Notes: If nightmares and drowning are triggers for you, please skip the first section in italics.

Chapter 5: The Return of the Hen

Water. Water rushes in through the open windows. Torrents of water. As the water floods the van, time slows down. The water laps up to his waist, then his shoulders, his head. Gradually the van sinks to the bottom of the river. But it's so peaceful. There's no noise. Just water. He's cushioned by the water as he falls. This is it. This is the end. Odd. Shouldn't he be afraid?

His arms stretch out languorously, caressed by the water. His left hand bumps against something. As he gazes at the ceiling of the van, his fingers delicately probe the surface of what he touched. Something soft. Hair. Then something hard with indentations. A head. God, a head! He turns to look and is filled with horror. Harper floats beside him, his body swollen, his eyes bulging and accusing.

Neal screams and screams.

Flee. He has to flee. He has to escape. He can't breathe. He struggles to swim out of the window, but his left foot is stuck. For an eternity he struggles but the foot is trapped. He turns around, dreading to see Harper, but this is even worse. Harper holds his foot in a death grip. Frantic, he kicks and kicks against him.

At last he frees himself. But he still can't breathe. He takes in huge lungfuls of water, but he can't breathe. Desperately he uses all his remaining strength to swim up, up towards the light, away from his prison, away from his coffin.

He swims up for what must be miles. At last he sees a shape above him. A boat? If he can reach it, he will be safe. He finally reaches it and puts out an arm. Is this a boat? He grabs at the sides, and it capsizes.

There floating above him is not a boat but a body. He recognizes it—a younger version of himself. It's what he looked like when he ran away, when he drowned in the lake. His own face stares back at him. Empty eyes. Dead eyes.

Flee! Swim away! But where? Back down to the van? He gulps more gallons of water. His head pounds. Someone seizes his legs. He screams and risks a quick look over his shoulder. It is his younger self holding on to him, not letting go. He is frozen in terror. His head is going to explode but he can do nothing. This is how it feels to die.

Then he is seized again. "You're not me!" he screams and fights back. More hands. "Stay away!" He wants to yell but what comes out is only a whisper. He's too exhausted. He can't fight it anymore.

"Neal . . . it's okay . . . relax . . . you're safe. C'mon, open your eyes. Neal . . ."

Hands are gripping him, refusing to let go. This time not cold and clutching, but warm and strong. Maybe he could open his eyes. But would he just see himself?

"Neal . . . c'mon . . . open your eyes . . . Neal . . . ."

Opening his eyes a crack—God, his head hurt—he tried to focus. This time, not Harper, not himself, but Peter loomed in front of him. His eyes looked enormous, but they were filled with concern, not terror.

"That's it . . . relax . . . you're safe . . . deep breaths . . . slow it down, Neal . . . you're safe . . . ."

Leaning into the solid strength that was Peter, he slowly brought his breathing under control. Air, he was breathing air. He didn't need to gulp water. Air . . . .

Gradually his heart stopped trying to pound out of his chest. But he was totally drained. He hurt everywhere, the pain spreading from his chest to the jackhammer splitting his skull apart.

From somewhere overhead a glass appeared. "Small sips. It's just water. It will help." A woman's voice. Ellen? Was she at the lake? No, Peter wasn't at the lake. Peter . . . Elizabeth, yes, Elizabeth.

"Feeling a little better?"

Neal nodded slowly, not trusting his voice yet.

Peter relaxed his hold on him. "I'm gonna get you disentangled from these sheets. This can't be too comfortable."

Neal looked around and began to take in his surroundings. He was on the floor next to the bed, sheets and blankets twisted about him. He groaned and leaned back against the side of the bed as Peter and Elizabeth unwound the bedding.

Peter said, "Let's get you up from the floor, okay?"

"No, I'm good. I'll just stay here a while." Neal was still groggy from the nightmare. His bruised ribs were screaming at him from falling out of bed. "What time is it?"

"Around ten," said Elizabeth. "Time for more pain meds. You probably feel like you could use some."

"We've been watching a movie downstairs," Peter said. "Why don't you join us?"

Neal nodded but made no attempt to get up. He was still shaky from his nightmare and really didn't want to be alone, but it hurt too much to even try.

Peter slipped an arm around him. "C'mon. It may not be as bad as you think. We'll take it slow."

"Wait, what movie are you watching? It's not Moby Dick, is it?" Now that he was more awake, he was feeling more than a little embarrassed at the commotion he'd caused.

Peter laughed. "Oh, I think monster movies are going to be on your forbidden list for a while, buddy."

With Peter's help, Neal eased himself up. The stairs were another ordeal, but not as painful as he'd feared.

