Another unnecessarily long author's note: It's all my fault, I suppose. I meant this story to be complete after the first two chapters, but I forgot to check complete when I posted it. Then there were so many story alerts I figured I better come up with a chapter 3. I do make reference to Byron's Don Juan in this chapter. If you aren't familiar with it, I recommend you at least check out the Cliff's Notes. It's a long poem. Byron has always been my favorite of the Romantic poets, the fact that Neal can recite him (in Upper Westside Story) is just icing on my cake!

Chapter 3

"So, how much did you get for it?" Mozzie asks

"Get for what?" Neal turns away from the terrace wall, and walks slowly to the table where Mozzie sits enjoying a glass of dry Semillon in the afternoon sun.

"Get for what?" Neal repeats, carefully lowering himself into a chair across from his friend. He tries not to grimace as he leans back. He looks longingly at Mozzie's glass of wine before he sips water from the glass in front of him. He's still taking too many drugs to risk adding alcohol to the mix.

"The Byron pages," Mozzie explains enthusiastically. "You must have gotten quite a bit." The little man doesn't notice the dark frown forming on Neal's face as he continues merrily on. "Who'd you use as a fence?"

"No one,' Neal answers shortly.

"You still have them?" Mozzie looks quizzically across the table. "Are you keeping them for a while?" Realization lights his features. Neal has only been out of the hospital for a few days and is currently restricted to his apartment. Between that and the suit coming by every day . . .

"I can fence them for you. I can get you a good price. I know a guy . . ."

"I didn't steal them!" Neal's forceful response is marred by the fact that he has to grab at his tender midsection to offset the pain.

"Okay, okay!" Mozzie holds up his hands in capitulation. He watches as Neal breathes carefully in and out, his eyes closed.

"How are you feeling?" The question is sincere but ill-timed.

The blue eyes fly open. "I feel like someone shot me," Neal snaps, "and like someone else was rummaging around my internal organs!" The physical discomfort and the forced restrictions are making him a less than pleasant companion, Neal realizes.

"Sorry," he mutters, sounding like a petulant little boy.

"Believe me," Mozzie says, "I understand."

"Yeah, I guess you do." Neal smiles and takes another drink of water.

Mozzie sips his wine and stares at some point off in the middle distance.

"You can understand why I asked, can't you?" Apparently Mozzie is still fixated on Don Juan. "The Suit said Markus didn't have it on him when they arrested him; and Lady Suit said you were the last person who saw it."

"Peter told me they didn't find the pages when they arrested Markus," Neal says, "and I know Diana saw me with it. But I didn't steal it. I don't steal when I'm at work."

"Well, when do you steal?" Mozzie asks innocently, then hurries on to stop his friends objections. "Neal, you're a thief."

There eyes meet across the table for a long minute. Neal looks away first, raising a hand in defeat.

"Well, I didn't steal this," he concedes.

"Fair enough."

They sit on the terrace for a while longer, enjoying the sunshine and the view. Mozzie starts to pour himself another glass of wine, but stops, looking at his friend.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm just a little tired." Neal's whole body appears to be drooping. "I think I'll take a nap."

Mozzie makes sure his friend makes it safely to the bed, quietly closing the door as he leaves the sleeping man. He knows Suit and Mrs. Suit will be there to check on him later.

ooOoo

Peter and Elizabeth bring both dinner and diversion to their recuperating friend. They also bring Satchmo. The evening passes pleasantly; Neal beats Peter at chess (no matter how hard Neal tries to let him win), and Elizabeth and June chat while Satchmo and Bugsy glare at each other across the room. Peter makes sure Neal takes all his medications and is safely in bed before the couple leaves. Bugsy breathes a sigh of relief as he watches the big Lab's tail swish out the door, then lifts his leg to June's sofa.

