SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 17

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to his royal coolness, Jeff Eastin. Someday I hope you'll read this. And I hope you'll be kind. Thanks for creating "White Collar" and giving us a new reason to appreciate Tuesdays and Fedoras.

Note: Lyrics are from "Bittersweet Symphony" by the Verve, and "Letters From the Sky" by Civil Twilight.

Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable.

The Final Chapter:

Well I never pray
But tonight I'm on my knees yeah
I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now
But the airways are clean and there's nobody singing to me now

NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL

Lights.

Bright, white hot flashes.

Eyes hurting. Body hurting. Throbbing pain. Aching cold…so cold.

Moving, and not moving. Floating.

Voices. Many voices, some yelling, shouting his name. Shouting unanswerable questions. Some speaking about him in low monotonous tones that made him wonder…

Am I already dead?

Dead and gone.

Somebody was counting…

"One…two…three!"

Hands and arms lifting him, moving him from one hard surface to another. Colder.

He wanted to tell them, 'be careful…I've been shot…'

Hands, touching him, some gentle, some not so gentle. Pressure. Pain. Something covering his mouth. Not hands. Something sending cool air his way.

He heard the snick-snick of scissors. Somebody was cutting his shirt, his pants…

'Stop…this is vintage!' He tried to say. But no one seemed to hear him or care. Cold air hit his skin, making him shiver.

Needles…

NO! Not again…not again!

Piercing…invading…sliding harshly into veins…

Please...no…

…tubes…bags…liquids…

Someone holding his hand. Squeezing.

From far away, someone said, "Stay with us, Mr. Caffrey."

And where would I be going?

"Stay with me…Neal! Neal! Can you hear me…?"

The voice began to fade.

Pressure in his chest, a massive pressure, making him panic. He felt himself diminishing….

Someone screamed, "CLEAR."

And then he dreamed.

~WC~

He was wearing one of Byron's classic Devore tuxes – midnight black with black satin trim along the lapels, with a black shirt and a shiny black skinny tie. High gloss, black wing tip shoes. He was sitting on an old wooden park bench in a white room that seemed almost radiant. His black fedora lay on the white floor far out of his reach.

"You going to put that on?"

He looked up. His mouth dropped. His wide eyes drank in the sight of his old dear friend.

"Hale?"

Neal moved to stand, but Hale gestured for him to remain where he sat.

Hale's suit was black, too, but his shirt and tie were both pristine white. A black cap sat jauntily to the side on his head. Diamond encrusted rings glinted blindingly in the light from both pinky fingers. Even in death, the man was impeccable.

"Hale," Neal said again. "What are you doing here?"

"That's what I came to ask you, Neal."

Neal shook his head.

"I don't…I don't know…"

Hale sat next to him, pinching his pant legs up and meticulously brushing invisible lint from the fabric.

"Maybe I can help you figure it out," he said. "You're done with the drugs, right?"

Neal nodded solemnly.

"Yeah, nasty stuff, that heroin," said Hale. "You hit it, now it's time to quit it. Don't ever mess with that stuff again."

"It was never my idea, Hale…"

"I know, kid. I know. Listen…you can't hang around this place too long. You've got to make a decision."

"I didn't know it was my decision to make."

Hale laughed heartily.

"Uh- huh…like you never forced a hand before!"

"This isn't exactly a street game of Find the Lady…"

"You don't think I know that, Neal?"

"I'm just saying…I'm tired, Hale. I'm really tired."

"People get tired. That's the human condition. "

"It's been a rough couple of years. Prison. Kate. Keller. Hauser…"

"Um-hmm…Life is rough..."

"I don't know what to do if I go back. Who am I, Hale? Who am I? And what am I supposed to do?"

"Ah, there we are. Now, we're at the truth of it."

Neal smiled. "I already have a shrink."

Hale laughed again, and slapped Neal on the back.

"I know. I saw her. Fine as wine, too. You going to ask her out?"

Neal laughed now.

"I might."

"I certainly would. Those little high heel boots…woo! Makes an old man feel young again!"

"I get what you're doing, Hale. You're trying to tell me I don't think I have anything to live for."

"What's it matter, what I think? You going to do your own thing anyway. You're Neal Caffrey. That's what you do."

Hale made a move to leave. Neal reached out reflexively, a hand the older man's knee to stop him.

"I don't want be alone…" he confessed before he could stop himself. He pulled his hand away quickly, feeling a flush of shame warm his cheeks.

"Yeah," Hale said, relaxing back onto the bench. "This place can be a little spooky. And who really wants to be alone? You stay here…I can almost guarantee you, you'll be alone."

"What is this place, some kind of purgatory for wayward conmen?" Neal asked.

"Nope. Just your subconscious messing with you a little bit. Glad to know I still mean something to you," said Hale, tipping his hat.

Neal smiled.

"So…there's no light to follow, no gathering of loved ones waiting to escort me…?