Before long he was on the couch, propped up on pillows. Satchmo, beating a staccato drumbeat with his tail, pressed against the side of the couch. Still breathing heavily from the exertion, he closed his eyes. Sleepless in Seattle murmured in the background. The words drifted in and out, but the music was relaxing. What was that song? "Make Someone Happy"? Yes, that was it. Easy to hum . . . .

August 29, 2004. Sunday morning.

Everyone slept in the next morning. When Peter and Elizabeth came downstairs at eight, Neal was still sacked out on the couch. They padded softly into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

"I checked on him a few times during the night," said Peter as he made the coffee. "He appeared to be sleeping so soundly, I saw no point in waking him to go upstairs. Hope he doesn't have any additional cricks from sleeping on our couch."

El poured out a couple of glasses of orange. juice. "I'm glad he was able to sleep. Did he tell you anything about his nightmare?"

"No, but I can guess. You don't get hurled off a bridge without it doing a number to your psyche. And this wasn't the first time Neal nearly drowned."

"Not the first time?" El looked shocked as she handed him a glass. "What happened before?"

"When he turned 18, Neal learned he was in WITSEC and why. He couldn't handle it and ran away. Wound up crashing his car in a lake and if he hadn't been rescued by a passing motorist, he would have drowned." Shaking his head, Peter muttered, "Gotta eliminate car crashes and drownings in the future."

"He seemed to recover from the nightmare without too much difficulty," El noted with a smile. "His humming to the movie was quite entertaining!"

"Apparently drugs can make Neal loopy. When we were in St. Louis, I found him in a car doped out on cold meds and humming nonstop. I finally had to get him to switch to another tune to make him stop. Fortunately he didn't last very long last night. It can get very annoying, trust me."

"I don't know—I thought it was cute."

Squeaky sounds started coming from the living room. "Satchmo," Peter said with a groan, and went in to check. Sure enough, Satchmo was doing his best to get Neal interested in playing by dropping rubber toys next to the couch. Neal was laughing as Satchmo barked with excitement.

"Satchmo, no!" Peter went over to restrain his overly exuberant Labrador.

"Don't worry about it. He's fine. I should be getting up anyway."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I was exploded out of a cannon, but I guess I'll live." Neal slowly extricated himself from his nest of pillows and blankets. "Sorry I crashed your date night."

Peter helped him up. "We were sleeping to the movie anyway. Not a problem having an extra person join the party."

Neal swayed a little as he got upright and put out a hand for support.

"You need a shoulder to go upstairs?" Peter asked.

"No, I got it, I think. I'll try to avoid crashing through your wall."

The shower was managed without any catastrophes and Neal made it through breakfast. But he was yawning so much throughout the meal, it was obvious he wasn't going to last much longer.

He excused himself, saying "I'll get out your way and head upstairs. Peter, I'll be in good shape to go back to my place this evening. That way I'll be able to get ready for work tomorrow."

"Oh no you don't. The doctor said 48 hours not 24. Besides, I'm giving everyone Monday off. After the Saturday we just had, we all need a break. Me, I'm going to spend Monday filling out the mountain of paperwork your adventure has caused, something I know you'll want to help me with."

Neal groaned. "I better rest while I can."

The day passed quietly with Neal asleep most of the time. In the evening, Peter had reserved the TV for baseball, a doubleheader. Surprisingly, Neal gave him no grief, even when the last game went on into overtime.

At midnight Peter and El called it a night and prepared to head upstairs.

"You coming too?" Peter asked.

Neal shook his head. "You know, I've slept so much during the day, I'm really not sleepy now. I saw The Maltese Falcon was on tonight. Think I'll stay up for that."

"Uh-huh." Right. He'd been yawning all evening and now claimed to be wide awake. More likely Neal was trying to avoid a repetition of the previous night. They hadn't discussed his nightmare, but maybe they should.

At 3 a.m. Peter woke up. Noticing the downstairs light was still on, he decided to check on him. The TV was on, but Neal was asleep. Satchmo was lying on the floor next to him and wagged his tail when he saw Peter.

"Good boy, Satchmo," Peter whispered. With Satchmo guarding him, Neal should be free of sea monsters. Peter turned off the TV and let him sleep.

August 30, 2004. Monday morning

The next morning El left early to prepare for an upcoming event. Peter appropriated the dining room table to work while Neal, who insisted he was feeling much better, camped out on the couch. After a couple of hours, Peter was ready for a break. He glanced over at Neal, who was leaning back on the cushions with a decidedly bored look while twirling a pen in one hand.

"I'm calling a timeout," Peter announced. "You interested in coffee? El left us some biscotti."

"She's a wonderful woman. You should put these forms away first. Somewhere far away. Wouldn't want to get crumbs on them."

"I keep waiting for you to try to feed them to Satchmo. I don't know that I mentioned it, but the 'my-dog-ate-my-forms' excuse really doesn't cut it at the Bureau."

"You sure about that? Have you ever tried?"