Neal watches the light reflecting on the walls and ceiling of his apartment as he lies awake in bed. He is pleasantly tired and relatively pain free but the sleep he both wants and needs eludes him. The conversation with Mozzie loops over and over in his mind. The pages from Don Juan, written in Lord Byron's own hand, have disappeared. The value of those three fragile pages is almost inestimable, and the FBI doesn't know where they are. Even Arthur Markus, thief extraordinaire, doesn't know where they are. But Neal Caffrey, wounded FBI consultant, knows exactly what happened to them.

ooOoo

The days pass by in a comfortably boring blur. There are chess games with Mozzie, visits from Diana, Jones and Blake, dinners with June, Elizabeth and Peter. Sara drops by once, and even the awkwardness of that visit is offset by the pleasure of seeing her.

But the nights – the nights are haunted. Even though Neal is exhausted, sleep leads him on a merry chase. When he shuts his eyes he relives the mad dash with Diana through the warehouse as bullets fly around them. Diana's ministrations to him in the cargo container morph into Haidee nursing Don Juan back to health in the cavern. Only Haidee's sweet, fair face inevitably becomes Diana's stern one. Neal's eyes fly open. He'd get up and pace but it's too much like work in his present condition.

Neal's sleepless nights begin to affect his days. His doctor is concerned something else is wrong, and wants to re-admit him to the hospital for tests. That possibility causes Neal even more nightmares. Peter has another theory.

"Neal," the older man asks gently, "have you thought about seeing a counselor or a therapist?"

"What?" Neal responds with genuine horror. "Are you crazy?" The last thing he needs to do is talk about that day.

"You went through a very traumatic experience," Peter continues. "As far as I know, you've never been shot before." He gives his friend a chance to respond, shrugs when Neal says nothing, then continues. "You almost died. That's certainly enough to cause PTSD."

"I don't have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Neal answers firmly. Neal knows what his problem is.

"Just think about it," Peter urges. The concern on his friend's face makes Neal look down and away.

The night that follows this conversation is the worst yet. Neal tosses and turns while visions of that day play over and over in his head. Maybe he does have a touch of PTSD, he admits to himself, which only makes his nightmares more realistic. He actually cries out in pain, which brings poor June running in to check on him. She sits with him, soothing and comforting, until he is able to feign sleep and June leaves him alone. He waits quietly until the morning comes. He knows what he has to do.

ooOoo

The sun streaming in the apartment windows seems a little brighter than usual to Diana. Maybe that's because it's Saturday and she and Christie both have the day off. They don't have any big plans, they both work, after all, but even the house cleaning and the laundry are better when they can do them together.

Christie is still in bed and Diana is just starting her second cup of coffee when her phone rings. Cursing under her breath, primarily so she doesn't wake Christie, she grabs the phone – and stares at the caller id in disbelief.

"Neal? Is everything alright?" He's only been out of the hospital for a week, Diana realizes. Does he need a doctor?

"Hey, Diana!" His voice sounds tired, but he doesn't sound like he's in distress. It's 7:30 a.m on a Saturday, she thinks. Her irritation returns.

"What do you want, Neal?"

"We need to go back to the warehouse in Queens," he says quickly. "I can't go by myself yet. Can you drive me?"

"What? Why?" Disbelief colors her voice.

"What's going on, Di?" Christie, now awake, sits down next to her at the table.

Diana covers the bottom of her phone with her hand.

"It's Neal," she explains.

"Is he okay?" Christie is all business.

"I think he's delirious."

"I can hear you!" Neal's voice calls from the phone.

"Put it on speaker," Christie suggests.

Diana places the phone on the table between them.

"Why do you need to go back to the warehouse?" Diana asks patiently.

"I rememb . . ." Neal stops, then starts again. "I need to go back there. I need to . . ." again the slight hesitation. "I need to do something. I can't go by myself yet."

Diana says nothing.

"Well, I could go by myself," he continues. "I could get a taxi to wait, I suppose."

"Neal, no!" Christie shakes her head vehemently. She looks at her partner and speaks quietly. "He really shouldn't go by himself, Di."

Diana sighs heavily. It's her day off. "Why me?" she asks him.

"Because." He sounds like a six year old. "Because of what happened," he finishes awkwardly.

He saved me; I saved him.

"Okay, give me an hour," she tells him.

"Can't you come any sooner?"

