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Neal’s head had started aching the previous evening, and still ached the following afternoon. He rubbed his temple with one hand, struggling to concentrate on his computer monitor. The screen glared at him, its callous light piercing through his eyes and into his brain. He considered trying to adjust the brightness, but gave up the idea when he realised he had no clue how to do so. And the prospect of wading through the ancient computer’s settings made him wince.
His hand moved from his temple to his nape. The pain seemed to be migrating, spreading further into the crevices of his neck. Even his throat was raw, protesting having had nothing to drink with lunch.
Neal had known this would happen when he decided to quit coffee. He’d researched the fallout of caffeine withdrawal and been presented with a grim picture of life for the next few days. When insomnia and anxiety started hounding him weeks after leaving prison, he’d considered making the change. But with a full workload alongside his extracurricular activities, Neal relied on multiple espressos a day to keep him buoyant.
Then the tremors started, and the decision had been made for him. So he’d just have to bear the side effects while his body figured out how to go without. Italian roast was not worth compromising his fine motor skills.
Neal’s head steadily drooped, shoulders slumping under the weight of his pounding skull. Finally, he couldn’t stare at the screen any longer, and his eyes shut, seeking respite.
“Caffrey, sleeping on the job already? You’ve only been here two months.” Neal startled upright in his chair, eyes snapping open.
“Jones, hey. No, definitely not sleeping.” Neal squinted up at the agent’s face. The fluorescent lights in the office ceiling seared his brain. “What do you need?”
Jones’ eyebrow quirked up. “I don’t need anything, but it looks like you might need some more coffee. There’s a fresh pot in the break room. And it’s good, not the usual dishwater. I think one of the new probies brought it in to suck up to Peter. You should get some while it lasts.”
Neal couldn’t decide if the steaming mug in Jones’ hands was tempting or taunting him. He smiled thinly. “Thanks for the tip, but I’m actually trying to cut back.” Neal rolled his shoulders, wincing as his neck twinged.
“Oh, well, your loss. Maybe that’ll give Peter a chance to try it after all.” Jones turned towards his desk but looked back at Neal, who was massaging his neck. “You sure you’re good, Caffrey?”
Figuring it was too late to brush him off, Neal pulled on a chagrined smile. “Yeah, I’m fine, just a slight headache. Probably been staring at a screen too long. Actually, a break sounds good.” Neal stood, too quickly and grabbed the edge of his desk as his head pounded, eyes squeezing shut.
Jones hummed in sympathy. “Yeah, caffeine withdrawal will do that. Better take some painkillers, too. First aid box is in the break room.” Neal thanked Jones with a nod and slipped into the hallway before he embarrassed himself further.
There were three agents in the break room. Word of the superior coffee must have spread. The aroma of the freshly ground beans wafted over Neal tantalisingly. He indulgently considered trying a sip, wondering how it compared to June’s. Instead, he filled a glass of water, scolding his lack of discipline.
The other agents came and went as Neal sipped his water by the sink. Eventually he was alone, so he let himself wilt, elbows on the benchtop, head hanging low. He’d already accepted that he wouldn’t be getting much work done that afternoon. But at this rate, he wouldn’t be able to fake it either.
Jones had mentioned painkillers. Neal cringed at the thought. As a rule, he avoided drugs of any kind. But pills, and pill bottles, held a malevolence of their own, dredging up unwelcome memories.
He knew he was being foolish; continuing to avoid something that was, in itself, harmless. Anything had the potential to cause harm if abused. That didn’t mean you refused to use it. Vehicles contributed to just as many fatalities as prescription drugs, yet he managed to jump in a car with Peter every day. Then again, he’d never personally known anyone who’d died in a car crash.
Neal gritted his teeth in frustration, his tired arguments getting him nowhere. He took all his misgivings and shoved them back into the dark recess of his mind where the plagues of his past resided. He stubbornly ignored how the space they occupied had grown since the last time he silenced them.
The first aid box was intuitively located beneath the sink. Neal set it on the bench and gingerly opened the lid. Round bottles of ibuprofen and paracetamol stared at him from amongst the medical paraphernalia. The drugs rattled as he lifted them, which Neal blamed on the jitters of caffeine withdrawal.
Unfamiliar with the types of medication, Neal read the dosage instructions on each bottle. He rejected the Advil, as it needed to be taken with food and he’d already eaten lunch. He unscrewed the Tylenol cap, shaking some tablets onto the bench.
