Archive of Our Own

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Caffrey said, and pointed.

Wilkes' mind processed fast. He'd already realized that if the feds had the girl, it must have been Caffrey who somehow tipped them off. He'd seen but only just now noticed that Caffrey wasn't as nervous as he should be—the sonvabitch was actually smiling. Before the smile was fully formed Wilkes had made the connections. Before the pointing finger was fully extended he decided to act. In one swift move he tackled Caffrey, one fist bunched into the back of his jacket, the other beating into his stomach. They both fell to the ground, but Wilkes was larger, stronger, and a far better brawler than the pavonine smartass who just lost him even more of his money. Wilkes landed on top, but he stayed there only long enough to hit Caffrey in the throat. The gasped intake of breath-cut-short was like music, like Mozart. He pulled Caffrey to his feet, still struggling for breath, and positioned him like a shield between himself and where he assumed the feds were stationed. He'd dropped his gun in the scuffle, but he knew he was… What was the word? Adaptable. He'd make do without it.

The things you learn when you're not afraid to get dirty, those things save your life one day. And they saved his life now. His right hand tightened around Caffrey's throat and his left delivered three successive blows to his lower back, just above the hip. It might have been the kidney, but Wilkes didn't really care. Caffrey tried to avoid the blows, tried to draw breath, and failed at both. Excellent. It means he wasn't resisting being dragged straight behind him toward the waiting van. If Wilkes could only make it inside with Caffrey, he'd be golden.

The feds shouted their threats, let him go, he was surrounded, there were snipers ready to shoot, but they must think he's stupid. The bullets stopped flying before they even started, which could only mean one thing: his instinct to take Caffrey as a shield paid off.

And the van was only five steps behind him, now. He tightened his hold on Caffrey's throat. Weakening fingers scrabbled at his hand, but they were sadly ineffectual. Three steps. A final shuffle and he could reach behind with his left hand and fumble the door open, and then he was inside. The door slid shut.

He released his hold on Caffrey's throat just long enough to reach for the taser lying on the passenger seat. When Wilkes turned back, he saw Caffrey was trying to scramble to his feet, but it was mostly sad. He tased him and watched him collapse, feeling more in control, more in charge than he had felt since hearing the FBI raid his safe-house. He dragged Caffrey nearer the driver's seat, where he could tase him if he showed signs of recuperation. Wilkes got behind the wheel and got the hell out of there. Losing the feds in traffic wouldn't be a problem.

Now that he knew he was going to make it out, Wilkes wondered why he had ever let the snot-nosed thief live after he had stolen five-hundred grand from him. This way was a lot more fun and man, even with the feds and the cops (ever retreating in his side-mirrors, he was pleased to see) he felt in his element, he felt alive. And then he felt inspired.

Once he'd lost his tail he pulled the van to the side of the road. Caffrey was conscious but not-quite-there. How could have ever thought this man was worth his time? He checked both sides, and then leaned in close to Caffrey's left ear. When he spoke his voice was amused.

"I hope darling Lindsay was worth it. Now you get to listen to Neal die." And he primed the taser near Caffrey's ear, hoping the sizzle of the electric charge would carry. Caffrey tried to roll away, but Wilkes only laughed.

"Where you going, Neal? The party's only starting," and he used the taser, until Caffrey emitted a small groan, body spasming. Then he did it again. And again. He was in charge, and they would know it. He used the butt of the taser to smash the earpiece, then resumed driving.

~*~

Peter was pleased. Tired, and hot in the borrowed vest, and probably a little rank considering he hadn't showered since yesterday morning, but they had the girl and they had the thugs and Jones had eyes on Wilkes, and for a change it seemed everyone would be going home tonight, except the criminals. Fine by him.

He smiled as he watched Lindsay tell Agent Rice about the kidnapping, more chagrined than frightened. He reached for his phone to call Jones, but a PD handed him a radio before he could dial.

"An Agent Jones for you, Sir." The officer, who Peter wasn't sure was legally allowed to drink, stayed an extra moment and showed Peter how to use the radio. Peter listened attentively as though he hadn't been using radios for the last 40 years, and said thank-you when the kid was done. He could afford to be magnanimous; today was a good day.

~*~

When Neal came to his first thought was that he must have slept funny, because everything hurt. There was a thumping behind his eyebrows, his mouth tasted coppery, his muscles felt like lead, and he couldn't seem to draw a deep enough breath. He opened his eyes and closed them again immediately. The bright light aimed directly at him had sent spots and dancing shadows straight to the part of his head that was thumping, and the pounding redoubled in enthusiasm.

