Archive of Our Own

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Neal knew he shouldn’t, but his hands were moving of their own accord. 

His vision was growing blurrier by the minute, and things were going hazy all around him. The pounding of the music was no longer an auditory experience, but one that he could feel resonating in his bones. It was beginning to give him a headache, and a persistent one at that. 

There was something he had to do. Something was pricking at him, from the corners of consciousness, keeping him from fading away. Neal didn’t know how much control he had over his facial expressions right now – it was all rather numb, if he were honest – but he knew he was revealing far more than he wanted to. 

The blurry figures all around him were giving him strange looks. 

“Restroom,” he told them, shouting over the noise and hoping they wouldn’t follow. Normally, he’d add in a smile or two, to reassure them that he was fine and didn’t need help to make sure he didn’t crack his head open on the urinal, but the world around him was already going black around the edges. Fainting – unintentionally, that was – in public was a nightmare. 

The restroom was brightly lit and utterly tacky, with lightbulbs bordering the mirror and garish striped wallpaper. It would give a healthy person a migraine, let alone someone in Neal’s current condition, he thought irritably.

“Dude, you okay?” someone called out.

Neal must’ve responded with something, and he vaguely remembered lifting his hand in acknowledgement, because the man didn’t say anything else. Not that he had much of a chance to, with Neal heading into the nearest stall and locking the door. 

He closed the toilet lid, grateful there was one, and all but fell in an ungraceful heap onto it. The music vibrated through the floors and walls, but it wasn’t as bad as it’d been in the club. What was he doing in a club? 

It’d been… at least a decade since he’d stepped foot someplace like this. Before he and Mozzie had started the Adler job. After that, Neal had dreamt of classier places than this one, where—

And that was the precise moment that Neal took in the clothes he had on and almost had a stroke then and there. He was wearing what was probably a tank top, and his arms were bare and shimmering. Where had he even gotten body glitter?

His legs were encased in the tightest of leather. For a moment, he considered they might be cat burglar clothes, perfect for fitting into the club, perfect for robbing a mansion. But they certainly weren’t his. There was one pocket, if it could be called that, and it was only just large enough to fit a roll of bills. 

No phone. Well, that was alright. Neal had managed before cellphones had become so widespread, and there were payphones on every street corner. He wasn’t fussed about the lack of communication with others. His anklet shone green, visible beneath the pant leg and appearing to be on display. Neal quickly unrolled the cuffed leg of his pants and did his best to cover the tracker.

He was listing to the side. Neal blinked and jerked away from the stall wall. It was lucky he was so out of it - though he’d been in much worse places, he didn’t think his stomach would be able to handle the smell that this restroom no doubt was giving off, and still keep its contents.

It wasn’t the first time Neal had woken up someplace with no memory of the events that had led him there, but it was the first time in… a while. He tried not to get used to the feeling of safety and consistency, but it’d crept up on him this time. And now this happens, he thought to himself, levering his body upright and into a standing position. 

He had to get away from here. Now that he was standing again, the world was tipping like a ship at sea in the middle of a storm. Neal didn’t know why he was here, if he was on a case or undercover or what, or if there was anyone he had to avoid. That was okay, though. Neal had worked with that before, countless times. It just meant maximum caution and stealth. 

There’d be an evacuation map here somewhere, for legal reasons. Neal stepped out of the stall, flushing so as to not draw attention to himself. His fingers left traces of glitter on the buttons. 

There weren’t as many people outside as he’d feared; Neal relaxed slightly and worked on getting over to the sinks without collapsing. He washed his hands and splashed water on his face, to wake himself up and so he wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the bathroom like a weirdo searching for the evacuation plan. 

The kid leaning against the wall on his phone barely glanced at him, and the older man waiting beside the door with a grumpy expression glared when Neal made eye contact. Neal resisted the urge to say something to him, stepping over to the paper towel dispenser and pulling out two. 

The map was right above it. Neal blinked a few times, trying to clear his blurry vision. The only other way out of here – the only way that wasn’t the main entrance – was using the staff entrance out the back. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, but this wasn’t a normal situation. Neal had no idea how he was going to sneak out, but it certainly wasn’t going to be by nabbing someone’s spare outfit. His hands were shaking way too much for him to do anything that involved finesse and speed.

Neal binned the hand towels and left the restroom, ignoring the man who kept staring at him. He had to go down a flight of stairs to use the staff entrance, and he had no idea how he managed to do that without falling down them headfirst.