"I'm not gonna tell you that. I'm not gonna tell you anything! Why spoil it for you? You want to figure out where and how you're going to spend your eternity, Neal, then make the choice to stay. You want to finish up what you started - with Peter, with Mozzie, and Sara and the rest, well, that's going to require a different choice. All you have to do is pick one."

"Live or die?"

"That's what it boils down to. You know, for a man with a checkered past that rivals my own, you certainly have a lot of people worried about your welfare."

"I know," Neal said. "I've been lucky."

"Lucky? You think it's luck? Chance? They don't care about you because somebody rolled the dice and a certain number came up. That's not how it works. They decided to care about you. Just like you decided to care about them."

"They expect so much from me. I don't want to disappoint them."

"You just spent three months fighting the monster. And you won! You beat it! Sent it running. Of course they expect a lot from you. You spent a lifetime cheating, stealing and forging. Now you catch people like that and put them away for the FBI. Of course they have big expectations of you! The man who chased you down and delivered you to justice now calls you friend. And means it! He'd give up his badge for you, Neal. Heck, he'd lay down his life for you. High expectations… Y' think?"

Hale moved closer to whisper in Neal's ear.

"You know…there's a beautiful woman crying her eyes out right now, heartbroken, curled up on the floor in a hospital bathroom, wishing she could tell you how she feels, terrified that it's already too late…"

Warmth – like life – flooded through Neal again. Not shame this time. Something else. Longing. The room seemed just a little less stark white, like a soft blush to a pale cold cheek.

"Neal, old friend, I've miss you. We've had some good times. No, great times. Epic. But I don't want you here. No offense. I don't want to see your face again for a long, long time."

Neal nodded. He noticed that the Fedora on the floor was strangely closer to his foot now.

"So what do you think, Neal? You ready to get out of here, go back home? Or should I order up some Thai food or a pizza or something?"

"No, I think I'm ready to…"

Hale was gone.

The Fedora, previously on the floor, was now in Neal's hands. Neal gave the handsome hat a long look, smiled his classic charming smile, then moved to put it on his head. But before the Fedora could touch his crown…

"CLEAR!"

~WC~

One of these days letters are gonna fall
From the sky telling us all to go free
But until that day I'll find a way
To let everybody know that you're coming back
You're coming back for me

'Cause even though you left me here
I have nothing left to fear
These are only walls that hold me here
Hold me here, hold me here, hold me here
Only walls that hold me here

They were gathered again, Peter Burke and his crew – minus Mozzie – all of them filling a small waiting area of New York Presbyterian. All were consumed with the fight again, all battling with feelings of sorrow, hope, fear and concern on behalf of Neal Caffrey, who lay sprawled on an operating table, possibly dying from a gunshot wound.

No, Peter told himself. Not dying. Holding on. Fighting. But not dying. Not yet. Please, God…not yet.

Peter rubbed his chin, feeling prickly stubble, evidence of too many hours gone by without shaving. His suit was rumpled, and he was grateful that his beautiful, loving wife had the forethought to bring a clean shirt for him. His mouth tasted sour from a mixture of bad waiting room coffee and stomach acid from going too long without a meal.

No matter what his immediate needs may be Peter was determined to remain fixed to the spot where he stood until someone came to give him substantive information regarding Neal. He'd lost so much blood, had taken such a harsh beating…had gone through so much. Would he live or would he die?

Neal alive would bring tremendous relief. Peter would hug his wife, take her to dinner, then home, and finally rest well knowing that order was in due time being restored.

Neal dead, however, would demand clear, unemotional, focused thinking. Arrangements would need to be made. A mountain of paperwork would have to be generated to satisfy the inquiries of both the bureau and NYPD. Unanswered questions would need to be thoroughly investigated. And Peter had already decided that if a funeral were necessary, he was more than willing to dip into some of his own savings to make sure Neal would be sent off well.

In both of these scenarios, Peter knew exactly what he needed to do. But not knowing Neal's fate was making Peter's head ache, driving him quickly to a place of despair.

He looked around the too-small room populated with his and Neal's friends. It struck him as quite bizarre in that moment that this former felon, this conman/forger he had spent years of his life chasing down, would actually come to share the same circle of friends as he! When did his friends become Neal's friends? Who would have predicted it? Indeed, he would have laughed if someone had suggested that he and his wife would share their dinner, their couch, their energies – their lives! - with an ex-con. Peter often ruminated on the peculiar nature of their friendship. There were family members, people Peter had known since grade school, the academy, and college, that were not as close as Neal had become to him. June was right. Neal was family. And he didn't know whether he should kick or commend himself for allowing such a thing to happen.

He spied Elizabeth, who sat holding Sara's left hand while June held the right. These three women had become as close as sisters through Neal's ordeal. While quite formidable in their own rights, together they were a force as mighty as nature – strength, wisdom, beauty, courage; stubborn as the wind, strong as steel, untamable as the sea. Peter chided himself for his momentary lapse into poeticism, and allowed himself a quickly crooked smile for them. He felt a tinge of jealousy, as men might do when observing the peerless, easy bond between women. But he also felt deep gratitude for his fallen partner. Elizabeth may never have met June and Sara had it not been for Neal.