"Rise and shine, Caffrey. Time to face the piper, bright eyed and bushy-tailed."

It all came crashing back in an instant download. The girl, the raid, Jones who had his back until, somehow, he didn't, and how had the take-down gotten so screwed up?

The answer was simple. Wilkes, obviously. He had underestimated him. He wouldn't do it again. Neal tried to think of where he might be, how he might get out, and how the hell he was going to do any of it if he couldn't even think properly. But an idea formed, and he groaned. He hated walking into things eyes wide-open, even if it was his only course of action.

"Pay," Neal said, and forced his eyes open. Wilkes was standing somewhere behind the light, a standing lamp— God, clichés and classics weren't the same.

"What was that, Neal, my friend? I didn't quite catch it." And now Wilkes was moving around the room, and even if was cliché it was working, because Neal had to follow him, and he was just moving his eyeballs but it hurt, and he had to swallow – Ow, had he been hit in the throat?– just to keep from being nauseous.

Neal squared his shoulders as best he could with his hands bound behind him to the chair, and put on the most dismissive tone he could summon.

"It's pay the piper. Every adult in Hamelin faced the piper." He smiled and shook his head, blinking away tears from looking into the bright light. "It's grade-school stuff, Wilkes. You weren't kidding about my bringing up the average."

Wilkes' controlled demeanor shattered. "It's amazing," he said, reaching Neal in two long strides. "Somehow," he grabbed Neal by the jacket, and pulled him up so they were face-to-face. Neal's wrists pulled back against the chair, and discomfited joints became pained.

Wilkes' eyes burned, his nostrils flared, his mouth twisted in an angry grin. "Somehow you never learned to leash that tongue of yours." He pushed Neal back down into the chair with enough force to unbalance the hardwood chair. A pair of hands on Neal's chest helped him topple over completely.

He fell straight back, and he thought he would cry out in pain, but the air was knocked out of his lungs by the impact, and his head smacked hard against the concrete floor, causing him to snap his mouth shut. Genuine tears of pain filled his eyes and he turned to the side and spat blood. The chair's curved back turned with him, forcing him onto his right side. He gasped for breath, stupidly aware that he needed to stop thinking about the pain in his tongue, and be aware. Provoking Wilkes was barely half the plan.

Wilkes' Italian shoes appeared in his line of sight. "Your tongue cost me half a million dollars last time we worked together." His right shoe drew back and Neal could only turn his head up to prevent it from smashing into his nose. It hit him in the jaw.

"It cost me my last crew," below the ribs, and Neal was out of air again. "It cost you your FBI backup," his shin.

Wilkes' voice grew soft. Almost gently, he nudged his foot under Neal's chin, so it could rest on his throat. "Neal, look at me."

Neal considered denying Wilkes the satisfaction, but then remembered that he provoked Wilkes for a reason. It seemed like a massively stupid reason right now, but he needed it to play out. He looked up at Wilkes looming over him. He couldn't make out his features, but he could hear the smirk in his voice. "Good boy. And now you've cost me millions in those gold cards, because you just had to be a smartass about it. You couldn't just deliver the cards and accept that for once, you'd been played."

The pressure on his throat increased, and although he finally had his opening, it looked like Neal wouldn't get a chance to use it. He couldn't breathe, but he tried anyway and it was like trying to expand a balloon that had been glued shut, but he tried again and he began jerking even though he didn’t want to give Wilkes the pleasure and it hurt to move but it hurt more to want air— the pressure eased and Neal drew a rasping breath, and another.

He turned his face down so Wilkes couldn't see him cough and struggle to breathe, but now Wilkes was crouched beside him, looking on with fondness as though watching puppies at play. Neal hated him.

As soon as he could breathe without coughing, Neal turned his face to look at Wilkes. God, he hoped this worked.

The most he could manage was a broken whisper. "Bit… ambitious… there. The cards… were never…" He coughed once. "Yours."

He closed his eyes, half-expecting Wilkes' hands to finish what his foot had started. He breathed. He heard Wilkes stand, and begin pacing. He heard a piece of paper unfold. Then Wilkes was back, and he patted the side of Neal's face affectionately.

"It's like trying to teach a collie Shakespeare. You never learn. Always trying to be so damned clever. But I thank you, really," he said, as a hand covered his heart.

"Because I wouldn't have thought of it on my own." He left Neal's line of sight, and returned holding a black hood.