“Um, sir? Excuse me, sir? You aren’t allowed down here—oh.” 

Neal turned, and for a moment his vision went black. He blinked rapidly, feeling his heart pounding in his chest in a way that made him physically nauseas. When his vision cleared a bit, Neal found himself braced against the wall, and a tiny waitress standing in front of him looking petrified.

“Sorry,” he said, trying for a smile. He didn’t know if he succeeded or not, because she started looking around for help. There were a few ways this could go, but right now he cared more about getting out of here than he did about his dignity. Besides, it was unlikely he’d be returning. “Listen, I need your help. Please don’t tell anyone.” 

“Kid, wake up,” a gruff voice was saying. “Meter’s still running.”

Neal groggily raised his head, blinking blearily to take in his surroundings. He was so tired of waking up and having lost chunks of time. 

“We’re here,” the taxi driver said. “C’mon, out.”

“Where ‘m I?” His hands moved of their own accord, fishing into the tiny stitched pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. He didn’t register the man’s words, because he already recognised the neighbourhood. “Why’d you bring me here?”

The taxi driver raised an eyebrow. “You wanna go someplace else?” His hand hovered over the meter, which he’d stopped when Neal had handed over the money. “Hey, this is—“

“Keep the change,” Neal told him, trying to get the door open. He practically spilled out of the cab, and it took the remainder of his effort to slam the door shut and step away from the curb. 

The taxi driver rolled down the window. “Kid,” he began, and why was everyone calling him that? Neal could look younger if he tried to, but he sure as hell couldn’t pass for a kid anymore. “You need help getting to the door?”

“I got it, thanks.” 

Neal didn’t wait for the man to drive off; he turned around slowly and focused on placing one foot in front of the other. He just had to get to that doorway, and then it’d be fine. After that, he could collapse or puke or whatever, but he just had to make it there. 

Neal had never hated porch steps more.

He was tempted to use his lock picks to open the door – he’d found them sewn into the lining of the leather pants, and that had eased his tension a little. Surely it was ruder to wake someone at whatever hour it was right now than it was to break into their house. Neal knocked on the door anyway, knowing that Peter, at least, was a light sleeper.

And then he stumbled over to the set of chairs placed on the porch, the chairs that neither El nor Peter had ever used in the time that Neal had known them. He’d made it to the door, and his body refused to cooperate any longer. 

Neal couldn’t have been asleep for long before he was awoken by a hand at his shoulder, shaking him rudely. Years of waking up with hazy recollection of how he’d gotten there was the only thing that kept him from swatting it away. As it was, since he’d gotten out of prison, the only place he’d ever truly woken up slowly, and not just transitioning from one state of consciousness to the other, was when he was alone in the loft at June’s mansion.

“Neal,” someone was saying. “Neal.” 

“Shush,” Neal muttered, cracking one eye open with great difficulty. His spine twinged uncomfortably when he moved, so he slumped back into the chair, shivering slightly. When had it gotten cold?

“Good, you’re awake.” That was Peter’s voice. That was good, Neal decided, because that meant that he’d reached the Burkes’ house and he could sleep. “No,” Peter said, “no, that does not mean you can sleep now. Come on, inside. How you aren’t an icicle yet in that outfit…”

He yanked Neal upright, and Neal teetered wildly, clutching onto Peter’s forearm. His grip was numb from the lethargy of sleep, the cold, and whatever was running through his system. 

“Drugs,” Neal said, trying to make his mouth move properly to form the words. “Think… I was drugged.”

“You think?” Making it over the slight step through the doorway was another thing that threatened to trip Neal up, but Peter appeared to have anticipated this, and the grip on Neal’s arm tightened as they stepped over the threshold.

Inside didn’t feel much warmer to Neal’s numb skin, but he had to admit it was nice to get out of the chilly breeze that had started up while he’d been asleep. Satchmo watched them from his bed, unwilling to get up at whatever hour this was to investigate what they were doing.

“Oh, shit,” Neal said distantly when his eyes fell upon the clock on the far wall. “Didn’t realise it’s so late.”

“You can make it up to me by not getting into a situation like this again,” Peter said, though even to Neal’s muddled mind, his words sounded distracted. “Here, sit.” 