Jones was pacing, his jacket and tie long ago removed and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Peter felt the urge to grin again. Never would someone like Jones have dared to wear a pale mauve linen shirt, or pinstripes, or pastel ties, not without Caffrey's influence. The FBI was Jones' life, Peter always knew. But because of Caffrey's sway, it appeared Jones was actually beginning to enjoy his life. And he had become a better investigator for it. Gone was the stiff and stoic naval officer; Jones had loosened up and revealed his affable, personable side in addition to beings a most valued officer. Because of Neal.

Diana, still dressed in her bulky borrowed S.W.A.T. jumpsuit, sat staring unblinkingly at a pale green wall. Peter knew she was undoubtedly replaying over and over again in her head the moment she ended Linus Hauser's life. She would be fighting against feelings of regret and satisfaction until she found herself at peace with her actions. But she had earlier intimated to Peter that she had been shocked and overwhelmed by her own internal fury. She hadn't felt such vehemence, such a passion to kill, since long ago when her bodyguard had died protecting her life. It frightened her, made her almost dizzy to experience the shock of such strong emotions for someone, anyone other than those she had carefully chosen to be closest to her. She'd asked Peter if he had ever felt driven more by wrath than justice. He promised her they would have that conversation another time, when emotions weren't running so high. He'd sworn he'd seen Diana tear up. Over Neal.

Kristin and Daniel sat on a small mock leather couch in a corner, mother comforting her son. Peter kept one eye on them, looking for signs of trauma acted out in stages. He would have to bring both of them in to make statements eventually, but he knew they'd want to remain close – be part of this family – until they knew Neal's status. They boy had found someone he could trust in Caffrey, a rarity among those his age in these uncertain times. Kristin had found, hopefully, a father figure who brought the qualities of patience, compassion and strength to her son's attention. Neal was a man – once considered a bad man – who had turned from a life of crime to a life of caring. This was the kind of man she wanted her own son to become (minus the stint in prison), she had told Peter. She had also commented, with great relief and a sense of hope that she and her son could finally live without fear for the first time ever. They could go wherever and do whatever they choose. They were free now. Because of Neal.

This epiphany of Neal's direct influence and effect on everyone in his life was staggering to Peter. He reflected on the ways Neal had changed his own life – deepened his convictions, quickened his investigative senses, gave him a healthy competitive edge – and felt a bit of dizziness rising up to overcome him. His inwardly focused attention was suddenly ripped away by the sound of someone entering the room.

All looked up as the door opened. Not the doctor, as Peter had hoped and expected, but rather, Reese Hughes walked in. He looked as if he was prepared to receive bad news.

"Anything?" Hughes asked Peter. Burke shook his head, and silence returned to the room for a discomforting beat.

"How's his friend?" Hughes ventured.

"Mozzie? He'll be okay," said Peter. "Concussion. They're keeping him overnight for observation."

Hughes shook his head and put a fatherly hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Caffrey's strong," was all he could say.

Peter nodded and returned to his brooding.

"Oh, before I forget…" Hughes reached into his inside a jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled white window envelope. "This is for Neal."

"What is this…a check?"

"His first official paycheck as an FBI civilian Consultant. I've been holding onto it for a couple of months, hoping he'd resurface to claim it. It's still good. Of course, it occurred to me he may not have a legal bank account. Knowing Neal."

Peter nodded and smiled.

"I had this little surprise planned for the both of you," Hughes confessed in a whisper. "Nothing big. I was going to offer him the consultant position if he wanted it. I put the paper work through anyway, hoping he'd show up. That check's just for two weeks. I had to terminate his employment when I thought he was…"

"Thanks, Reese. He'll get a kick out of seeing this."

"Because it's an honest check for legit work, or because it's so small?"

"Because it says he's one of us. One of the good guys."

Hughes nodded, patted Peter's shoulder again, and took the last available seat near Kristen and Daniel.

Twenty or so minutes later, someone entered the room again. This time it was a doctor, weary and exhausted from deep, concentrated hours in surgery. He removed his surgical cap, simultaneously rubbing a hand over his bald pate.

"I'm looking for the family of Neal Caffrey."

Everyone who sat stood, and all turned to faced the doctor. So many different faces. So much concern. And fear. It was as if all of them were collectively holding their breath.

"We're his family," said June.

"All of you?" the doctor asked, quite skeptical at this collection of obviously unrelated folk.

"How's Neal?" Peter asked pointedly.

The doctor hesitated. This was not a normal situation. However, it was quite clear to him that no one was going to let him leave the room without some kind of report about his patient.

"I'm Doctor Gross. I performed the surgery on your…family member. Mr. Caffrey is stabilized. He came through the surgery fine. But he's not out of the woods yet. We're placing him in ICU, but I expect he'll be moved out of there by morning if all goes well."

The collective sigh of relief was audible, palpable. Gross felt a little of the tensions leave him as well.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Peter. "When can we see him?"