"But with this handy itinerary, all I have to do is go find Edward Reilly and let him take care of you. The feds won't even be able to pin your untimely death on me." He slipped the hood around Neal's head, and tightened the drawstring.

"By the time you come to, we'll have some very interesting company." Neal felt Wilkes hands grab either side of his head, felt his head lift and then slam—

~*~

Peter splashed water on his face, hoping it would wash away the dreamlike sensation. He'd sat through the last update meeting mostly dazed, and he couldn't afford to let exhaustion get him now. He threw more water at his face. He inhaled some of it and coughed, but it made him feel more awake so he did it again.

He turned away from the sink and waved his hand for a paper-towel, and then again for another one, but the scanner wasn't responding. Neal had once showed him a way to get more than one sliver out of the machine, but he didn't have the patience and he didn't have Neal, and fuck it. He hit the dispenser, hard, and yanked the cover off. A plastic piece broke off and bounced into the sink. Peter yanked enough paper to dry his dripping face, and left the men's room, grimly satisfied.

In the nearly-two hours since they'd lost Neal they've scoured all the traffic cams in the area, kept eyes on all of Wilkes' known hideouts, and kept eyes on Reilly at his hotel. Rice, of course, had stopped being helpful as soon as her help was needed, and wasted time Neal didn't have to argue whether or not the latter was necessary.

"He's a pawn in this game, Burke, he has no idea where Wilkes took your CI." She crossed her arms and turned to Hughes, who was managing resources.

"All our agents, on both teams, have been working on this round the clock. We've had to send some of them home, and we just don't have the manpower to waste it on Reilly, who, technically speaking, did nothing wrong today."

She snuck a glance at Peter before she continued. "And besides, Sir, we have to consider that Caffrey's disappearance wasn't entirely against his will."

Peter couldn't believe he was hearing this, from her of all people. "You cannot seriously be suggesting that Neal cut some kind of deal with Wilkes. Wilkes hates him, and Neal wouldn't be working with him again if it wasn't for you."

Rice nodded her head dismissively, as though her feeding his CI as bait to a kidnapper was old news.

"Yeah, we know, but between the time he was taken and when we found the girl he had almost twenty hours to cut a deal with Wilkes. He was off anklet, no ears on him, it's the perfect opportunity for him to disappear. It's my understanding it's not the first time he's made an attempt at running."

Hughes turned to Peter. "You have to admit, we come back to this every so often. Maybe this time he took the chance to make a run for it."

"Like he did with the jade?  Sir, with all due respect to Agent Rice, her judgment has been less than stellar where Neal is concerned."

Hughes face dropped, and Peter could immediately sense his misstep. Being personal wouldn't get him far.

He continued. "He may not be an agent, but Caffrey was taken in the line of duty, because he helped save a girl's life. If he'd walked away with us in the airport Gless's daughter would be dead now. If we can't track Caffrey and we can't track Wilkes, Reilly's the only variable left."

Hughes was looking down, examining his shoes. Peter was close, and he pushed his advantage.

"One agent, to watch his hotel. He doesn’t know the FBI is on to him so he won't be looking for us."

Hughes looked at Peter, then at Rice. Finally he said, "Peter, you have two hours. If Reilly does nothing suspicious in that time, pull your agent. Surveillance only. Rice, take your team and hit the streets where the van was last seen. It's our last solid lead. Both of you, go." He'd literally waved them away.

That was an hour ago. He had sent Jones to sit on Reilly; Jones thought he was being punished, and Peter didn't take the time to disabuse him of the idea. But the truth was, he'd gotten a gist of how the kidnapping had happened, and he knew Jones couldn't have stopped it. He'd even heard some complaints were coming in from SWAT, who said Jones wouldn't let them take a shot at Wilkes, for no better reason than he had a civilian as a human shield. Peter had to wonder how they screen those guys.

He climbed the stairs to his office, checking his phone, but there were no new… anything.

He sat down and moved his mouse to rid the screensaver. He wanted to see as soon as new information came in.

One new email from tech.

They had been able to trace Neal's earpiece— as far as a rest-stop by exit 4 on the Palisades? Rice was still by the docks. He stopped reading and texted her the information. Let her be useful.

He returned to the email. Attached please find the last recorded transmission, as enhanced as possible. Please note, the first 33 minutes were mostly static, with the odd siren or honking; since the vehicle was tracked up until that point, it seemed irrelevant to include them in the final report. If required please do not hesitate to contact, best of luck etc.