Neal dropped down onto the couch like a puppet whose strings had been cut. In the quiet of the house, he could hear his pants squeaking as he did so, but didn’t have it in himself to wonder about where they’d even come from. His cat burglar clothes were so much sneakier. They didn’t creak and groan when he changed position.

“Is that right,” Peter said from the other side of the room, and Neal realised he’d been speaking aloud. “So, let me get this straight. You have… no idea… why you’re wearing,” he gestured at Neal with the hand that wasn’t holding the glass of water, before continuing, “but you know you’re drugged? Why aren’t we going to the hospital?”

“No,” Neal said, the words sparking something in his awareness. “No hospital.” He accepted that glass from Peter’s hand, trying his best to stop his own from shaking, but not quite managing it.

Peter watched on with a frown as the water spilled over the sides on the way to Neal’s mouth, but he didn’t try to help, and Neal was grateful. The only reason he wasn’t freaking out about this whole thing, about the lack of control of it all and all these holes in his memory, was because of the drugs. The moment they were out of his system, he knew, he’d probably be well on his way to a mini meltdown. 

“Neal,” Peter said hesitantly, “do you think you might’ve been assaulted?”

Well, he’d been drugged against his will. That was a type of assault in itself, wasn’t it? The thing he didn’t like about drugs, Neal reflected, was that they dictated how you felt, and Neal hated anyone dictating anything he did, let alone something as personal as your emotions. His skin prickled at how calm he was being, about this whole situation, about the loss of however many hours or possibly even days. 

“Probably not,” was what he said out loud, and he watched as Peter digested this information and the cavalier way he said it. 

“And you still don’t want to go to a hospital or clinic? I know people – they’re discreet, non-judgemental—” 

“Don’t need to,” Neal interrupted, surprising himself with how hard his voice was. “They’re… like roofies. Some combo of rohypnol, ecstasy, GHB, and usually with whatever truth serum the crew has in their pocket. Be out of my system soon enough – otherwise the new recruit’s no use.” Peter’s face darkened the more he elaborated on the chemical concoction presumably in his system.

Peter turned away, tense shoulders all that Neal could make out. He kept bustling around; Neal felt tired just watching him. First it’d been the glass of water, and then he’d taken the half empty glass from Neal’s hand and handed him a napkin for where the water had spilled (though Neal had just clutched it in his hand). Now, he was over by the little closet near the staircase, rummaging through it.

“You’ll wake up El,” Neal said. His voice felt slow and slurred even to his own ears. Maybe this batch hadn’t included ecstasy, unless he’d already gone through those effects and this was the crash.

“If she was going to wake up, she would’ve by now,” Peter told him. “So you’re telling me you’ve been dosed with this drug before?”

Neal shrugged, limbs floppy and pliant. The lack of inhibition wasn’t something he enjoyed, because he could never tell if a piece of information was something he’d normally want to offer or not. But this was Peter, he reasoned. And surely dubiously consenting to being administered drugs wasn’t a crime he'd committed. The statute of limitations had probably passed on that one, anyhow.
 
“Sometimes they’ll use it on you before you join a crew, check that you don’t plan on double-crossing them. The normal ones don’t do that, just... the dodgier ones you should probably avoid anyway. Gets you saying things you wouldn’t normally say, makes you more… agreeable,” he said finally.

Now Peter was hovering beside him, a knitted throw rug in hand. Neal looked at it apathetically; he didn’t really want to get glitter all over it – the colours wouldn’t really match. Peter either hadn’t noticed how shimmery Neal’s bare skin was, or he didn’t care. He unfolded the blanket and draped it across Neal’s lap in a no-nonsense manner. 

“Why the hell would you want to join a crew that roofies you?” Peter was still hovering in front of him. Neal wished he could read Peter’s face, because his voice sounded tense, but everything was sort of… floaty. 

He let out a breath, and didn’t answer Peter. It was easier to fight off the impulse to give Peter long, elaborate answers to questions he didn’t think Peter actually expected responses to now that the bone-deep tiredness was hitting him. Easier to get lost in the haze.

“Peter?” They both looked up towards the staircase, where El stood at the top. “Is that Neal? Is everything okay?” 

“Hey, El,” Neal said, dredging up a tired smile for her as she approached. He’d tilted to the side at some point; Elizabeth wasn’t the right way up when she came down. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Neal’s been roofied,” Peter said at the same time, voice grim.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his words, but the sight of him was what rendered her momentarily speechless. “Should we be—“

“No hospital,” the two of them said simultaneously, Peter in resignation and Neal with as much vehemence as he could muster. His voice was half muffled by the couch, so he didn't know how assertive he really sounded, but he was glad Peter seemed to be sticking to his word.

