Okay, no lie, I was not planning on a second chapter. There MIGHT be a third, but I doubt it, unless someone can give me an idea. I don't know about anyone else, but I damn near screamed when the series finale came around and you think (SPOILER) Neal is dead. As soon as Peter pulled that wine bottle out, and it was the bottle from the first episode when Neal explains it was a message from Kate...I was yelling at the TV like a cheerleader at the Hail Mary touchdown.

My parents might think I'm crazy...oh well. You guys love me though, right? Show me with reviews!

He probably should've called a cab to take them back from the hospital, considering how distracted he was while driving. But Neal was hard enough to coerce back into the car, even drugged to the gills as he was. Public transit simply wasn't an option.

Stopped at a red light, Peter could finally take a longer look at his partner. Neal was pressed against the passenger door, both hands tucked underneath his arms like he was hugging himself. Even in the dim light of the early evening, Neal looked awful. His stay in the hospital had done little to relieve his nightmare induced insomnia, and according to the attending physician, they often relied on sedation to get him to sleep at all. His cheeks were still hollowed, making him appear as a scarecrow, but at least his skin was no longer flushed with fever from infection.

The light turned green, and Peter slowly accelerated, trying not to jostle his passenger. It apparently wasn't fast enough for the car behind him, because they blared their horn as they sped around him.

Neal lurched awake, hand already going to the door handle. Good thing Peter already set the child locks on the door, or he would be in the road right now.

"Easy, Neal. Just typical New York traffic," Peter said lightly, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Neal as he blinked slowly. One heavily bandaged hand came up to rub at his eyes, and he seemed surprised at the dressing, squinting at the white gauze encasing from his palm to his elbow.

"Souvenir from the hospital. They had to do some pretty fancy footwork to save your hand, but they assured me you'd get full dexterity back once it healed, with the help of some therapy."

Neal wiggled his fingers, testing the diagnosis. They were slow, but at least they moved. The doctors had to slice all the way to his elbow to cut out the infection, but at least they managed to save the limb. When they'd first seen the terrible damage the cuff had done, they told Peter up front that the nerves and ligaments might not be salvageable, but they would do their best. Several skin grafts later, and Neal's hand looked more like he was recovering from a burn instead of sepsis and necrotizing fasciitis, skin healthy and pink instead of black and rotten.

Neal's meds were still in full effect, which meant he had the motor coordination of a drunken sailor, and his head lolled towards the window, clunking against the glass as he peered out at the New York City lights. "Home?" he slurred, after working his mouth for a minute, trying to get it to work.

"Well, my home. Fewer stairs. And El is working from home now, so she can make sure your bandages are changed and you take your meds." Peter glanced over at Neal, whose eyes slid shut again, but he wasn't asleep. Neal fought long and hard against the sedatives they gave him, refusing to sleep and unwilling to explain why.

In fact, Peter knew less now than when Neal first showed up on his doorstep. Neal refused to answer any questions about where he'd been for four months. He refused to answer almost any direct question, and until recently, barely spoke at all. The simple question of 'home' was a huge leap forward in progress. The FBI could find no trace of his movements on camera leading up to Neal showing up on his doorstep. Mozzie and his contacts weren't any more help – the criminal world was in the dark about where Neal had been.

Or they were more worried about the wrath of whoever was behind it than they were about the FBI, which was more than a little concerning. Peter preferred the idea that no one knew where Neal disappeared to, rather than someone knew, but was too afraid to say.

The front light was on, El waiting at the door when he pulled up in front of the house.

"How was the ride?" she asked, staying on the threshold while Peter helped Neal from the car. She shifted anxiously, her motherly instinct kicking in but unable to help. They realized early on that Neal was only tolerant of one person in close proximity. Any more than that, no matter how well he knew them, and he went into a blind panic, clawing and even biting to get away from them. Diana and Jones found that out the hard way.

When Peter had originally brought Neal to the emergency room, that night he returned, it had been utter chaos. As soon as a nurse approached them, Neal tried to wrench himself away from Peter, unmindful of how much pain he must have caused himself. He hadn't said anything, no begging or pleading as he pulled away, but it was clear he didn't want to stay. Neal had been strangely silent after his outburst at the house, and it was even more disturbing when he made no noise of protest.

The silence hadn't lasted long though – as soon as more nurses and doctors showed up, Neal went ballistic. He managed to break a male nurse's nose when they tried to get him on a gurney, kicking him in the face. A wildly swinging arm caught a doctor's eye when they tried to sedate him. Even after giving him a sedative so they could treat him, Neal didn't lose consciousness until the second dose.

Ever since, they had to keep him heavily sedated if there had to be more than one person present, and frequently called Peter or El into the hallway to discuss his treatments and prognosis instead of remaining in the room. Only one nurse at a time could check on him, change dressings, or bring him food. Even with the drugs they had him on, if Neal was awake while someone else was with him, his heart rate and blood pressure would spike alarmingly high until they left again.