The long oblong pills winked up at him, full of brain altering chemicals. Why were they so big? Over half an inch in length, white, stamped with red. His throat constricted as he contemplated downing the synthesised drug.
But his head throbbed. He'd be useless for the rest of the day without relief. And Neal couldn’t afford to be useless.
Refilling his water glass, he took a few anticipatory sips. All but two pills were returned to the bottle. Should he down them one at a time, or together in one gulp? Why endure the trial twice?
He slipped both pills between his lips. A swig of water followed. The pills floated in his mouth, looking for a way out.
But Neal couldn’t swallow. His throat had closed off, his body rejecting the boon he sorely needed. Breathing uneasily through his nose, Neal tamped down his panic. It was fine, there was no physical reason he couldn’t do it. He just had to force it.
Neal swallowed nervously, managing to siphon the water down his throat. But the pills remained in place, settling lethargically on his tongue. Cursing his incompetence, he took another mouthful of water.
But the pills had been in his mouth too long. They were starting to dissolve, and the taste... It was awful, bitter, coating his tongue and gums in acrid sludge.
Neal tipped his head back, allowing gravity to help carry the pills to the back of his mouth. After one stuttering inhale, he swallowed convulsively.
It worked, water travelling down his esophagus. Until the pills lodged at the back of his throat and refused to shift. Neal gagged and retched. Bent over the sink, his hands clawed at the steel rim. Tears leaked from his eyes as he heaved. The water he’d ingested came up, along with a gob of white, which splatted into the sink.
Harsh breaths rattled his frame, quivered down his arms. Trembling hands held his glass under the faucet. Neal swished water around his mouth and spat acetic bile into the sink. At least his lunch hadn’t landed on the chrome as well, he thought bitterly, as he swiped the moisture from his eyes savagely.
“Ah, I should have known you’d beat me to it. Am I too late? I swear, no one in this division was a coffee snob until you put ideas in their heads.”
Neal jumped at Peter’s voice, a wave of unease roiling his stomach. He turned on the tap, sloshing water around the sink until the traces of his failure were lost down the drain.
Peter appeared next to the coffee maker, eyeing the thick, brown, mud staining the bottom of the coffee pot with disdain. He carried the carafe to the sink. “So? What’s the verdict on the new roast?”
Neal didn’t reply, and Peter cast him a quizzical look. “Judging by that expression, it’s not worth the hype.”
Neal turned away, hurriedly repacking the first aid box. He cleared his throat, somehow still feeling the cloying obstruction of the powdery pills. “I’m cutting down on caffeine, so I didn’t have any. Jones reckons I’m missing out, though.”
Neal slid the first aid box back under the bench and turned to leave. Peter’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Wait, Neal, was that the first aid kit? You alright?” Peter’s voice hung between curious and concerned.
Neal faced halfway towards Peter but gestured to the sink. “I just needed painkillers; for a headache. Nothing major.” He flashed a grin, running a hand across his brow, blocking Peter from view. Before he could sidle towards the door, Peter blocked his path, scrutinising his face.
Of course, it had to be Peter who’d come in at the wrong moment, with his penetrating gaze. Neal couldn’t hide the lingering wetness in his eyes, the fluttering pulse in his neck. He mustered his most impassive expression anyway.
Peter eyed Neal in silence. Then the back of his hand was on Neal’s forehead. Neal jerked away in surprise, but Peter had already made his assessment. “You’re not running a fever. But you’re pale.” He glanced at the sink, then frowned at Neal. “Did you throw up?”
Neal shook his head, too quickly, reminding himself why he’d sought out the meds in the first place. “No! No, Peter, it was just a headache. But I took some... Tylenol, so it’s fine now.”
Peter hummed. “Right, maybe in an hour, when it kicks in.”
The mounting pressure in Neal’s skull, behind his eyes, made focussing on Peter’s face, his words, a feat of willpower. The lights; why were the lights so bright? A vile chemical taste coated his mouth. He choked back the urge to gag and swallowed roughly instead. Peter was moving in his vision, swaying blurrily.
“Woah, okay, let’s get you sitting down.”
Hands grasped Neal’s arms, holding him firmly, and the swaying stopped. Peter guided his shoulders around and down, and Neal found a chair behind him. He sat, eyes closed, a hand instinctively raised to his brow to block out the stark fluorescent lights.