Peter opened the file on the interdepartmental drive. This was it, Neal would give them a clue to where they were headed, and Peter would figure it out. It's what they did. He smiled.

"I hope darling Lindsay was worth it. Now you get to listen to Neal die." Peter jerked away from the desk at the sound of Wilkes' voice. No. No. A sharp hiss and a pop-up annotation from tech, "electric charge."

Peter bit his lip and shook his head. No. Laughter rang out. "Where you going, Neal? The party's only starting."

Peter sat at his desk long minutes after the file finished playing. His forehead was cradled in his hand, his eyes closed, annotations of, "caff. sound of pain,” "kicking" "electric charge" "wilk. laughter" "electric charge" chasing each other in his mind. It was ten minutes before he could move himself to action. First he called a doctor. Then he called Jones.

~*~

The Bureau's doctor assured him that even consecutive hits with a taser wouldn't be life-threatening unless there was a preexisting heart condition, and even then it would be rare. He did mention that it would hurt like hell, and boy he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that, was he right? Peter hung up without thanking him.

Jones, bizarrely, didn't answer. At first Peter assumed that he couldn't get to his phone in time, then that he was busy with something, but after half a dozen attempts he simply resolved to kill him. It might be hard to explain, but then, it might not. Part of surveilling is watching, sure. But the other, no less important part is reporting back.

Unless it was Neal on the other side of that line, he would kill him. And possibly even so.

When Jones showed up ten minutes after that, Peter didn't threaten, or point. He bellowed. "Jones, up here, NOW!"

Agents moved out of his way, and melted into the shadows. Today was not a good day to show interest.

Jones ran up to his office, panting. Peter could see the gleam of sweat on his face, marking his t-shirt. "Peter," he panted, but Peter interrupted.

"Where have you been, and why—"

"Peter," Jones interrupted, and it was so uncharacteristic of him that Peter backed down.

"You have something." It wasn't a question.

Apparently, something big.

"Sitting on Reilly paid off big. About…" He glanced at his watch. "twenty-five minutes ago Reilly took a curb-side meeting in a blue Fiat Punto. He went back into the hotel and returned carrying a small bag. I went over to get a look at the driver, and it was Wilkes, Peter."

Peter narrowed his eyes as Jones continued. He needed to grasp the dynamics of the situation.

"I got there just as Reilly was getting into the car. I could have pursued, Peter, but Wilkes has already shown that he could spot and lose a tail, and…" He looked Peter straight in the eye, drawing himself to his full height.

"I'm sorry, Peter, but if I tried to follow and lost them… I don't think Caffrey will have a second chance. Wilkes was ready to kill him before, and I don't think the pair of them have anything good planned for him. I thought it would be better this way."

Peter could feel this was leading somewhere, he just needed Jones to get there.

"What way?" He asked, his hands trying not to shake the information out of Jones. "And why didn't you call this in?"

"I took a leaf outta Caffrey's book. I 'accidentally' got into the back seat and dropped my cell. Dressed like this I figured they'd buy my 'aw-shit, this ain't Dwain's car' routine." He gestured at the t-shirt and jeans, and flipped his baseball hat backwards for emphasis.

Peter could see the scene vividly. He allowed himself to smile as he grabbed his keys. "That's good work, Jones. Really good work. So we can track the GPS on your cell back to Neal?"

"Peter, I'm using a third generation Nokia, it doesn't have GPS. The only way to track it is during an active call." As they rushed down the stairs to the bullpen Peter called for several of the agents to come with him, and instructed two others to track Jones' cell and send the teams the location.

It was only when they were on their way onto the George Washington Bridge that Peter thought to ask who Jones knew would stay on the line for so long without asking questions.

Jones, as far as Peter could tell, was blushing. "Let's just say, I'm gonna be filing a very awkward reimbursement request."

Peter felt his lips quirk, but then he pressed down on the gas.

The thought was perverse, but he hoped Reilly liked to take his time.  

~*~

Zip-ties, Neal determined, and decided not to waste his energy trying to get out of them. It was a long-shot, anyway, and he doubted he'd be able to get far in his current condition. Wilkes could be back with Reilly any minute, as far as he knew, and if they walked in while he was mid-escape he'd never get the chance to talk his way out of this, which was really his only option.

From his position on the floor, hands still bound to the chair behind him, Neal could just barely make out the lamp in the room, and that was all. He was surprised even the bit of light could get through, because it felt like air couldn't. Twice already he'd hyperventilated and blacked out for a moment, until his breathing regulated. Now he directed his thoughts at anything but air, hoping to stave on another attack.