"Visits are restricted in ICU. Only one of you, and for only five minutes."

Peter turned to see who wanted or needed to go more than he. All looked at Peter and smiled in tacit agreement. Peter stepped forward, ready to go.

"We're moving him now," Gross said. "I'll send a nurse to get you when he's all set up."

Gross left, still caught off guard by the nature of this so-called family, but smiling to himself.

"I should be so lucky," he said under his breath.

~WC~

TWO DAYS LATER

His eyes refused to open at first. He felt consciousness stirring, percolating through him, but could not manage to complete the process of waking. He felt like he was floating, like being in the middle of the ocean and letting go, allowing the buoyancy of the salty waves to take him in any direction fate chose. It was warm and cold all at once. It was mystical yet mundane, mythical and factual, wonderful and regretful, straddling these two worlds at once.

Pain was being turned up like volume, growing louder and more intense. Memories were filtering into the last vestiges of his dreams, confusing him as to what was real and what was merely subconscious detritus. He felt restricted, unable to move freely, as if bound to the bed, which caused him to begin to panic.

His eyes popped open fearfully, and remnants of memories of his ordeal with Hauser shredded and fell away with all other thoughts. He saw white, all white, and light. (Had he still not yet moved on? Was Hale still in this place?) But there were tiny black holes in this white, and black lines creating many neat, perfect squares. His eyes focused and his brain once again began to properly process information. Tile. Ceiling. Room. Hospital.

Alive.

He heard sounds. Machines. Beeping. He looked a little to the side and saw monitors – one showing his heart rate, the other, he could only guess what it was for. The Dead don't need monitoring, he realized, and took in a lung full of breath, nearly choking.

His throat hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt. So much pain. He could only be alive. He looked down at himself, and saw that he lay under white sheets with NYPH printed clearly on the seams, and a pale blue blanket haphazardly covering only half of him. He moved his toes and felt them scratch against the tough sheets. At least he knew his spine was intact. He moved one hand. Success. He tried the other. Not so easy. Sitting up was impossible. He was suddenly quite exhausted and thought he should worry about moving later.

He slipped back under the velvety soft, gray mercy of sleep.

~WC~

His eyes opened immediately this time. Consciousness was abrupt and instant. So were his thoughts. It was dark, no doubt late. He heard the soft, aspirate sounds of breathing, and knew he was not alone in the room. He turned his head to the side to see two silhouettes sitting slumped and unconscious in hospital utility chairs.

Mozzie and Peter sat next to each other, close to the bed. Both were in deep sleep. Both had no doubt spent the night (or nights?) sitting vigil at his side. Both had undoubted been overcome by weariness. Neal managed to smile, and felt very secure and very calm at their presence. He closed his eyes and easily resumed the act of dreaming.

~WC~

DAY THREE

One of these days the sky's gonna break
And everything will escape and I'll know
One of these days the mountains
Are gonna fall into the sea and they'll know

That you and I were made for this
I was made to taste your kiss
We were made to never fall away
Never fall away

She entered quietly, as if afraid. Not of waking him, but of upsetting the delicate balance responsible for keeping him alive. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently trigger signals and alarms, to cause the nurses and doctors to come charging in, or to hear the sad pronouncement that Neal Caffrey had suddenly expired.

Before she could tell him…

Or, because she had told him…

She stood by the door, afraid to approach, staring at his still, prone form. So many monitors, so many bags of fluids hanging, gravity sending life-sustaining droplets rolling slowly though transparent plastic tubes. Thick gauze stained with crusted dried blood and Betadine were plastered to his shoulder and chest. How much damage had that one bullet done?

Sara took a tentative step toward his bed. Tears rolled unimpeded down her cheeks as she grew closer to him. Another step forward and she was able to reach for his cool hand which lay nearly palm up at his side. She saw dark lines under his fingernails and found it unusual – Neal would never allow dirty nails. Not dirt, she realized, but old blood.

She let her fingers gently intertwine with his. She squeezed, but felt nothing returned.

"Hey, Caffrey," Sara spoke, her voice hitching.

No sound but the rhythmic beeping of monitors. No response but stillness.

"There's something I want to tell you. I wanted to wait until you were fully conscious, but I don't know if I can say it with you looking at me. I don't know if I can look into your eyes, those big, blue, extraordinary eyes and tell you what's in my heart. I'm afraid. I was never afraid of anything before you, Neal, and I realized that it was because I never felt I had anything to lose. Until now. You probably know what I'm going to say. I just wanted to tell you that I…that I…I…"

"Excuse me."

Sara jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of the floor nurse. Sara held tight to Neal's hand, not ready to release him.

"Visiting hours are over," the floor nurse said and backed out of the room respectfully.

Sara breathed deeply, disappointed, but equally relieved. Before she could pull her hand away from his, she could have sworn she felt a minute squeeze. An unrestrained gasp slipped from her lips.

She quickly reached for a practical explanation: it was a reflex; an involuntary muscle spasm.