Peter’s voice filtered up to him. “Hey, what’s going on, Neal? If you’re feeling faint, we might need to get you to a doctor.”
Neal forced deep, even breaths to help him focus. He had to head Peter off before any drastic decisions were made. “I’m not sick, Peter. If I were, I’d be insisting on paid leave.”
Neal lowered his hand and blinked until the image stopped swimming. Peter peered up at him from a crouch, looking less than convinced, but open to persuasion.
Unwilling to release Neal’s shoulders, Peter regarded him indecisively. “You said you’re cutting back on coffee. You didn’t just quit cold-turkey, did you? That’ll give you a hell of a bad time.”
Neal nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I know. But I had to. It was messing with my hands.”
Peter’s relief let him relax his hold, and he exhaled audibly. Sitting back on his heels, he shot Neal a wry smile. “It’s always all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”
Neal’s head sunk into his hands. His eyes closed, rebelling his attempts to project composure.
“So it is just a headache?”
Neal nodded.
“Because it looks like your eyes are bothering you.”
Neal mumbled miserably, “It’s the light. Everything’s too bright.”
Peter nodded, eyes scanning the room. “Well, you took some Tylenol, so at least you’ve got some sense.”
Peter rose and his footsteps retreated. Maybe Neal would be left alone to gather his dignity after all. Then Peter’s hand returned to his shoulder.
“Here, drink some more water.”
Neal took the glass gratefully, sipping carefully at first, to test if his throat was going to behave. It seemed to, so he gulped the rest, swirling it around his mouth, rinsing away the remnants of his retching.
"Thanks, Peter.”
Neal handed the glass back, and swiped his hands through his hair, finding it sweaty and mussed. Massaging his temples, he steeled himself to return to the office. Using the table nearby to pull himself upright, he urged his body to stay that way while his head navigated the change.
Eventually he looked up to find Peter hovering by his elbow, wary hands not yet committed to steadying him.
“Easy,” Peter said, “the last thing we need is you keeling over.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Neal squinted towards Peter’s voice. “Not faint, just dizzy.”
“Okay, well that’s slightly better, I guess.” With Neal standing and as stable as he was going to get, Peter rested one hand on his back and turned him towards the door. “Take it slow. I can’t promise I’d catch you before you hit the table.”
Neal let Peter guide him across the room, a shaky grin stealing over his face. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want you putting your back out.”
Peter huffed, amusement softening his affected scowl. “I’ll have you know, I’m no lightweight. I can hold my own, thank you very much.”
Walking down the hallway towards the bullpen, Neal straightened his shoulders, drawing away from Peter’s touch. They approached the glass doors, but Peter’s light hold firmed as he directed Neal towards the elevator instead.
“Wait here a sec,” Peter said, prompting Neal to lean against the wall.
Before Neal could ask why, Peter had disappeared in the artificial glare of the office.
Neal sighed, taking the opportunity to smooth his hair and shirt in the polished metal of the elevator doors.
Peter returned shortly and shoved a bundle of fabric into Neal’s arms. He pushed the down button for the elevator.
Wondering if he’d missed something, Neal asked. “Er, did something come up? I thought it was cold cases and mortgage fraud today.”
Peter watched the numbers above the doors change as the car ascended to meet them. “It was, until you collapsed in a chair. Now it’s rest and fluids.” Peter nodded at Neal’s arms. “You probably want to put that on, it’s still cold out.”
The elevator dinged, and Peter shuffled Neal in, pressing the button for the parking garage. Neal couldn’t help pouting as he replied. “I didn’t collapse. You put me in the chair. And I don’t need rest. I’m not a child, Peter.”
Peter raised an undaunted brow at Neal. “No, but you’re still human. Are you telling me you want to stay here and work through a wicked headache?”
With pursed lips, Neal pulled on his coat and donned his hat.
Peter drove them through lurching traffic to June’s mansion. Neal’s chest tightened as every jolt increased the pressure in his head. Peter either heard or sensed his distress because his lead foot lightened as they eased through Manhattan. Arriving at June’s, they circled the block once, twice, looking for a park. There were none.
Suddenly yearning for his bed, Neal urged, “Just drop me out front, Peter. There’s no reason for you to come in.”
Peter swore softly under his breath. He flicked his hazard lights and stopped as close as possible to the front gate. Leaning towards Neal to peer up at the tall monolith, he grumbled, “Dammit, I knew I should have gone to my place.”
Neal already had his seatbelt unbuckled and was halfway out the door.