His thoughts inadvertently returned to Peter. He was reasonably sure that Peter would be looking for him, and he'd meant what he'd said to Lindsay. He was the best agent the Bureau had, and if anyone was going to find him, it would be Peter.

Well, Peter and Reilly, apparently. A single car pulled up somewhere outside, and Neal's stomach dropped. He hoped he could pull this off.

A door opened and slammed shut, and the squeak of Wilkes' shoes came around behind him. One grunt from Wilkes and a heave forward, and the chair was upright again.

Neal's head snapped forward, and he tried to swallow down on the nausea but the pressure against his forehead was too much. The hood came off a second later and Neal vomited to the side. He hadn't planned on it, but he was pleased to see he'd hit Wilkes' shoes.

"Where're your manners, Neal?" Wilkes said, unperturbed, and smacked Neal on the back of the head. His hand came back bloody, and he wiped it on Neal's jacket. Neal glared.

Wilkes took a step back so he was standing behind Neal. "As I said, the man who robbed you. Neal Caffrey. He was bragging to me, and I thought I might get some good will if I brought him to you. For any… Future business dealings we may have in the future."

Neal kept his look fixed on Reilly, who was still standing by the door, but he imagined he rolled his eyes. Did the man not hear himself speak?

Reilly moved along the wall and set down a bag. He bent over to dig through it and then stood up again. He came into the light holding a curved hunting knife, smooth on one edge, sickeningly serrated on the other.

"Well, Nick, my driver-turned-customs-agent. It certainly seems that here we both are, and that you owe me one example. If you know who I am then you know how… vivid I like my examples to be. So tell me one thing. Where shall we start?" He moved closer to Neal, and rested the knife on a cheekbone, the tip brushing against his eyelashes.

Neal didn't break eye-contact. He didn't dare. He ran his lines once more through his head, and prayed this wouldn't be the last con of his life.

"He kidnapped my niece so I'd be his front man, and he's using you to kill me because now the FBI is after him."

Reilly pulled back, and the knife now danced around Neal's knee. He looked thoughtfully at Wilkes.

"Is this true? Because that would mean that you're the one who stole my money." He used the knife now to gesture, and Neal, trapped between the two men, tried to shrink away.

"You can check," Neal offered. "It's all over the news. Besides, do I look like I have millions of dollars to bargain with? Don’t you think I'd have given him everything before I got… like this?" He shrugged his shoulders for illustration.

Reilly narrowed his eyes at Wilkes, who jumped to defend himself, though it sounded to Neal like was backing away from Reilly's glare. "You can't trust this man," nervous laugh.

Neal smiled small, imperceptible. Wilkes was losing control, and that always meant he was about to make a mistake.

"He's a liar," Wilkes continued. "The girl wasn't his niece, and he handed me the briefcase with the gold-cards only to buy time until the FBI came by!"

Neal listened to the silence as Wilkes realized what he'd said. He tried to backtrack, but apparently Reilly had heard enough. He stood, pulled a gun, and just shot.

The shot trailed far over Neal's head, but the blast echoed in the small room and the suddenness of it made Neal jump in his seat. His wrists protested, and he immediately cowered down, trying to minimize his presence.

Reilly was unconcerned with him, anyway. He'd gone back to his bag, and was now returning with latex gloves and another knife. He moved behind Neal.

Wilkes screamed, then he whimpered, then he begged.

Eventually, Reilly came back into Neal's line of sight, and snapped off the bloody gloves.

"And as for you, Mr. Halden," He said.

~*~

They'd been given the location where the car had apparently parked, but ten minutes before they could get there the office called and said the car was on the move again. Peter sent the second team to intercept it. His gut told him Neal would still be at the location, a warehouse, it seemed. If one or both of his captors were leaving… Peter tried not to think of the ramifications.

SWAT secured the building, and he and Jones led the local PD inside. In the far corner of the ground floor they found an unlocked door, and they charged through it.

Peter's stomach fluttered with relief. There was Neal, in the center of the room, looking like hell but very much alive. He was even smiling. Peter holstered his gun and ran to his side.

"Careful," Neal whispered, and gestured with a glance at the floor to his left. Peter sidestepped the rancid puddle, but really, like he'd care even if he stepped in it. Jones, he noticed, was calling frantically for a paramedic, but if Neal was warning him about unseemly puddles he couldn't be too bad.