But before she could pull her hand from his, Neal's eyes opened to thin slits, his blue orbs glassy, the whites of his eyes quite red. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a weak half-smile. Oh, that Caffrey smirk, she thought; even in his injured, deprived state, he could still cause a flutter deep inside her. Sara blinked back tears and smiled widely as Neal squeezed her hand again and whispered weakly,

"Me…too, Sara."

DAY FIVE

When Peter arrived New York Presbyterian, he stopped by the reception desk, as was becoming his habit, to greet and thank the Nurses, and show his badge. He had returned to a full day of work two days ago, and was so inundated with paperwork that it made it impossible to get to the hospital before visiting hours ended. Only his badge and his genuine smile convinced the Nurses to let him break the rules to sit by Caffrey's bedside for an hour or two.

He expected they would wave him right through, as they had the night before, and he'd continue down the hall to Neal's room. Tonight, however, the young Nurse at the desk asked him to wait while she paged her supervisor.

Peter's stomach churned from nervousness. Had Neal taken a sudden turn for the worse? He was starting to do so well! Had he suffered some horrible complication or some setback? Had there been an adverse reaction to medication? Why hadn't they called him? What was wrong with Neal?

"Agent Burke."

Peter turned to face the plump, strawberry blond nurse who insisted on being called Audrey and never "ma'am." She indicated with a finger wiggle that Peter should follow her and they slowly walked towards Neal's room together.

"What's wrong with Neal?"

Audrey placed a comforting hand on Peter's arm. "He's improving, but we're having a slight problem with him."

Peter took a deep breath, ready to process the information, hoping to keep emotion out of the way.

"He's refusing to use the PCA pump. He's white-knuckling it through his pain. And I mean it's some serious pain. All he has to do is push a button and a specific, controlled dosage is administered…"

"Why won't he…" Peter began, until the truth dawn on him.

Audrey said what he could not. "It's morphine."

"It's morphine," Peter repeated. "Poor kid. He's terrified of triggering a relapse."

"I tried to explain it to Neal. Our pain management team is well aware of his recent history with opiate abuse; they've been consulting daily on his situation. We know what we're doing. We work with patients like him every day, some still drug-seeking. It's within Neal's rights as a patient to refuse medication, but he can't just lay there in agony day after day. Can you talk to him? Tell him that the staff will be with him every step of the way to make sure he's safe."

Peter smiled reassuringly.

"I'll talk to him. We'll work it out."

"We'd all appreciate that, Agent Burke. And one more thing. Would you also talk to Neal about his flirting with my nurses? They're always looking for excuses to hang out in his room, instead of doing what they're supposed to be doing. 'Course, I'm the first to admit, I'm just as bad as they are," she giggled quite coquettishly, "but hey, I'm the boss."

Peter laughed now. How does Neal do this to people? Win them over? Addict them to him? Was he faking it or does it just come with being Neal, he wondered?

They stopped at Neal's door, which was slightly ajar. Peter could hear a television playing softly in the background, one of those singing competition shows that had become quite popular. If Neal was watching television, he thought, the poor guy must be bored completely out of his mind.

"You take care of your nurses," Peter said sweetly, "I'll take care of Neal."

Peter pushed the door open. Before he could enter, Audrey poked her head inside and waved at the handsome, slightly disheveled and somewhat broken man sitting in the bed.

"Hi, Neal," she said with that familiar feminine sing-song voice that overtly stated an intent to flirt.

"Hey, Audrey," Neal said, voice weak and somewhat gravelly.

It was more than obvious to Peter that Neal was in pain. He tried to brighten his countenance, but the paleness of his skin and the oily sheen of sweat was a dead giveaway.

"Did you get my gift?" Neal asked Audrey.

"I sure did! Bless your heart!" she said, and blew him a kiss before leaving.

Peter shook his head incredulously.

"What?" Neal asked.

"How do you do it? You're lying in a hospital bed, unkempt and lousy with tubes and drips and needles and…stuff…and yet you still get the girls."

"What can I say, it's a gift. Do I really look unkempt?"

Peter laughed and shook his head as Neal ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, slicking it back off his forehead.

"Speaking of which, what did you give Nurse Audrey? And is it legal?"

"She happens to like a certain brand of German dark chocolate, not available in the U.S. I made a phone call and had a friend who owed me a favor overnight her half a dozen bars for taking such excellent care of me. And, by the way, I'm fine, thank you for asking."

"You look pale."

"I haven't seen the sun in a few days, and I'm a white boy. What do you expect?"

Peter pulled a chair close to Neal's bedside and sat.

"Uh-oh," said Neal. "What did I do now?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're giving me the evil eye," said Neal.

"It's not the evil eye."

"Then it's the stern, fatherly, you're-screwing-up-again eye. What did I do now?"

"Painkillers are for your benefit."

"Aw, Peter, please..."

"Listen to me. You're not going to relapse. You're not going to trip on this, and the staff won't let you become addicted. It's to help you manage your pain…"

"That's how I became an addict, Peter, managing my pain. I remained an addict to avoid pain."