“Just wait a minute, Neal. Is June home?”
Neal squinted back at Peter below the brim of his fedora. “I don’t think so. She mentioned meeting some friends for afternoon tea. Does it matter?”
Peter shook his head, but his accompanying frown told Neal it was in response to the situation, rather than his question.
“Just, be careful, getting up those stairs. You have no idea how much paperwork will be involved if you trip and hurt yourself.” Peter’s concerned expression belied the gruffness of his tone.
Neal glanced away. “Right, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
A cacophony of honking, swerving cars roared around them, but Peter ignored it. “And remember to take some more painkillers in four hours.”
Neal nodded, sliding towards the door.
Peter’s hand grabbed his arm. “You’ve got painkillers right? I didn’t actually check, but you should have a basic first aid...”
“Peter, go back to work, you’re blocking traffic. Thanks for the ride, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Released from Peter’s smothering care, Neal tipped his hat forward, eyes on the pavement under the cold February sun. An odd feeling tickled his chest as he waved from the steps, finally relieving Peter of his burden.
Neal endured two more days of blinding pain before the assault lowered to a dull throb that he could ignore. Thankfully the dizziness didn’t reappear, and the tremors stopped. However, long days without the extra energy boost were taking a toll.
Now Neal was sipping decaf in Peter’s car, wrinkling his nose at the smell of devilled ham. They were at a park, watching a trash can that was being used as a dead drop for forged documents. Nothing unusual had happened yet and it was possible nothing would before tomorrow.
It was unseasonably warm already, a light breeze wafting pleasantly through the car windows. The occasional jogger, dog walker and cyclist meandered along the communal path. The distant traffic was mostly drowned out by the lawnmower cutting patterns into the grass. All of this did nothing to ease Neal’s irritable mood.
“Peter, can we please get rid of that sandwich wrap? I can still smell it, even with the windows down.”
“Oh, the woes of being a CI. First, it’s coffee envy. Then, it’s trash can duty. Now, it’s sensitive nostrils.” Peter sighed in mock sympathy.
Neal’s expression soured. “It was not ‘coffee envy.’ I simply pointed out it was inconsiderate to rub your free gesha coffee in my face, knowing I'm abstaining.”
Peter chuckled. “Hey, I wasn’t rubbing it in your face, I was rubbing it in Jones’ face. You just happened to be there.”
“Same thing.” Neal knew he should be fighting his less than charitable mood, but days of fatigue and restless nights had left him with a short fuse. It was a frustrating feeling for a con man. There were very few situations which called for being petty and unlikeable. He took a deep breath, which should have been soothing, except he got a whiff of Peter’s recently demolished lunch with it.
Incongruously tipped over the edge, Neal grabbed the sandwich wrapper from the centre console and surged from the car. Peter’s abrupt protest was swept away by the static in Neal’s ears. He trudged over to the trash can, dumped the offending rubbish, and trudged back. He slid into the car, shoulders tight, and glowered out the windshield.
Peter was staring at him. He could feel the incredulous gaze scanning him for answers. But Neal couldn’t provide any that would seem adequate.
“Seriously, Neal? You would seriously compromise the whole purpose of this stakeout for the sake of your sensibilities?”
Peter sounded put out. Neal didn’t blame him. He shrugged in response. If he’d had a better explanation he’d have given it.
Peter’s breath whooshed out of him. Neal saw, in his peripheral vision, Peter put a hand over his eyes, rub his face, shake his head.
“Well, if you did scare him off, we’ll never know,” Peter bemoaned. “So as long as we’re stuck here, I want peace, and not another word of complaint.” Peter skewered Neal with his eyes. “Got it?”
All the agitation leaked from Neal in the space of a breathy exhale. Fatigue overtook him instead; shoulders lowering, eyelids drooping. “Yeah, Peter. Fine.”
Two minutes passed in sullen silence.
Then, Neal’s eyes started to itch. A prickling discomfort at the bridge of his nose turned into pools of moisture. Before any tears could fall, he dispersed them in the guise of a massage. Blinking rapidly did nothing to dispel the irritation.
Next, his nose wanted to run. Neal sniffed softly, willing the sensation away. He’d already aggravated Peter enough for one day; he didn’t feel up to finding out what happened when he pushed his handler over the edge.