He pulled a pocket knife to deal with the heavy zip-ties when he noticed what Jones had already seen. Wilkes was slumped on the wall directly behind Neal, a gunshot wound marking a neat, red circle in his abdomen. But slumped wasn't exactly right, because his hands… his hands had been stapled to the crumbling plaster wall with two ugly knives, the word thief painted above his head in blood. Reilly's work, no doubt. Peter forced himself to look away. Neal needed him more.

He cut the bonds and Neal wasted no time in bringing his wrists forward and massaging them, elbows on knees.

Peter stood up and went to look Neal over. His face was bruised, as were his wrists, but that seemed to be it. How he'd gotten away with so little injury from two men who were intent on killing him... He shook his head. Only Neal.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Neal said, but he was still whispering. Peter wasn't sure he believed him. "Nice of you to show up, though. I take it you were watching Reilly?"

"Yup. Figured he was the only piece we couldn't account for. I take it you sent Wilkes to get him?"

Neal smiled up at him. "Yup," he said, his voice raspy. "Though it's good to know you needed the help to find me. Getting rusty, Peter?" Neal rubbed his throat.

Paramedics rushed past them. Both Peter and Neal ignored them.

"Alright, Neal, you can't raise your voice and you're rubbing your throat, so unless Wilkes gave you strep—"

"Please don't put that image in my mind, Peter. It's unkind. I've had a long day."

"Yeah, you have. Let's get you checked out." Peter extended an arm to help Neal to his feet. Neal looked at it as though it was testing his resolve. Apparently, it was.

"Peter," he said uncertainly. "I'm not sure I can make it out on my own. Can I… Can we wait for the paramedics?" Neal flashed a smile, but the question was asked as though he anticipated refusal, and it made Peter's heart stop and thump harder at the same time. Had he really been so unfair to Neal in the last few months that he expected to be denied even this?

"Yeah, of course, Neal. I'll go make sure they're coming in." He placed a hand on Neal's head, intending to show him that yes, he did care, even if he couldn't really say it or demonstrate it or act on it most of the time. When he pulled his hand away it was sticky with…

"Neal, what in hell do you think fine means?"

Neal blinked at him a little dazedly. "Um… Good?"

Peter curled his hands into fists so he wouldn't smack Neal. "You're bleeding from your head. That's exactly the opposite definition of fine! Do you have any broken bones I should know about? Any punctured lungs? Paramedics! Please send a second team in here. Are all your limbs attached?"

When Neal nodded (somewhat abashedly, Peter was happy to see), Peter added, "Can I trust you, or do I need to check?"

He thought he heard Neal mimic him under his breath, but pretended he hadn't.

Peter followed the ambulance to the hospital. Jones had taken Wilkes into custody, and rode with him. On the road Peter called Hughes to update him, and made a point of describing the condition in which they found Neal. He was tied to a chair. He'd been beaten. He was still bleeding. He was just sitting there, waiting for the FBI to find him, after he'd sent the only distress beacon he could— via Reilly. Not to mention the taser—

"Okay, Peter, I get it. You were right to sit on Reilly, happy? Go tend to your CI, will you? I have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for."

Next he called El. He could hear Mozzie in the background, and was surprised to find he was glad his wife had company. He gave them a slightly edited update, and cut the call short when they arrived at the hospital.

~*~

Neal almost wished his condition was worse. Not critically worse, but just enough to not have to sit in the emergency room in some God-forsaken Jersey hospital. When the medics had lowered the stretcher off the ambulance it buckled slightly before springing back into place, and he'd jarred his head again. For a second he thought he'd blacked out again, but it was only his vision tunneling before he rolled over the side of the stretcher and vomited again.

The medics apologized with sincere-sounding sorry, mans, but didn't seem to realize that Neal couldn't make his muscles move enough to roll back onto his back.

But then strong hands were doing it for him, one of them cradling his head as the other gently tugged him back onto the stretcher.

When they got inside, they waited. And waited. Peter, to his credit, tried to move things along, but was reminded that they had a gun-shot wound which had to take precedence. Neal could tell it rankled with Peter, but he couldn't begrudge Wilkes the medical attention. He never wanted to get him killed.

Peter helped Neal into a cushioned seat in the waiting room. While they waited Peter got Neal water and a basin to spit into, which was incredibly considerate, because he really didn't want to have to walk to the restroom.