"This is a controlled dosage. They know what they're doing. They know all about your situation."

"I can handle the pain, okay, Peter?"

"Sure, that' why you're sitting here, sweating and shaking like a leaf."

Neal tried to sit upright. "Trust me, Peter! I can…ACH! Ahhh…"

Neal doubled over as spasms raged through him like a runaway chainsaw.

Peter reached for the PCA.

"No, Peter…"

Peter's thumb was poised over the button. He wanted to push it. He wanted to ease Neal's pain. But he couldn't force it on him. Even if it was for his own good, he could not force his friend to do something he did not want to do. He let go of the control, and placed it on the bed within Neal's reach.

The pain began to subside enough to allow Neal to lie back. His eyes were red and watering, his face, was pinched, paler than before. Peter helped his weakened friend lie back upon the pillows.

"I'll get the nurse," Peter said softly.

"No…I'm okay…" Neal lied. "I'll be okay. Just don't say 'I told you so.'"

"I don't think I have to."

Neal stared at the television screen, though the singer screaming her way through the lyric didn't appear to be the true focus of his thoughts.

"Peter, I don't know how to explain it…but right now, the pain is the only thing that lets me know I'm alive…and sober...and connected. When I was…under the influence…high…nothing mattered. Not food, not pain, not even fear. I didn't care about anything. Or anyone. I never want to be that out if it again. If it means putting up with this…" Neal said, touching his heavily bandaged and shoulder and arm in a navy blue sling, swallowing heavily as another spasm was ratcheting up, "then so be it."

"Fine. You want to punish yourself, go ahead. You want to beat yourself up, be my guest."

"Peter…"

"I'm just worried about you. Look…do yourself a favor. Talk to Dr. Leslie."

"I don't need to talk to Dr. Leslie."

"Yes, you do. You talk to her, or I'll talk to her."

"I'll call her in the morning," Neal promised.

Peter reached out to gently pat Neal's uninjured shoulder. "You've been through a lot…"

"And I've put you through hell. I'm sorry…"

"Yeah, well…"

Neal regarded him with narrowed eyes, but also a bit of a smile.

"Do you remember the night you met me at Cafe Insomnia, Peter?"

"I do."

"Thank you. Thank you for saving me."

Peter gave Neal's good shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll stop by and see you tomorrow night."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere."

Peter stood by the door for a moment, reluctant to leave, but lacking a good reason to remain. He spared Neal one final look over his shoulder before opening the door, and noticed his friend flat back against the pillows, eyes tight, lips tight, fighting to cope with the pain. He knew it was more than Neal could endure. He held his breath as Neal did, waiting for the worst of it to pass.

He saw Neal reach for the PCA, grip it tightly, yet his thumb never pressed the button.

Come on, Neal. You'll be fine.

The pain relented just enough, maintaining its harsh cold grip but allowing Neal to relax enough to open his hand and let the PCA fall from it.

Peter subtly shook his head and walked out.

~WC~

DAY TEN

One day soon I'll hold you like the sun holds the moon
And we will hear those planes overhead
And we won't have to be scared

You're coming back for me
You're coming back for me
You're coming back for me

He was grateful to be wearing anything other than a faded hospital gown. He was also grateful to finally be leaving. The aroma of antiseptic solution, hospital food and other sundry odors had driven Neal to spending his waking hours formalizing various plans of escape. But when the doctor came to visit on the ninth day of his stay bearing the happy news, Neal could hardly contain himself. Despite the physical disadvantage his sling created, he'd rose early, ate his last prefab breakfast with lukewarm instant coffee, washed up, shaved and slick-combed his lengthening hair into something more…Caffrey. He'd dressed in a forest green shirt and dark slacks (with the assistance of Stephanie, a lovely Nurse's aide with violet eyes and a perpetual grin), dark loafers sans socks. He was grateful to June for having brought these things for him when she visited the night before.

He tired quickly, realizing that a release from New York Presbyterian did not mean a reprieve from pain or exhaustion. The wound still throbbed as if begging to never be forgotten, and ten days in bed – two of which were in ICU - was just as enervating as his injury. Precisely as he had settled himself comfortably on the side of the bed, Stephanie had returned, but this time bearing more than a smile. She pushed the wheel chair into the room and locked the wheels for Neal's safety.

"Your chariot awaits!" she said in a chipper style that divulged her middle American upbringing.

Neal didn't need a second invitation. He was in the mock leather seat immediately.

A taxi waited by the entrance. Neal felt a tinge of disappointment…until Sara climbed out of the back seat. Her red dress was striking. He smile was knockout.

"Need a lift?"

~WC~

HOME

"Three months in a sling?" Mozzie asked as he poured himself glass of wine. "Torture! A cold-hearted conspiracy undoubtedly concocted by the medical depression to keep you enslaved and dependent upon their diabolical system."

"You mean medical profession, Sara corrected him as she searched the cabinets for plates. "You said medical depression."