El didn’t look particularly pleased, but she didn’t push, trusting Neal and Peter. “You can’t be comfortable in those,” was the only thing she said. Neal hadn’t realised he had it in him to laugh, but he did. “You want to get changed?”

“Uh.” In all honesty, Neal didn’t think he had the energy to sit upright for at least the next four hours, let alone peel off the leather pants sticking to him. And he certainly didn’t want to get this glitter onto Peter’s clothes – god knew it was going to be difficult as it was getting it off the fabric of the couch. “Maybe later. They’re comfier than they look.”

“We’ll take your word for it,” Peter said drily. “Here, drink up while you’re conscious. You need to stay hydrated. When was the last time you ate?”

Neal grimaced, not wanting to deal with the prospect of tilting his head upright to drink, let alone go through the ordeal of eating. “I’ll eat later,” he said. “And I’m plenty hydrated.”

“You can sleep when you’ve finished this glass,” Peter told him, moving closer. “Come on, I’ll lift you up. Jesus, you look like a raccoon.”

“Thanks,” Neal said flatly. “Real nice of you.”

“Well, I think it's a good look on you. Here, hon, give him this instead.” El handed him a glass that was still bubbling a little. “Hydrolytes.”

“Good thinking.”

“What flavour is it?” Neal shuffled until his head was vertical enough that water wouldn’t spill, outstretching his arm to take the cup.

Peter and El wore matching grimaces as he took it, El hastily leaping forward to place her own hand on it to steady it. It smelled faintly like oranges, and Neal could see the mixture still faintly reacting as the hydrolyte tablet dissolved into the water. He grimaced as the taste hit his tongue, making him almost gag. He held his breath and swallowed it down as fast as possible, knowing from experience he’d prefer having had something to combat the killer headache. 

“Now,” El was saying, “are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something of Peter’s to sleep in? We should really move you to the guest room…”

Her voice faded in and out as Neal slumped back into the cushions, energy now entirely spent. He sincerely hoped his bladder didn’t decide to make itself known anytime soon; it really was a huge design flaw of the Burkes’ otherwise lovely house to not have a downstairs bathroom. Maybe Neal would suggest a renovation – Mozzie knew some guys who’d work around needing to get plumbing plans approved by the council. 

He didn’t know when he’d faded out, but Neal had faint impressions of fading in and out of sleep, with no way of knowing how much time had passed between each bout of consciousness. The living room was dark – they had obviously kept the blinds shut to allow Neal to sleep in peace. 

The first time Neal woke, it was with a pounding heartbeat from fear, though he had no idea why, or of what. It wasn’t a new sensation; Neal had woken up with a giant burst of adrenaline plenty of times, and in prison it’d gotten to the point where not waking like was cause for alarm.

This time he was greeted only by Satchmo. He blinked a little at the dog, trying to slow his breathing down, and Satchmo wagged his tail harder in response, letting out a low woof! 

“Satch?” he heard someone say, but his eyes were closing once more.

The next time was gentler. He eyes felt glued shut and his whole body stiff as a board, but there were familiar voices around him, so Neal didn’t force himself into alertness.

“…think we should’ve called a doctor, at the very least? It’s been eight hours here alone.”

“I called Christie – don’t worry, she promised patient confidentiality – and she said that if he hasn’t shown any bad symptoms so far, we should just keep an eye on him and try to get food and water in him when he wakes.”

Silence, then, broken up by the sound of running water and occasional clinks of dishes. Neal faded away once more.

There were voices again when he stirred the next time, Peter and Elizabeth’s. Someone was pacing up and down, but even in his groggiest of states, Neal would recognise it as Peter. There was a squeaking somewhere in the distance, which Neal attributed to Satchmo playing with a chewtoy.

“I should’ve gotten some wipes to clean all that off his face when he’d been awake,” El was musing. Neal heard the rustle of pages turning. Clean what off his face? “What do you think he got himself into?”

“No idea,” Peter said. More pacing, though this time the footsteps slowed a little when they got nearer. Neal stayed still, which wasn’t exactly the hardest of tasks, considering how much he wanted to fall right back asleep now. “I pulled up his tracking record and found the club he was at, but they don’t open for another… seven hours. He wanders all over the place on weekends; hard to figure out what he did differently this time without his input. You said you called Mozzie?”

