, he was enveloped in quiet and damp, waiting for… He was waiting for something, right? His thoughts drifted slowly, lazily, like clouds… so high out of reach, like clouds. Neal found a corner, more by touch than sight, and sank back against the walls. They were reassuringly steady, at odds with the floor that tilted under him and smeared at the edges of his vision. He shut his eyes, exhaustion settling over him now that he’d reached safety and everything had stilled. He could figure things out later.
He surfaced out of sleep slowly, the leisurely ascent of the carefree. Instead of being a blissful reprieve between waking and sleep, a barely there awareness of no immediate obligations, it clung and tangled and tried to drag him under when he wanted—needed—to wake. Neal gasped when he finally got his eyelids unstuck, and forced himself to move, resulting in an uncoordinated jerking motion that got him nowhere. He couldn’t be sure if the ringing in his ears was there before or not. The reason for the black knot of wrong in his gut continued to elude him, even fully conscious. Some important detail forgotten, some obligation left undone…
Something shifted in the corner of his swaying vision. Shadows in the empty doorway. Neal tried to control his breathing, gain his composure. It should have been easy. Second nature, slipping into a role, an emotion. His and not his. But it felt like something had crept inside his chest and taken root, icy tendrils anchoring deep in his heart, searching, spreading, paralyzing every defense that attempted to rip it free. He clawed at the concrete floor, frustration surging. His mind wasn’t working, and he was going to get caught. They were coming to kill him. They were coming to put him in prison. He wanted Burke to find him, and he desperately wished he wouldn’t. He didn’t know, couldn’t remember how or why he got here.
Memories that didn’t feel entirely real hit him in fractured flashes. The glimmering face of a watch. Whiskey warming his tongue. Drying canvases, the colors still too vivid. A familiar thrill that was an undercurrent to every con. And the van parked outside, listening. It was a case he’d been working on with Peter. He remembered that much.
“Caffrey,” the mark said. Not Halden. The game was up, his cover blown. He smiled widely at Neal, eyes full of rage. A wolf baring his fangs. Neal shuddered, forced himself to watch the doorway through his blurred vision even though it intensified the ringing in his ears and stirred the nausea awake. He was panting, heart racing, and distantly he knew it was making everything so much worse, but he couldn’t stop. He had to stay alert. They were coming for him. The shadows seemed to come alive around him, stretching and looming over every surface.
Neal caught his focus lapsing again despite himself, and jerking his attention back to the doorway was more difficult than it should have been. His brain worked against him. The shrill ringing, the pain, the fog obscuring his thoughts. He gave into the urge to dig his fingers through his scalp, pressed hard and found a place where his hair was matted and sticky and the faintest touch sent a sickening sensation blazing through his head. Blood stained his skin when he withdrew his shaking hands.
Again, there was no memory of the injury when he sought after it. All Neal could remember was danger, clear and sharp, the edge of a blade glinting in a dimly lit room. His cover had been blown somehow, or maybe they’d never swallowed it in the first place. The familiar weight of the anklet is missing—can’t rely on help coming for him. He needed to run. Stay on the move. Find a safer place to hide, at least. Call Peter, he thought, but his cell wasn’t in his pocket or on the floor nearby. It wouldn’t hurt to lie low just long enough to catch his breath, come up with a plan.
Footsteps resounded outside, someone who didn’t care about making himself heard. A hunter assured of its prey. Neal ached to stay, curl up tighter in the corner and hope the danger would pass him by. Knew he couldn’t. Run or die, instinct commanded, and Neal uncoiled his legs, stifling a groan at the discomfort the sudden change in gravity wrought in his head. There was another exit out. Foolishly, he hadn’t taken the time to find it, but in a building like this—his brain wasted time searching for the exact word, and still came up empty—there would always be at least two exits.
A shadow stepped into the first, silhouetted against the angry glare of the city street. Neal cringed back into the meager cover provided by the dark corner, lightheaded and shaky. Couldn’t tell if the man was holding a weapon. Escape was mere feet away, hidden somewhere along this wall, if he could force himself to move. In the end, he didn’t have to. The voice was enough to send him dashing across the floor.
“Neal?”
His hand came in contact with a doorframe and he skidded to a stop, shoving himself against it and scrabbling to find a handle when it didn’t give.
“Neal!” It was all the warning he got before someone gripped his shoulder and spun him around. “It’s me!” Exasperation, and… (concern?) laced the words.
Neal squinted up at the speaker’s face and was immediately forced to look away from the halo of light seeping in from behind and sending twin ice picks burrowing into his head. “Peter?” Winded by terror and his mad bid for freedom, his voice came out raspy and breathless. The unusual absence of the anklet was still apparent. “You found me?”
“Haven’t you learned by now, Caffrey,” Peter’s tone is triumphant, and Neal could picture the grin on his face as he took hold of Neal’s wrist, tapping the face of the watch fastened there. “I’ll always know where you are.” It was cracked, he noticed, white webs arcing across the glass, the case warped and dented. How many was it now?
“Are you hurt?” Peter asked. Neal realized he normally would’ve said something by now. He fished for something to say, sliding back down against the wall and the wonderfully stable floor. His momentum was arrested by Peter, grasping him by the arm and hauling him upright.
“I’m tired,” he said. Then, “Head.” The adrenaline was wearing off, and he could sink fully into his exhaustion now. The creeping dread had lifted, like fog in the dawn retreating from the cleansing blaze of the sun.
“I guessed.” Peter peered closely, attempting to judge the severity but clearly hesitant to touch any injuries. “You can sleep at the hospital, alright?”
Neal agreed, a half-hearted mumble that would have to be enough. The world outside was just as overwhelmingly loud and bright as he remembered it last, but with Peter guiding him it was easier. He left his eyes slitted against the light, only aware of the gray sidewalk blurring beneath his feet until a bracing hand against his chest stopped him, and he could hear the click-thump of a car door being unlocked and opened. Warm air beckoned from within—the heater must have been running, residual warmth lingering—and he slid into the passenger seat without needing an invitation.
“Do not fall asleep,” Peter warned him again.
“Mhm,” Neal said, as the asphalt under the tire treads began to rumble a soft lullaby and the city outside began to unravel around them.