"I meant it. Wait till Peter sees Neal's medical bills. Did you know that a whopping sixty-two percent of all bankruptcies filed in the United States are because of exorbitant medical bills?"

He took a quick sniff and taste of the wine, savoring it.

"Hm…where have you been hiding this Meritage, Neal?"

Neal was lost in thought, gazing at the awe-inspiring view of Manhattan at sunset, the way the light shifted and began to softly fade in his room at June's. He was taking it all in, grieving for all he had missed, even as he celebrated his return home.

Home.

His room was clean and dusted; his few belongings had been returned from Thursday, along with his bed which had been twice moved without a chip or a nick to the massive hand-carved frame. It had been made perfectly by Sara and sat invitingly in its old spot.

He shifted his position slightly as ever-present, nagging pain sought to reclaim his full attention. He made a mental note to take a few ibuprofen tablets at dinner to take some of the edge off. That was the strongest painkiller he would allow himself.

Sara was setting the table for four while Mozzie's job was to keep a constant eye on the boiling pasta and roasted garlic sauce slow-simmering on the old fashioned stove, sending a superb aroma through the entire upper level. Neal had offered to help, to do his part to make dinner come together, but Sara had merely shooed him away, begging him to rest, to be still.

Mozzie seemed none the worst for his injury, though Neal knew from having had a concussion himself a few years ago that the headaches could tend to stick around a while. If Mozzie was feeling any pain, however, he was doing an excellent job of concealing the truth tonight.

Neal smiled. All suddenly began to seem right with his world again. The sling would be gone eventually. Hopefully the bullet wound (as well as the track marks that indicted him) would also diminish with time. These things that marked him would one day fade away like old memories, lost until some scent, or song, or random thought brought them back to mind perforce. The distance of years would someday make these remembrances harmless. But for now, at least for the interim, the horror of his ordeal still haunted his dreams. His only consolation was in realizing, when waking, sweat-soaked and gasping, that the bed, this room, these friends, were his true reality.

"Dinner is almost ready, mon frère."

Neal didn't respond, nor did he move.

"Neal! you've been standing there, doing the silent routine for far too long. If you don't move or say something soon…"

"Sorry," Neal said, turning to Mozzie and Sara, "I'm back."

"Yes, you are…" Sara said, taking few short steps toward Neal. She hesitated embracing him, afraid his wound may still be tender. Instead, she planted a chaste kiss upon his cheek, and beamed when she noticed the color rising in his face.

"I hope you're hungry," she said. Chastity took a distinct nose dive.

"Ravenous," Neal said. "You don't get pasta like this in the hospital."

"It's al dente, just like you like it."

"And the sauce?"

"A little spicy…"

"Okay, you two," chided Mozzie, "enough with the gastronomic double entendre. Dinner is served."

"Not without me!"

June entered carrying a tall chocolate fondant draped cake. Neal automatically moved to assist her, but was gently nudged aside by Mozzie."

"I'll take the cake," said Mozzie as he intercepted the massive confection.

"That you do," said June. She placed her arms with exaggerated care around Neal. "Ooh…It's so good to have you home."

"It's good to be home, June. It's good to be home."

They dined, and laughed and shared stories. They remembered the ordeal, bore moments of awkward silence, and laughed out loud when appropriate. And when the last drop of wine had been poured, and the cake had been cut and partially devoured, June stood and raised her glass.

"To family. May we be ever closer, and may we never be farther apart."

"Here, here," Neal said, and sipped sparkling water. "I was expecting Peter and El to join us."

June shook her head. "I'm sorry, I neglected to tell you. Peter called; he said he got caught up in a case, and that he'd see you tomorrow. Truth be told, I'm quite happy to have you and Mozzie and Sara all to myself."

TWO WEEKS LATER

Neal was nervous as he dressed. He was not satisfied with his choice of tie, or shirt color, or shoes. Nothing seemed suitable to the occasion. He wanted his return to the bureau to be a singular experience.

The cab ride seemed interminable. He held his breath as he rode up the elevator. The sound of the "ding" reverberated in his bones. He stepped onto the 21st floor and stood there for a moment. He readjusted his sling, and felt an unsettling need to look at his ankle. It wasn't the first time he imagined he was still tethered to his old tracking anklet. He fought the urge to look, knowing the truth, and took a step toward the double doors that lead to FBI Headquarters.

No one noticed immediately. There was hardly anyone on duty. Jones was not at his desk. Neither was Diana. Must be in the field, he assumed, and looked up toward Peter's office.

Empty as well. He felt somewhat let down. He at least expected his friends to be there and welcome him back.

Reese Hughes stepped from his office onto the Mezzanine. He looked Neal in the eye, unsmilingly, and gave Neal the finger point.

Neal sighed – at least some things had not changed – and made his way up the steps to the conference room.

He had found them. All of them. Peter. Jones and Diana. Elizabeth. Sara. Every agent that had ever been peripherally involved in any case with Neal and Peter had crammed into the conference room. There was a sheet cake to welcome him back, along with several bottles of chilled sparkling cider, plastic cups and an envelope with Neal's name written on it in fancy script.