“I did,” Elizabeth sighed, “and he had no idea that anything was wrong. Though he did say he was with Neal on Friday after work, until very late apparently, so at least that narrows down the timeframe.”

“That’s still two whole days. Anything could’ve happened.”

There was a pause – different this time, Neal mused, than the silence that had befallen that other time he’d woken up – before El finally said, “You don’t think anything… happened, do you? That he was coerced into doing something he didn’t want to do?”

Peter sighed again. “I don’t know,” he said, and his voice sounded tired. “But… the outfit, and what he told me about the drugs… doesn’t strike me as anything good.”

“He should be waking up soon, though.” El’s voice was confident, firm, bearing no contradiction. “All the sites I’ve looked at say that eight to twelve hours is roughly the amount of time rohypnol stays in effect.”

“We don’t even know if that’s what’s in his system.” Peter’s voice sounded muffled. “Damn it, we should’ve just driven him to a hospital.”

Something shuffled, and then light footsteps, almost imperceptible to the ear, padded across the floor. “You made the right decision,” Elizabeth said. “He came here because he trusted you – trusted us. If you’d carted him off to the hospital when he didn’t want to go…”

“I know.” Peter exhaled. “Just… hard, not being able to do anything except watching him sleep.”

One of them turned on the TV, and suddenly the quiet of the living room was filled with the background noise of a baseball commentator. Neal didn’t doubt that this was all part of Peter’s devious plan to wake him up out of annoyance at being forced to endure sports commentary, but all it did was lull him back to sleep once more.

Neal jerked awake, heart pounding and the roar of blood rushing through his ears. He’d automatically moved upright to his elbows, but now that he was more awake, the headache that had been lying in wait slammed into him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Neal?” Footsteps, more footsteps. “You’re awake.”

“Mmm,” was the only thing Neal got out. He moved his tongue around his mouth; it tasted like something had died in there while he’d slept.

“You’re lucky you did,” Elizabeth said. “We were going to give you another hour before we took you to the emergency room.”

Neal peeled one eye open, just a crack. When the outside world didn’t hurt to look at, he cautiously opened up the second one. “How long was I out?” His voice was low and hoarse, and all things considered, this just felt like a bad hangover.

“Going on fourteen hours now,” Peter informed him. “Let’s get you sitting up. It’s probably out of your system by now, but the doctor Christie recommended says to keep an eye out for another couple days.”

“Wonderful,” Neal said, slowly moving into an upright position. A glance at the clock told him it was six in the morning. “Did I wake you guys again?”

“We were up,” El said with a glance towards Peter. “And now that you’re up, we should really get some food in you. Probably make you feel better.”

Neal tried for a smile. “Anything that’ll stop me from feeling like roadkill,” he offered, and Elizabeth smiled at him in return. “Actually, is it okay if I shower? I’d rather keep the glitter as contained as possible.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got clothes for you to change into,” he said. “Mozzie came by with some of your things from June’s, but he was acting all… squirrelly. Left soon after, though it wouldn’t’ve done him much good if he’d stuck around, seeing how you slept for another four hours.”

Neal suspected Mozzie had some inkling of what Neal had been up to the last day or so, but he didn’t say anything to Peter. He suspected a large chunk of his memories related to this whole incident would always be inaccessible to him, and right now all he wanted was to wash off the physical evidence. 

“El left her make-up wipes on the counter,” Peter was saying as he got a towel out for Neal to use. “She said she suspects the stuff you’ve got on is waterproof, and to use that purple bottle there.”

“Make up?” For the first time, Neal looked at his face and stared, then let out a low whistle. “That explains it, then.”

“Explains what?”

“The cab driver. He kept calling me ‘kid’,” Neal said with a grin. “Now I know why. I look like a teenager going through something.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Maybe mid-twenties, at most. Your cab driver was either old enough to call me a kid, or he’s never seen a kid in his life.”

“Aw, Peter, am I making you feel old?” Neal ran a finger across his eyelid, testing how durable the eyeliner was. It was layered on thick, that was evident. “Great, my eyelashes are all crusty from the mascara.”

“I’m sure they’ll survive,” Peter said. “You sure you can handle showering?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Neal said distractedly. “I’ll leave the door unlocked so you don’t have to pick it if I faint.”

