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It wasn’t really lying, Neal always decided, when he thought about it at all. It just wasn’t the sort of thing he talked about. His mom hadn’t talked about it, and as far as he knew she’d never taken any medication for it. But then, his mom hadn’t really been into the whole self-care thing after they’d gone into WitSec.
Neal himself wasn’t exactly the poster child for self-care, either, but he had a life now that he liked and that he wanted to stay healthy for, and Peter nagged him into getting a physical once a year. It was during one of those routine physicals that Neal’s doctor saw the notation in his history and talked him into getting an EKG.
The results were conclusive: Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome. There wasn’t much that linked Neal to his mother now, but there was that. Thanks, Mom, Neal thought, when the doctor gave him the diagnosis.
It wasn’t a big deal, really. He wasn’t going to drop dead of a heart attack. He probably wouldn’t ever have any symptoms. There was no reason his life should change, and no reason anyone should know about it. Mozzie would freak. Peter might get weird and protective, and he might decide Neal shouldn’t do fieldwork anymore. The thought of being desk-bound for a genetic condition that would probably never even be an issue stressed Neal out more than the diagnosis did, so he kept his mouth shut.
It really wasn’t lying. It was just . . . omitting.
Two years after Neal got officially diagnosed with WPW Syndrome, he found himself being chased through a rabbit warren of shelving, boxes, and old farm equipment in a rundown warehouse in the far reaches of Queens. The men chasing him had guns. Neal, as usual, didn’t. He had no idea where his backup was, and he was starting to worry.
That was when the first wave of dizziness hit him.
He wobbled to one side, almost knocking into the shelves, then managed to regain his footing. He took two steps and stumbled as another wave of dizziness washed over him. He was suddenly covered in cold sweat, and his heart was pounding arhythmically.
“Are you joking?” he muttered, but apparently his body wasn’t.
There were a bunch of boxes just ahead of him, tumbled on their sides. Normally Neal would’ve just kept running, leading his pursuers a merry chase until his back-up showed, but that wasn’t going to happen right now. Neal let himself drop to the ground, which is what his body wanted to do anyway, and managed to wedge himself inside one of the boxes, so that the flaps were mostly shut.
In the dark, he tried to get his breathing under control, tried to get his heart to stop pounding, or at least pound in a normal rhythm. No such luck. Neal clung to consciousness by the tips of his fingers, telling himself that if Diana and Jones found him unconscious and apparently unharmed in a cardboard box, they’d never let him hear the end of it.
“FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
Neal almost passed out from sheer relief at the sound of Peter’s voice. There was some shouting and scuffling but no gunfire, and then Peter’s voice again. “Neal?” he called.
“In here,” Neal said, pushing at the flaps on the box. He caught a glimpse of Peter at the far end of the warehouse aisle.
“Hey,” Peter said, running over. He had his weapon drawn, but after a glance around the corner to make sure they were clear, he holstered it and crouched down. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
“Not hurt,” Neal said. His heart was slowing now, but he felt really weak. He wasn’t sure he could walk out of the warehouse on his own. “But I think you might want to call an ambulance.”
Peter’s eyes widened in alarm. “What? Why?”
“I have this thing,” Neal said. “A heart thing.”
Peter’s eyes went even wider. “What kind of heart thing? No, forget it.” Peter had his radio out already. “Diana, get me an ambulance. Caffrey isn’t shot, but he’s in some kind of distress. You copy?”
“Got it, boss,” Diana’s voice said.
“It’s not a big deal,” Neal said, aware that he probably wasn’t helping his case by the way he was slurring his words. “My mom had it. Never been a problem before.” He forced himself to lift his head and tell Peter very clearly, “It almost never kills people.”
Peter was staring at him. “Neal,” he said, and then snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. “Forget it.” He drew a deep breath. “How are you doing now?”
“Shaky,” Neal admitted. “But better.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “Better is good. Let’s get you out of the box.” He helped Neal crawl out and then lie down on the floor. It was better on the floor, Neal admitted to himself. Cooler.
Peter let him lie there without making him talk until the paramedics arrived a few minutes later. By then, Neal was feeling a little less like he was about to pass out, but he let them check his heart rate and give him oxygen, and he didn’t argue much when they declared they were taking him to the hospital. Peter was looking decidedly stormy, and Neal hoped that if he went to the hospital, he might be spared the lecture.
He should’ve known that wasn’t how it worked.
The hospital got him checked out pretty fast, since he came in by ambulance. By the time Peter arrived after securing the scene and starting the paperwork, he was basically ready to leave. The doctor’s prescription boiled down to “take it easy for the next few days,” and Neal intended to follow it.
He could’ve caught a cab home, but one look at Peter’s face and that suggestion died on Neal’s lips. He followed Peter out to the Taurus and climbed into the passenger seat. Peter got in next to him and gripped the steering wheel, but he didn’t start the car. Nearly a minute went by in silence. Neal was just on the verge of breaking it himself when Peter spoke.
“First of all,” Peter said, “you’re coming home with me. You’re going to stay with us for at least the next twenty-four hours.”
“Okay,” Neal said, cautiously.
“Secondly . . .” Peter let out his breath. “I could just about kill you, Neal. You have a heart condition. A heart condition. And you never said anything?”
Neal shrugged. “It’s never been a problem before. It was never a problem for my mom. And like I said -”
“It almost never kills people,” Peter quoted, tightening his grip on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Well, it could’ve killed you tonight. You’re lucky you didn’t collapse in front of Anderson and his men. And what if you’d been undercover with someone else? You could’ve put other lives at risk! Because you lied, Neal. About a heart condition!”
“I didn’t lie,” Neal said, though he was uncomfortably aware that Peter had a point. “I omitted.”
Peter glared at him. “You lied. Because you knew what I’d do if I knew.”
The bottom dropped out of Neal’s stomach. “Peter -”
“If you were an agent, you’d be in deep shit right now,” Peter said. “Lying about a health condition is not something the Bureau takes lightly.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But you’re not an agent, you’re a CI. So I can probably salvage it. But you know what this means.”
Neal looked away. “No more field work.”
“No more field work,” Peter said. He sighed. “And I am sorry about that. You’re damn good at the field work. But I’m not sorry enough to risk your life, or anyone else’s.”
Neal nodded. After a moment, Peter started the car.
Neither of them spoke on the way out to Brooklyn. Neal watched the world slide by and tried not to think. If he thought, he’d be upset, and there was nothing he could do to change any of it now. What had happened, had happened. Peter knew. And what was more . . . he was right.
Peter parallel parked in a space a few doors down from the Burkes’ and cut the engine. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Neal said, very softly, “I’m sorry.”
Peter reached over and rested his hand on the back of Neal’s neck. Neal closed his eyes, and Peter squeezed very gently. “I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt. That’s what matters to me, all right? The rest we can deal with. As long as you’re honest with me.”
Neal nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and thought it might actually be true.
Fin.