Neal felt the unpleasant buildup of a sneeze. He moved his elbow to the car door, casually leaning against his hand, using his fingers to block his nose. Tears built in the corners of his eyes, the powerful itch begging to be soothed. Surreptitiously rubbing under his lids opened him up to more sniffling.
When the sneeze came, Neal managed to hold his nose, but stifling the motion left a searing burn through his sinuses.
Peter hummed beside him. Neal couldn’t tell by the tone whether it was in sympathy or annoyance.
There came the brief sound of rummaging, and Peter’s hand appeared, holding out a small packet of tissues. Neal glanced over. Peter was still watching the trash can. “Thanks.” Neal murmured, accepting the offering.
He managed to blow his nose sedately, but the itching in his eyes persisted maliciously. There was no hope of concealing the watering now. Neal scrubbed at his eyes, realising too late he was probably spreading the irritant around.
Movement came from his left, and Neal heard what it was before he'd blinked the watery scene into focus. Pills, rattling in a bottle. His heart skipped a beat, irrationally palpitating in response to the innocuous little container in Peter’s hand.
“Take one of these. It’s just generic brand stuff, but it works fast.”
Neal’s mind skittered apprehensively, trying to find an inoffensive way around the ominous obstacle. “That’s okay, Peter. I’ll just wait it out.”
Peter glanced at him briefly. “Nonsense, the antihistamines are right there, and there’s water in the centre console. No need to put up with it.”
Peter tossed the pills onto Neal’s lap and reached for the unopened water bottle. “And I won’t have to listen to you sneeze all afternoon, either.”
Neal’s features contorted into tight lines, stress seeping from his pores before he could suppress it. With a stab of fear, he felt his throat tighten, his mind and body anticipating another failed attempt at ingesting the hated little pills. His breaths came short and sharp, rising with the beating of his heart. He had to say no. All he had to say was no.
“Really, Peter, it’s fine. I won’t sneeze, promise.”
“What’s the big deal? You’re not allergic to any medicines; it’d be in your file.”
Neal wished Peter would keep his eyes on the trash can, instead of shooting calculating glances his way. “I just don’t take allergy pills. Never have.”
Peter scoffed. “Well, it’s about time you grew up and took care of yourself then.”
Neal’s resolve cracked, fragile flakes falling from the protection around his core. He consciously swallowed the saliva building in his mouth. Peter was right. He was being childish. He knew he couldn’t avoid this his whole life.
Neal propped the water between his knees and picked up the little pill bottle. Careful not to rattle the contents, it took Neal three attempts to remove the lid. A scattering of round white pills tumbled into his palm. At least they were a lot smaller than the painkillers he’d been unable to take.
How many was he supposed to use? Right, Peter had said one. All but one pill went back into the bottle. Hastily re-screwing the lid, Neal banished the thing to the centre console.
Water first. Maybe if he convinced himself he was only drinking water, his body would accept the pill. Neal uncapped the water and took a gulp. Even the water alone had a hard time finding its way to his stomach. He cursed his incompetent brain, knowing he didn’t have time to ease through it. Not with Peter watching, waiting.
Neal slipped the pill into his mouth, holding it underneath his tongue. He wouldn’t be able to handle tasting the wretched thing without gagging. Not giving himself time to over-analyse, he chugged a huge mouthful of water. Tipping his head back, Neal chanted to himself: it’s just water, just swallow the water.
He did swallow the water. He thought he swallowed the pill. Then came the pressure at the back of his throat. Not blocking it, but undeniably there.
Don’t panic, don’t panic. Neal didn’t dare look in Peter’s direction. Peter was too perceptive, and Neal too raw. His eyes kept streaming tears. At least he had an excuse for that, and he shakily wiped them away.
He swigged another mouthful of water. Then another, but he couldn’t get rid of the sensation of something stuck partway. The feeling was building, morphing and merging with his previous attempt to down a lab-made substance.
No, no, no, he could feel his gag reflex kicking in. He was sure he could taste the thing; or was it a sense memory, tormenting him?
It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t going to go down. And his body wasn’t going to let it stay where it was.
Fumbling with the handle, Neal ripped his door open just in time to heave over the pavement. Sour water splashed over the tarmac, followed by acidic coffee. All Neal could do was grip the door in one hand and the seat in the other, helpless, as his diaphragm spasmed.
Eventually, it stopped. Neal panted raggedly, bowed under the weight of his shame. He untwisted his torso, swinging his legs out of the car to drop his feet, uncaring, onto the stained ground.