Peter went into the kitchen and returned with the coffee and biscotti. Handing Neal a cup, he sprawled in a chair by the couch and stretched his legs out. "Ah, this is better."

Sipping his coffee, Neal looked at him questioningly.

"Something on your mind?" Peter asked.

"Not really. I'm just surprised you haven't asked me more about Saturday."

"I didn't know if you were ready. You feeling up to discussing it?"

"Sure, although I don't know that there's much more to tell. You heard the conversation. I kept thinking I could persuade him to pull over, but he was too unhinged to listen."

"According to the toxicology report, Harper had a massive amount of cocaine in him. It's a wonder he didn't crash the van earlier."

Neal shuddered. "You could tell from his eyes. They looked insane and empty at the same time. Hard to explain." Neal's expression clouded as his words trailed off.

"Your voice was remarkably calm and relaxed," Peter prompted. "I don't know how you managed that."

"I was so deep into the con, it wasn't difficult. But when I wasn't getting through to him, I switched tactics, trying to get him to pull over. Nothing worked."

"I wouldn't say that," Peter countered. "After all, you did keep him from shooting you. When were you able to get the egg from him?"

"When we raced out of the park, he'd snatched the egg and put it in an inside pocket of his jacket. He tied my hands to the dashboard. Child's play to get out of them, but he kept glancing over and I didn't want to alarm him even more. I was waiting for the right moment." Neal stopped and glanced over at Peter, "I was really trying not to be reckless."

"You sure you weren't so caught up in trying to help Sonya—the whole damsel in distress vibe—that you ignored the risk to yourself?"

"I don't think so," Neal said slowly. "When we approached the bridge I saw the police cars. Figured it would be over, but he was so high, that meant nothing to him. It was only after he sideswiped the truck that I had a chance to get the hen."

"You mean as the van was being hurled off the bridge, that's when you pocketed it?" Peter asked incredulously.

Neal shrugged. "Once we were on the bridge, Harper was so busy trying to avoid cars, he didn't notice when I freed myself. The way he was weaving, a crash looked inevitable so I'd already taken the papers and rolled down my window before it happened."

"By the way, I brought your clothes back from the hospital. That's some hoodie. Looks like it has a special inner layer to it. The lab guys went nuts over the pouch. Was that a Mozzie job?"

"Yes, that was his own design. The hoodie's lining conceals the shape of an object hidden inside the pouch, which, by the way, I'd like to have back someday."

"That can be arranged," Peter said and added casually, "How'd you sleep last night? Any nightmares?"

"Not too bad. I guess it will take a while."

"The one you had Saturday night . . . ."

"Yeah, that one was off the scale."

"Wanna talk about it? Might help."

At first Neal didn't say anything, but sat sipping his coffee. The words started slowly. "I was dreaming about being underwater. About Harper. I see his corpse in the car. He's dead but then he revives and prevents me from escaping. I relive the drowning, the feeling of not being able to breathe." He looked over at Peter and exhaled. "Pretty standard, I guess."

"You were calling out, 'You're not me' and 'Stay away'. Was that Harper?"

"No that was me," Neal admitted. "I saw myself in my nightmare." He gave a small hollow laugh. "I thought I was swimming up to a boat, but it turned out to be me. Scary stuff. Shrinks would have a field day."

"I dunno. You've experienced too many drownings. We're gonna have to call a moratorium on that." Peter hesitated and then ploughed ahead with a subject he knew Neal wasn't going to like. "You know it's also routine to have a few sessions of therapy after what you went through. You could talk with your aunt Noelle, or if you don't want to get her involved, the FBI shrinks are actually very competent. There were some cases that I had a hard time getting over, and they helped. You don't need to talk about anything but what happened that day. Something to think about."

Neal looked off in the distance and reflected. "Let me see how it goes for a few days. If the nightmares continue, I'll consider it, okay?"

Peter knew not to press. This was less resistance than he expected. "That's acceptable."

"I was thinking I'd head home this afternoon," Neal said, standing up. "I can take a cab. I really appreciate all you've done, but it would be nice to have some time at home before work."

"How 'bout this? I'll drop you off on my way in tomorrow morning."

"That will work. I'll just need a few minutes to change and then be ready to go in."

"No, that's a non-starter. You're staying home tomorrow. If you feel up to it, you can come in on Wednesday. You're going to be restricted to light duty anyway for a few weeks. Somehow I don't think you'll find it necessary to rush in for processing case files."

"When you put it that way, Wednesday it is."

White Collar Division. September 3, 2004. Friday morning

The case of the missing Fabergé egg had not been difficult to wrap up. With Harper dead there was no need to prepare evidence for a trial, and that was perhaps for the best as the evidence was all circumstantial. Peter reviewed the documentation. The papers that Neal had procured provided the best link to Trifonov. The handwriting had been confirmed as his, and the translation revealed they were notes about the authenticity of the egg.