Peter gave Neal a mock slap on the back, and urged him to the center of the room.

"I don't…I don't know what to say…"

"Say something quick," Diana quipped. "That cake looks good."

Hughes entered, reaching for the envelope on the conference table. "I'll say something, unless anyone objects."

No one did.

"Caffrey, next time you want an extended vacation, just ask."

All laughed politely.

They celebrated briefly and returned to work, leaving Neal, Hughes and Peter to sit at the conference table and hash out the details of Neal's legitimate employment.

"Basically," Hughes said, in summation, "I want you and Peter to continue doing the commendable work you've always done. Catching bad guys. Other than the anklet and the fact that you'll be earning a paycheck, nothing changes. Well, maybe one other thing."

"What?" Neal asked, eyes widening with curiosity.

"Peter," said Hughes, signaling Peter to continue for him.

"I know you've considered applying as an agent, enrolling at Quantico…I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Hughes and I both went to bat for you, but there's a long-standing policy…no convicted felons."

Neal shook his head. As sad and angry as it made him, he knew his chances of becoming a full fledge FBI agent were always slim at best.

"I understand," he said, hoping to keep the tell-tale sound of disappointment out of his voice.

"Open the envelope," Hughes said.

Neal had practically forgotten. The envelope with the fancy script. He's slipped it in a pocket to open later. He removed it. Peter kindly ripped the envelope and allowed Neal to pull the letter from it. He flattened it one-handedly on the table to read. It was on official bureau stationery. Neal read until his eyes found the noteworthy paragraph that clarified the purpose of the letter.

"Are you serious? You want me to…"

"You're okay with, aren't you, Caffrey?" asked Hughes.

Neal could barely contain himself. The Bureau in Washington, D.C. had offered him, in addition to his established duties, the opportunity to travel a few times a year – all expenses paid – to train new agents in weekend-long seminars in the art of catching the white collar criminal. His first trip was in three weeks in sunny Los Angeles.

"I don't…I don't know what to say."

"Just promise us," said Peter, "that you'll continue with your recovery. Go to meetings. Keep seeing Dr. Leslie. Do the physical therapy for the arm. Keep your nose clean. And don't let Mozzie rope you into one those something-for-nothing schemes…"

"Got it. Promise."

"Fine," said Hughes as he stood and returned to his office.

When they were alone, Neal reread the letter, shaking his head. "How much of this are you responsible for?" Neal asked.

Peter just smiled. "There's a stack of files on your desk. Mortgage fraud cases, mostly."

"You know how much I love a good case of mortgage fraud."

~WC~

THREE WEEKS LATER

He was all packed and prepared for his flight. He still had six hours to kill before heading for LaGuardia, so he walked, soaking up the day, basking in the joy of being in the city he so loved. He arrived the church basement in time to sip coffee before the meeting began. He watched the time carefully, hoping that…

"Neal!"

Neal looked up and smiled as Daniel Hauser entered. His hair was jet black and bone straight now, and he carried a brand new skate board.

"How's the arm?"

"Feeling stronger every day," said Neal.

They sat together, listening through the meeting until the hour was nearly done.

Neal nervously stood. The room was quiet save for the sounds of the street filtering in through the barely opened window.

The first time he shared, it took several moments for him to find his voice. It was perhaps the hardest thing he ever had to do. Speaking, talking about himself, sharing with others had never caused him such consternation as this. But it was getting easier. Every day, life after Linus Hauser was getting just a little bit easier.

"My name is Neal," he said, addressing the room. "And I'm an addict. I've been sober for fifty-seven days. And every one of those days, it's been a blessing. My drug of choice…I'm sorry, I never felt comfortable saying heroin was my drug of choice because I never chose to do heroin. I never chose to take that first shot. Or the one after that…or the one after that. But eventually… Those last two months, every shot was all me.

"I took a lot of things for granted before my ordeal. Most especially my friends. They're my family, the family I never had, and always wanted. They sacrificed a lot for me. The best way I can pay them back is to remain sober. It's hard work, getting comfortable not using. Not that I'm tempted. But I'm always worried something's going to happen to trigger a relapse. Living in fear is no way to live. So I choose to take it one day at a time. One day at a time. I'm grateful for every day I wake up in control of my faculties, and not beholden to a needle. I'm grateful for physical pain. I know that sounds crazy. I'm thankful for my job, and second chances. And for a woman who knows who and what I am, and yet remains… Thanks for listening. I guess…I guess that's all."

Neal Caffrey sat back, wiped the stray, rebellious tear threatening to fall from his eye, and breathed.

The End.

I hope you enjoyed taking this ride. If you did, in the least bit, I would be grateful to hear from you. Please review, respond, react. Thank you so much for your time and attention. And I'm sure glad I didn't include Kramer in this story as I earlier planned to, because he turned out to be evil! LOL. Merci.