Instinct is a powerful force, taking over when the mind is too distressed to make decisions. Neal’s instinct caused him to curl in on himself, one arm around his torso, a hand over his eyes. Bent over his knees, as his tears kept falling.
Warmth touched Neal’s back. Slow steady strokes along his shoulders. He flinched away, unable to accept the comfort. Not in such a pitiful state, when he couldn’t even face himself.
The warm hand retreated. Words reached him hazily, sounds without meaning, murmuring between his stilted breaths. Their tone mirrored the caress of the departed hand, and this time there was no dislodging it. Neal wouldn’t be left alone, not until he could convince his keeper to leave. Knowing Peter, there was little chance of that.
Fingers wrapped around his wrist, gently tugging his hand from his eyes. Neal faintly resisted, until he felt a tissue being pressed into his palm. His fingers curled around it, and he dabbed at his eyes, wiped his nose. The water bottle materialised next, and Neal sipped cautiously. Liquid sloshed audibly in the bottle as he held it.
Peter’s voice started to register.
“... looking unlikely, but we need to do due diligence... no, the van will be too conspicuous, just bring your regular car... okay good, we’ll head off once I see you pull in. And bring a friend. Fair warning, it’ll be boring... thanks, Di.”
Neal scowled miserably at the wet ground beneath his shoes. A second pair of feet entered his vision. Warmth returned to his shoulder, wavered, then settled.
“Okay, you’re alright.”
Clothes rustled, knees appeared, Peter crouching in front of him. Another hand rested over Neal’s, holding the bottle. The sloshing stopped.
Neal uncurled enough to move the hand from his stomach to his eyes. At least they didn’t itch anymore. Or perhaps his brain had chosen something worse to focus on.
“Come on, kid, talk to me. What’s going on?”
Neal swallowed tightly, determining his ability to form words. He opened his mouth, but only a raspy, hitched breath came out. Clamping his lips shut, he shook his head, turning away to grimace at the car door.
Peter’s huff of breath held volumes of disappointment to Neal’s ears.
“But you’re okay, right? I mean, not okay. But do you feel like you’re going to vomit again?”
Neal blanched at the word, spoken aloud. He held his hand over his mouth, recalling the sensation of choking on nothing more than water and medicine.
“Shit, sorry.” Peter sounded flustered. Probably disgusted by the whole situation.
Then Neal realised, belatedly, that he’d ruined the stakeout. Again.
Neal shook his head, trying to convey remorse. He found another tissue being held in front of his hand. Blinking, he accepted it, wiped his mouth, scrunched it into a ball with the first one.
Peter asked, “Does that mean, ‘no, I’m not going to... be sick’?”
Without much choice, if he wanted Peter to stop hovering, Neal turned pained eyes towards him. He cleared his throat. “It means, I’m sorry. For messing up the case.” His hands clenched, crinkling the plastic bottle. “For... all of it.”
Peter shook his head before Neal could glance away. The bottle was teased from his grip. “I’m not worried about any of that. Just... what happened? One second you were sulking over a bit of hay-fever, and the next...” He gestured at the ground between them.
Neal’s face scrunched up, eyes closing. “I know. I shouldn’t have... I tried not to, honestly.” He could feel his breath hitching again, reacting to his thoughts. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t even think about... that... without flinching pitifully?
Peter’s voice expressed confusion. “Okay, I’m not blaming you. But I need to know what’s wrong. Is it a stomach bug?”
Neal imagined Peter’s face, wrinkled in consternation. It may have made him smile, had anxiety not sucked the mirth from him. Strung out and pummelled by the waves of his emotions, Neal could only find the truth to give to Peter. “I don’t usually take pills. It wouldn’t go down.”
A beat of silence followed, long enough for Neal’s face to flush. He buried his humiliation behind one hand, the other tensing and releasing around the wad of tissues.
Peter’s hand on his shoulder started moving, back and forth. Neal vaguely recognised that he’d become accustomed to its soothing weight.
“I’m the one who owes an apology, then. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I just assumed... I mean, everyone takes allergy pills.”
The words jarred Neal, striking painfully close in an unexpected way. A fractured sob left him before he could smother it. He felt Peter’s hand hesitate on his back, then move to grasp the back of his neck. Neal felt himself pulled forward until the top of his head rested in the space between Peter’s shoulder and neck.
Peter’s muttering reached his ears, “Sorry, Neal. Damn, I’m just saying all the wrong things today.”