“You’re feeling faint?”

“No, Peter, I feel fine.” 

It took a while, but Peter stepped out and shut the door behind him, with the promise that he was in the next room and would hear any loud thuds. Neal exhaled, shutting his eyes for a moment, before getting to work peeling off the leather pants. They came off easier than he’d expected, though Neal’s vision blurred a couple times in the process, and by the end of it, he was gripping onto the countertop as his head pounded. 

The tank top joined the pants on the bathroom floor, along with a shower of glitter. The struggle to remove his articles of clothing had resulted in glitter being sprayed everything; Neal didn’t even think he’d had that much on himself in the first place.

He didn’t feel particularly confident about his ability to shower, but he wanted all this stuff off. He began with his face, meticulously using Elizabeth’s products to get rid of what appeared to be more layers of make-up and grit off. There was soon a small pile of once-white wipes and make-up pads on the countertop, and his face looked more stark than usual now that the dark outlines were gone. 

Neal didn’t spend long in the shower, just enough time to scrub at his arms and wash out remnants of glitter and god knew what else in his hair. He was relieved the tank top hadn’t been mesh or cropped – Neal wasn’t embarrassed by much, if anything, particularly when it came to his body, but it hadn’t been his decision to dress up, and he didn’t want… well, he didn’t really know what he didn’t want Peter and El to think.

Neal was still shimmering a bit when he climbed out, having determined that this was as good as he was going to get. Glitter was finicky like that; he just hoped it wouldn’t be harmful for Satchmo.

Mozzie had brought his more casual clothes in the bag, probably having anticipated when Neal would wake and what sort of a mood he was likely to be in. He would know: though Neal wasn’t one to partake in recreational drugs, the only times he’d been dosed with them – intentionally or otherwise – had been after meeting Mozzie.

He slipped into them, something in him relaxing at the feeling of being in familiar clothing. Neal glanced under the sink, pulling out the roll of bin liners he knew the Burkes kept there, and stuffing his old clothes into one. 

Peter met him on the landing when he exited the bathroom, emerging from his bedroom. Neal dumped the used wipes into the bin, and made his way downstairs carrying the bag with his clothes. He certainly wanted to investigate what he’d done the last day or so, and he’d bet his wardrobe that Peter wouldn’t let it rest until he got some answers, either.

Elizabeth was downstairs, ready to stuff him with food. “You’ve got work soon, don’t you?” Neal asked, even as he sat down ungracefully at the table.

“Perks of owning your own business,” she told him with a smile. “You get to set your own hours. And I’ve pushed back my meetings. Peter’ll drive you home when you’re feeling up to it, but in the meantime, eat.”

“Doesn’t Peter have work?” Neal dutifully dug in to the pancakes in front of him, drenching them in maple syrup so they’d be smoother going down. “And me, for that matter.”

Peter snorted. “You certainly aren’t going in to the office today,” he said. “We’ll see about tomorrow. And I called in saying I’d come in a few hours later.”

Guilt churned in Neal’s stomach, making him feel nauseas with the added food. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Not my first rodeo.” All that got him were two sets of frowns, and he hastily turned back to his plate. “You two aren’t going to eat?”

El shook her head. “We ate a little while ago,” she said with a glance at Peter. “Might get another pot of coffee going, though.”

“Coffee?” Neal’s head perked up.

“Not for you,” Peter told him. “Later, maybe. Decaf though.” The face Neal made at that made him snort, though his eyes were fond.

“Hey, Peter?” Neal said, when he was about halfway through the pancakes. “Thanks, for, y’know.”

Peter looked like he was going to argue, probably to say something about how there was nothing to thank him for, that he’d done what any human being would’ve, but El answered for him. Neal was glad, because it was awkward to remind Peter that he was the best man Neal knew, had ever known. It wasn't saying much, not by other people's standards, but it meant something by Neal's.

“Of course,” she said, squeezing Neal’s shoulder. “Not that we like you getting into trouble, but… come to us, when you do.”

Neal looked at her and smiled; he didn’t say anything, because he didn’t like to break promises, and this sounded like a promise that, much as he’d like to keep, he’d end up breaking. But for now, he sat at the Burkes’ dining table and scraped his fork against his plate for the last bits of maple syrup, with Peter and El drinking coffee after having stayed up all night keeping an eye on him, and he entertained the notion of having said of course I will and meaning it.