"An hour, Neal." Diana closes her phone and turns to look at Christie. Christie just shrugs and smiles.

ooOoo

When Diana arrives at June's, Neal is still making his way uncertainly down the stairs, June hovering close behind. Diana takes over, helping him into the car. They travel the first few minutes in silence, mostly so Neal can catch his breath.

"Can't this wait?" she asks him when he recovers. "You look like shit."

"And good morning to you too!" is his caustic reply.

"Caffrey, what is . . ."

"I know where they are."

Diana glances over at him. "Where what are?" she asks, but she thinks she already knows.

"They Byron pages. I know where they are." Neal says it quickly, like ripping a band aid off a wound.

The car stops at a red light. "You stole them." She watches him carefully.

"No! Yes, well, not really."

Diana thinks she should pull over and arrest him right now. Or kill him. She drives on towards the warehouse.

"That's why you were late, wasn't it?" she asks. "You were casing the place."

"I was casing the place, looking for all the possible exits," Neal explains. "But I wasn't planning on stealing the manuscript." He gives her one of those blinding smiles. "I was casing the place because Agent Timmerman really is an idiot."

Diana smiles, too; she can't help herself. "He really is," she agrees.

"Then, when Markus made you, and it all went bad," this time his smile is sheepish, "well, I couldn't let him get away with those pages. So I lifted them."

"So why didn't you just turn them in?" They are crossing into Queens now, almost to their destination.

"I stashed them so they would be safe," he says easily. "Then there was the whole gunfire bit. And then I was shot!" It all makes perfect sense.

Diana parks the car outside the warehouse, cuts the engine, and looks Neal square in the eye.

"Caffrey, it's been over two weeks. You could have told us, told any of us, where the pages were hidden. But you didn't. You were going to steal them, weren't you?"

Neal meets Diana's accusation head on. "I thought about it. I thought about it a lot in the last two weeks. But I didn't." He raises his hand, then lowers it again. "There's something in me, Diana. It's like I'm genetically encoded to steal, to con. It's a rush, it's a high." He pauses to take a deep breath, and flinches slightly, unintentionally reminding Diana of his injury.

"Do you know anyone who's an alcoholic? Or addicted to gambling?" he asks her. "That's what it's like for me, all the time. It's like I have to steal – I have to con." Neal stops, he has nothing left to say.

He saved me; I saved him.

Is this what Peter saw when he looked at Neal Caffrey? The kind, gifted, brave man who struggled every day to live a life everyone else lived naturally. The man who would willingly give up everything for the people he cared for. When it really mattered.

"Come on," Diana gets out of the car. "Let's go get those damn pages."

ooOoo

Neal had stashed the pages in an old, unused junction box. It is a long, slow walk there and back, but Diana doesn't interfere. She understands the need for Neal to do it himself. He actually sighs with regret when he places the pages in her safekeeping. Yes, he's always fighting the battle, she thinks.

She helps him back into her car; apparently all his energy has been expended on this little expedition. He falls asleep almost immediately after the car is in motion.

He doesn't wake when she stops the car in front of June's home. She wonders when the last time was he had a decent rest.

"Caffrey?" she calls out to him. There is no response.

"Neal?" Her voice is a little louder, but he still doesn't wake. Worried now that he's harmed himself by going on this little field trip, she prods him in the shoulder.

"Neal!" He blinks his eyes, mutters vaguely, shifts to a more comfortable position, and goes right on sleeping.

Laughing silently, she pulls out her phone and dials.

"Hey, boss," she says cheerily, "I need your help. I'm out in front of Neal's. He's sound asleep in my car and I can't get him out by myself."

She listens for a moment as Peter tries to sort out what she's saying to him.

"No, he's okay, I think." She glances fondly at her sleeping passenger. "We went back to the warehouse in Queens. Neal, uh, Neal . . ." She sputters to a stop, unsure of how to continue.

He saved me; I saved him.

"Neal remembered what happened to the Byron manuscript. He called me because he knew I would know exactly what he was talking about."

She listens to Peter again for a minute.

"No, I don't think he planned on stealing them. He was shot, you know. I'm sure everything didn't come back to him at once."

He saved me; I saved him.

"Yeah, we'll just be here in the car." Diana closes her phone, leans her head back, and smiles.