Neal’s breaths wrenched from him laboriously, irrationally catching in his chest. He knew nothing was wrong, physically. But he couldn’t convince his body to separate itself from the dark spaces in his mind. Even as embarrassment told him to pull away, Neal thought it would be worse if Peter were able to see his face.
“Okay, you’re okay. Oh, that’s Di’s car.”
Neal immediately tensed, mortification cutting through his fragility. His next breath froze in his lungs, heart beating erraticly.
“Hey, it just means we can get out of here now and go home.”
Neal set his jaw and pulled away from Peter. He turned back into the car, feet under the dash, and reached for his seatbelt. Unable to close his door with Peter still crouched there, Neal ran his fingers back and forth over his forehead. Once he got to his apartment, he’d let this idiotic tension out. Peter rose, shutting the door softly.
As they pulled out of the parking lot, Neal shielded his peripheral vision with his left hand. The last thing he wanted was Peter trying to make conversation during the long ride back to June’s.
But far too soon, Peter was pulling off the road, around a building and into a shadowy parking lot. A sign drilled into the concrete wall in front of them said, ‘Reserved for Club Members Only.’ Whatever club it was for must have been closed, as the lot was deserted.
“Neal.”
So that’s why Peter had pulled over. Neal tried to cloak his discomfort in ire, but the one outweighed the other so completely it was futile.
“Peter, can we please not. I just want to go home.” Neal didn’t see the hand reach for his knee before it touched, jolting his frail nerves.
“We will, I promise. But by the time we get there, you’ll have come up with too good of an explanation for why you can’t take pills. And this is something I need to know, Neal.”
Neal twisted in his seat, fingers massaging his brow. Peter was probing at painful truths Neal had walled off long ago, hidden even from himself. He’d gone to such lengths to escape his childhood, his family. But the ripples of the past continued to pursue him.
“You don’t need to know, Peter. You’re curious, sniffing for information. You know everything about Neal Caffrey already. My past is none of your business.”
Silence, permeated by the muffled noise of city life, descended between them. With no reference for his handler’s frame of mind, an insistent need to see Peter’s face gripped Neal. He swallowed around a dry throat, fleetingly pondering where the water bottle had gotten to. He finally lowered his hand, reading Peter from the corner of his eye.
Peter wasn’t scrutinising him. He was looking out the windshield, right hand gentle on Neal’s knee. Even as Neal turned to face him, Peter looked at the wall.
“I’m not trying to pry, Neal.” The softness of Peter’s voice matched his expression. An inexplicable sadness contoured the lines of his face. “You’re mostly right, that your past is none of my business. But an exception applies when it affects your wellbeing.”
Neal huffed, unconvinced. “Right. And how do you figure this falls under that category?”
“Because I’m responsible for your care, which includes getting you medical treatment. If I took you to a doctor, and they prescribed you something, I can’t have you lying about taking it because you don’t want to tell me why you can't keep it down. Someone needs to know.”
Neal turned away when Peter’s sincere eyes found him. He hoped his expression didn’t look as brittle as he felt. “Oh.”
Neal wondered if he’d be able to feed Peter an excuse that seemed less pathetic than the truth if he had more time. Probably not, considering he hadn’t come up with anything in the days since the break room incident.
How much would he have to say to satisfy Peter? He might not even be able to get through an explanation without reliving the fear, the anguish. The guilt.
Peter’s hand squeezed his knee, jerking him back into his body, the car, the parking lot.
“I don’t expect you to tell me anything that isn’t relevant to your medical care. Alright?”
Peter must still be watching him. Hands clenching in his lap, Neal realised he was still reflexively gripping the tissues, so he stuffed them into his pockets. Restlessness prevailed, however, as he was soon running uncertain fingers through his hair. Whatever was wrong with him was eroding his self-control.
“Okay,” Peter continued. “What if I ask the questions? You can respond with as much or as little as you like.”
Peter spoke even and low. Neal’s brain told him there was an undertone of scorn to be found. Or maybe that was another lie he was telling himself. If he wanted this conversation to be over, he’d have to give Peter something. He nodded.
“Alright, good. The other day, you said you took Tylenol for your headache. Did you actually?”
Neal shook his head.
“So, when you said you don’t take allergy pills, what you meant was you don’t take any pills?”
Neal swallowed, nodded.
Peter sighed. His thumb rubbed circles on Neal’s knee.