After thirty minutes a nurse came by with a wheelchair and admission paperwork. Neal waved vaguely between Peter and the clipboard, with a quiet, "Could you…?" Peter, he saw, already had a pen out. Neal went with the nurse to the treatment room, but she only cleaned his hair from the blood and bandaged his head, and sent him back out to the waiting room. He was embarrassed to go.

When Peter saw him, the side of his mouth quirked but he refrained from commenting. Neal could still see the amusement dancing on his face, flitting from eyes blinking too-rapidly, to the mouth trying to suppress itself into a straight line, onto the nose crinkling against his will, and back to his eyes.

"Shut up."

"I said nothing." Peter kept his glance downcast, but Neal could see his eyes were screwed tight, and he was inhaling deeply, trying to control his breath.

"You know what, let's see you bandaged up after you've hit your head twice, we'll see if you don't look like a soap-opera amnesiac."

Peter covered his face with the hand holding the pen, but he couldn't stop himself from laughing outright. Neal was far too practiced to let his own amusement show, but he was cataloguing this moment for later. There were so few people in his life he respected, whom he cared to impress… He allowed himself a burst of pride that he was one of the few people (Elizabeth, he knew, but anyone else?) Peter allowed in, to the point of unguarded laughter.

Peter calmed himself and shook his head. "I was just imagining how you would look with one of your "classic Rat Pack" hats."

Neal relented and smiled. That would be pretty funny.

"H.G. Wells, much?" He asked, just as Peter said, "The Invisible Caffrey."

They both smirked and looked away.

The nurse came by again to take the paperwork, and as they resumed waiting Peter returned to business.

"While you were off getting your new look," he said, reaching into a duffle resting by his chair, pulling out a laptop, "Jameson and Taims dropped off some things. There's a change of clothes, by the way, for later.

"Anyway, Wilkes apparently chose a warehouse with security cameras—he's a curious blend of clever and clueless. I volunteered to go over the tapes since I'm not doing anything better ("Gee, thanks." "You know what I meant- we're just waiting"), and the sooner we can wrap this up the better.

"But Neal," Peter's voice grew somber, and Neal thought maybe he'd dozed off, because the conversation seemed to be suddenly serious.

Peter gestured at the laptop. "If there's anything, anything on this footage that you'd rather I don't see, or anyone on the team, I can have someone from tech review it and write the report."

Neal wasn't sure how to respond to that. His initial instinct was to tell Peter that yes, he'd prefer to have someone else, almost anyone else, review it. He hated the thought of Peter seeing him as even more of a victim. But then he realized that considering what he wanted to do with Alex, he could use any goodwill he could garner from Peter, and if that meant letting him see him utterly not in control, it was a small enough price to pay. Neal was surprised to be torn between saving face and showcasing weakness. It had never been an issue before. He wondered which had become the mask.

He'd decided, but it was harder to execute than he'd thought. He took a deep breath, then another. "Um, no, you can review it. I'm pretty sure you've seen the worst of it," Neal said, and pointed to his bandaged head.

"Okay. Thank you, Neal." Peter said, but didn't elaborate for what. He pulled on earphones.

As he watched, Neal thought he knew what Peter was seeing. He was so transparent. The professionally maintained straight-face, probably being dragged into the room and tied to the chair. His features relaxed as nothing happened for a few minutes. His left eye narrowed with a small "oooh" in a sympathetic wince, that was probably falling back with the chair.

But then Peter stopped moving entirely. He watched without blinking. His shoulders moved up and down in mimicry of calmness, because he wasn't drawing any breath. Shortly after that he slammed the computer shut and drew a deep breath, his eyes closed. He removed the headphones, although Neal knew he couldn't even be half done with the video.

"This shouldn't have happened," he said, and got up from his seat. Then he went over to the nurses' station, and demanded to speak to a doctor. Neal watched in fascinated horror as he insisted. When the nurse still maintained that he'd have to take a seat, Peter calmly pointed at Neal, said he was the victim of a violent crime, and that if she did not get a doctor for him right now he'd personally arrest her for obstruction of justice. Neal wasn't really sure how that could work, but Peter apparently could sell the con, because the nurse turned to the break-room behind her and called for a doctor. He was eating half a sandwich when he came out.

Ten minutes later Neal and Peter were in a different waiting room, several mazed-hallways away, awaiting to be called in for a CT and X-Ray. Until that moment Neal thought he might actually get to go home that night.

"No. No more whining from you. You lost that right when you failed to mention the hundreds of pounds of pressure on your hyoid— really, you're going to argue while you're still rasping? Just don’t. Close your mouth. You hit your head twice, and vomited after. Twice. It's first aid one-oh-one. You're getting the CT, Neal, even if it takes all night."