With the case closed, there was no need to hold on to the egg and Sonya Pashkina was scheduled to arrive shortly to pick it up. Ivan Sherkov had also asked to be present.

Peter descended into the bullpen to talk with Neal before they arrived. This was his third day back at work, and except for a little stiffness in the way he held himself, no one would suspect what had happened. But Peter knew he was still tired and was mandating reduced hours that week.

He didn't find Neal at his desk, but looking around, he saw him in the conference room. Neal was carefully polishing the egg. He had placed the hen and stand on a velvet jewelry tray. The diamonds cast rainbows of light on the polished surface of the table.

"Magnificent isn't it," he said as Peter approached. "This is probably my last chance to look at it. Sonya should have no problem paying off her student loans now."

Downstairs in the bullpen, a deep, booming voice could be heard. "Is this where I can find Neal Caffrey?"

Neal grinned. "Sherkov's arrived. You're gonna like him."

They went downstairs and Neal made the introductions.

Shaking Peter's hand, Sherkov said "This is such an honor for me, Peter. May I call you Peter? I feel like I know you already."

"It's only fitting you should be here," said Peter. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't contacted us."

Gazing around the bullpen with curiosity, Sherkov told Neal, "This is indeed revealing to see where you work, my friend. Your workspace is enlightening. It has so much potential for artistic enrichment."

"Exactly what I've been telling them."

Peter chuckled. "You know you're an instigator, Ivan. I can see I'll have to keep an eye on you."

When Sonya arrived, the four of them headed up to the conference room. This was Sherkov's first opportunity to view the hen, and he was overwhelmed.

"I'm honored you allowed me to be present, Miss Pashkina. A discovery such as this is a once in a lifetime experience. You and your hen are both going to be very famous, my dear."

Neal added, "I took the opportunity to examine it in detail. The gems, the workmanship, they're all exquisite. I've absolutely no doubt as to its authenticity."

"I wish the hen could talk to us," Sherkov said. "What a history it would reveal! Peter, you may not know it was presented by Tsar Alexander III to his wife the Tsarina Maria Feodorovna in 1886. Despite it being an arranged marriage and the prevailing political turmoil, theirs was a love affair that transcended the events around them."

"And now the hen's history is even more dramatic," Sonya said. "That chase, the crash on the George Washington Bridge, your van falling off the bridge . . . ."

Dumbfounded, Sherkov stared at Neal. "That was you on the bridge?"

Neal nodded with a modest shrug, but it was easy to tell he was basking in the attention.

"Unbelievable. I of course read the newspaper account but I had no idea."

"The FBI maintains a low profile in such events," Peter explained. "We only release the minimum of information necessary."

Sonya turned to Neal and asked, "Were you able to open the egg?"

"The clasp was slightly out of alignment. A simple adjustment was all that was needed. Would you like to open it?"

Sonya opened the clasp and slowly raised the lid, growing wide-eyed with joy when she saw what was revealed. The inside of the egg was coated in sapphire blue enamel. Mounted in the center was a miniature portrait of a couple in royal attire, set within an ornate frame studded with diamonds.

"The tsar and tsarina, I assume?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded.

"Spectacular!" Sherkov, peering closely at the portrait, predicted, "The news of this will spread like wildfire once it's revealed."

After a few more minutes, Sherkov left and Peter had Sonya sign the transfer papers for the egg.

She turned to them and said. "I can't begin to thank you enough for all you have done for me. There's little I can do for the moment, but I wondered . . . next week we start a new production of The Magic Flute. By any chance, do you like Mozart?"

"Why yes, in fact he's one of my favorite composers," Neal said enthusiastically.

Sonya beamed. "I'll get tickets for you and Mr. and Mrs. Burke for the premiere. I could join you at the post-premiere party afterwards?"

After Sonya left, Peter, shaking his head, gave Neal a wide grin.

"What?" asked Neal innocently.

"You know what!"

"So, about that letter of recommendation you wrote for me—this would be an excellent and highly appropriate occasion to let—"

"Not a chance," Peter said with a smile.

Notes: Thanks for reading! Your comments are my caviar and very much appreciated.

This concludes the tale of The Golden Hen. The actual Golden Hen, the second imperial Fabergé egg, is still lost, waiting to be discovered. But you won't have long to wait for Neal's next adventure, The Woman in Blue. The action begins a couple of weeks after the conclusion of The Golden Hen when a friend from the past is a catalyst for danger and suspense.

My heartfelt thanks to Penna Nomen for helping me incubate the egg and putting up with my clucks of frustration. That this didn't wind up being one scrambled egg is due to her.

The Golden Hen is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU. The first story in the series, Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen, includes the account of Peter finding Neal humming in a car along with the first drowning incident.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website