“Okay. We can work around that. But I’m gonna need to know why. What about it is an issue?”
Neal’s face scrunched up. He felt the blood creeping up his neck, running into his face, broadcasting his weakness to the world. To Peter.
“I’m not judging you, Neal. I’m sorry, I know this makes you uncomfortable. But if we have this discussion now, I won’t have to bring it up again.”
Neal nodded swiftly. “Yeah,” his voice squeaked breathily. “Yeah, I know.”
Neal felt the gloom in his mind creep outwards. Tendrils of haunted memories flickered in his mind’s eye. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting, then opening quickly as the scene behind his lids grew morbid.
Peter’s hand moved to his shoulder, gripping firmly, squeezing. Connecting Neal to reality.
“Take your time,” Peter said.
Neal wished it were that simple. But time had only given his fears room to grow.
Appalled at his own frailty, Neal’s hands clenched harshly in his lap. Nails bit his skin, a welcome sting, as he summoned his voice. “It’s the... I can’t... swallow.” That hadn’t quite been what he’d meant to say, but it was the closest he could get.
Peter hummed in acknowledgement. He left space for Neal to gather his thoughts and continue.
“The thought. Of pills, chemicals. Changing your brain. I don’t want that stuff in me.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s an understandable viewpoint.”
Neal shot Peter an incredulous look. “What? No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous.” Neal’s hands twisted his dark locks into messy knots. “You said yourself, everyone takes pills.”
Peter sighed, his free hand dragging over his face. “Now, you know that was an exaggeration. But if we’re taking things literally, I said I understand. And I do. You’re hardly the first to experience a phobia.”
Neal’s lips thinned. He looked out the window, hands twisting together in his lap once more. “It’s not just a phobia. There’s... reasons.”
Peter paused, shifted. “Do you want to tell me?”
“No. Maybe. No.” The memories pulsed through his brain, refusing to stay locked away. Peter had somehow weakened the barrier of Neal’s defences. That Neal was considering letting him in produced a disconcerting mix of trepidation and yearning.
“It’s okay,” Peter said, squeezing his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you do, I promise I’ll listen, without prejudice. Scout’s honour.”
Neal choked on a nervous chuckle. “Somehow, I knew you were a boy scout.”
Fondness coloured Peter’s voice. “Eagle Scout, actually.”
Neal’s mouth quirked. “Of course.”
He glanced back at Peter. He was gazing out the windshield, hand casually on Neal’s shoulder. For all the world quite content to sit for as long as it took. A solid presence.
Neal sifted tentatively through his swirling thoughts. As he did so, he centred on the feel of the seat, his nails biting into his hands, Peter next to him, so as not to get lost in darkness. He cautiously weighed what was best kept hidden, and what needed to be set free.
“It’s the memories. Bad memories.”
Peter sat. He listened.
“There were... bottles. So many bottles. Different types. I don’t... I didn’t know what they all were. Just that...”
Neal stopped. His chest thumped. Peter’s warm hand soothed.
“She was never right. Always up or down. I never knew which, until I got up in the morning. Or came home from school.”
Neal swallowed. His vision swam. Silence stretched for a long minute.
Peter asked, quietly, “Your mother?”
Something in Neal cracked. A split in a heretofore impenetrable wall. A thread of darkness evaporated, dispersed into ether. He felt the release as a physical reprieve, pressure easing from his chest. A sob escaped him. With it, a well of ancient tears, long repressed.
Peter murmured something, the words submerged beneath Neal’s grief. But the timbre of his voice, the movement of his fingers squeezing and releasing Neal’s shoulder, guided him through the swell of his emotions. Refused to let him drown.
It was a brief slip, from Neal to Danny. When Neal resurfaced, a tissue was hovering by his hand. He took it, wiping away the traces of vulnerability.
Relieved of one small burden, Neal found himself more exhausted than before. He slumped in his seat, leaning into the door. Away from Peter’s anxious eyes.
Neal spoke softly, “If you don’t mind, Peter, I’d really like to go home now.”
Peter held on for a heartbeat longer, then released his shoulder. “Yeah. No problem.”
As Peter guided them out into the stream of traffic, Neal let his eyes glaze. For many city-blocks he focussed on nothing, drifting in hollow silence.
Eventually, he started rebuilding his walls, recreating the space in which Neal Caffrey could survive. As he did so, he found something had shifted. There was less strain, more room around his heart. The space occupied by his demons had receded, just a little.