Neal sulked while Peter finished reviewing the feed. It was obvious he wasn't in particularly grave danger if the doctors felt so comfortable ignoring him. He tried calculating how long he'd been awake, and was about to ask Peter if 'passed out' counted as 'rest', when Peter folded the computer shut again.

"So Steve Tabernacle had dealings with Reilly in the past? The supposed missing pages from the Aleppo Codex. I knew that was you."

"Steve. But Reilly actually has a bizarre sense of honor. He appreciated that I didn't let the Feds take him in, what with the stolen Gold Cards they knew all about."

"That was some creative editing. For a moment I almost believed we were about to arrest him, before you nobly swept in and let him walk, clean." Peter slipped the computer back into the bag.

"And it didn't hurt that you warned him the FBI was minutes away. It's a pity he dumped the car before we could get him. But with this proof of what he did to Wilkes, we'll get him the next time he pops up on our radar."

They sat back and waited. It was amazing how many people needed internal imaging at this hour of the night.

Peter called Elizabeth, who sent her love and then, from the look on Peter's face and his aborted attempts to get a word in edgewise, proceeded to lecture him on something. Peter got up and left while still listening and trying to explain how much there was to do and to see to.

He came back with more water, Gatorade, and salty pretzels.

Neal went for the pretzels, first, and they might have been the single best thing he had ever tasted. He briefly entertained the idea that they wouldn't taste so fine if he'd eaten anything in the last twenty four hours, but dismissed the notion. They were divine.

He savored the first few, then took the bottle of water Peter had uncapped and was holding out to him. He managed a sip, but then his muscles contracted and his arms shook, and for a second that lasted an eternity Neal saw how he would literally wet himself because he was too weak to handl— Peter took the bottle from him, and apologized.

"Jeez, I'm sorry Neal. I should have remembered, the doctor said…"

Neal knew he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, but he'd have remembered if a doctor came around. Ever.

"What doctor? Peter, I'm pretty sure that's just wishful thinking- the doctor barely looked my way. But if it helps you cope with the wait in this…" he looked around, and indicated the moaning bed-ridden patients, the whiny children and irritated elderly, "delightful company, please. Dream the impossible dream."

"That's not what I meant, Sancho Panza. A few hours ago we received the processed audio from after Wilkes grabbed you—the second time. " Peter was fiddling with the bottle, tearing absently at the label. Neal had rarely seen him so uncomfortable, and the few times he had it was usually an affectation to put people at ease. This… This felt different.

"To the best of my recollection which, I admit, is a bit fuzzy, there wasn't much going on to listen to, let alone get a second opinion on."

Peter looked incredulous. "Neal, he threatened to kill you and then tased you, extendedly, at least four times. Of course I called a doctor."

Neal smiled at Peter, ever the concerned boss. "Aw, Peter, you were worried!" He said, his voice still low, but relieved to be back on familiar grounds. He would tease, Peter would deny, and that would be that.

But Peter wasn't quite on the same page. He leveled his gaze at Neal, brows drawn, as though he didn't quite understand the last thing Neal had said. "Of course I was worried, Neal."

The sincerity Neal felt pulsing off Peter made him feel awkward but belonging, like he was being entirely scrutinized and utterly transparent, but it was alright, because the sincerity would be there, regardless of what was found. It was unsettling, and Neal did not want to handle anything more than strictly necessary that night. He deflected.

Peter smiled a little resignedly, like he knew what Neal was doing, but he played along. Neal was grateful.

"That must be what earned me this gourmet meal. These pretzels are amazing, by the way," Neal said, examining one in his hand as he would a gem. He popped it reverently into his mouth. "I mean, like a song for the taste buds. What's the active ingredient in this, ambrosia?"

"They're just pretzels, Neal."

"They are not just pretzels. Taste one," he handed Peter a sample, and ate another himself. "I mean, the salt on these must have been refined from the tears of fairies."

"Not only are they just pretzels, they're from a machine. They're hardly the couture of salty snacks."

Neal shot Peter a disgusted look. Considering he'd just bitten down on a solid clump of salt, it wasn't hard.

"Couture is reserved for items of a sartorial nature, Peter. And I don't believe you didn't know that."

"Maybe I'm just testing your mental faculties."

"To save the Bureau a few bucks on the CT I don't really need?"

"You need it, Neal."

"You need it, Neal."

Peter pretended not to hear that.