Plain and simple: Neal couldn't be around people.

"About as well as can be expected," Peter said, carefully helping Neal stand on wobbly legs. The conman was a far cry from his usual elegance, swamped in Peter's old academy sweatshirt hoodie and loose pants, but at least he managed to stay upright without too much of Peter's help. "Slept most of the way here, but I think they're wearing off."

"Hi, Neal," El greeted warmly, smiling. "Your room is all made up for you if you just want to go straight upstairs. I do have some dinner if you want. I can bring it up to you, or you can sit downstairs, whichever you prefer."

She stepped back to give them space to enter, Peter trailing just behind Neal to make sure he didn't fall, or try to run.

Neal stopped just outside the threshold, arms hugged tightly around himself as he teetered briefly.

At first, Peter thought he was going to bolt, or worse, collapse where he stood, but Neal took a shuddering breath, as if steeling himself against some invisible force field, and took a step inside.

The reaction was almost instantaneous. Neal's hunched shoulders finally relaxed, slumping downwards as a breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like he was deflating.

El reached a tentative hand up to Neal's shoulder, but for once he didn't flinch away from her. "Welcome home, Neal," she said, and Peter could see her eyes getting watery.

"Home…" Neal repeated, and smiled briefly back at her. It wasn't remotely close to his normal 1000 watt smile, but it was more than Peter had seen in months. He didn't think he would ever see it again.

"Yeah, buddy. You're home."

Neal didn't last long at the table, but he at least managed to eat enough that they could give him the medication the doctor prescribed for the night. Besides the heavy duty sleep aides that they were continuously ratcheting up due to Neal's self-inflicted insomnia, they also had several strong antibiotics that needed to be taken with food.

While Peter did the dishes, El guided a drowsy Neal upstairs to his room, hovering closely with her hands almost touching his arm but not quite. His gait at a slight hitch in it from an old, and likely severe injury to it. Nothing was currently broken or torn, and the x-rays revealed no sign of fractures, but the surgeon suspected his entire hip might have been dislocated for a period. They were confident that the more Neal walked, the easier it would become and he'd be able to walk normally in no time.

"I know you've been having problems sleeping, but hopefully being out of the hospital will help," El said, peeling back the covers for Neal to sit on the mattress.

For the most part, Neal seemed to stay in a sort of dazed state, blinking owlishly as he obediently sat on the bed, but made no further movements. He had a thousand yard stare, vivid blue eyes staring absently at nothing, and gave no indication that he heard El say anything.

She sighed, before heading to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water and the required medicine.

Neal's eyes refocused, staring at the three white pills on her open palm.

"Okay, Neal, here you go. It's just to help you sleep," she said, holding out her hand.

Neal reared back and slammed into the headboard, slapping her hand away from him with a terrified yelp of protest, sending the pills flying across the floor. The shattering glass as well as the horrified "No!" from Neal had Peter dropping the dish he was putting away, running up the stairs two at a time.

He skidded to a stop in the doorway, frozen momentarily by the sight that greeted him. Neal was curled over on himself, pressed back against the headboard with his feet drawn up, his badly damaged hand tucked close to his chest while the other was out in front of him, not quite demanding and not quite pleading for El to stay away.

"Please, please, please, don't…" Neal repeated frantically, keeping his face turned away as if he expected a blow, his entire frame shaking violently.

"Hon?" Peter asked, and El shook her head. She was fine, but Neal clearly was not.

"I tried to give him his prescriptions, but…" El shook her head again. Obviously Neal was less than compliant with the doctor's orders.

"Neal?" Peter said gently, carefully easing himself into the room, hands up an palm out so that Neal could see he had nothing, that he wasn't there to hurt him.

"I don't want to sleep anymore," Neal said, voice pinched and desperate. "I'll be quiet. I'll be quiet. I won't go anywhere. You don't have to make me sleep."

"Neal, buddy, you've hardly slept at all," Peter protested, still calm and soothing. "You need to get some rest."

Neal barely repressed a sob, smothering it against the thick bandages of his hand. He shook his head. "I don't want to sleep. I can't sleep."

Peter shot a confused glance at his wife, who shrugged helplessly. The hell…? "Neal, what do you mean?" When Neal shook his head again, refusing to speak, Peter pressed further. "Come on, Neal. You have to tell me why you don't want to sleep, or we're going to have to go back to the hospital." He wasn't even exaggerating – the doctor gave strict instructions that if Neal didn't sleep, if he refused his meds, then he would have to be brought back and most likely put in the psych ward until they figured out the cause. Insomnia could be fatal – people were not designed to go without sleeping for weeks, and it lead to delirium, hallucinations, and a myriad of other health problems.

"I can't wake up," Neal breathed, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I can never wake up. As soon as I try, they make me sleep again."

Peter tried to make sense of that statement, but El beat him to it.

"Neal…do you mean whoever had you, the people who kidnapped you…they kept you asleep the whole time?"

Neal shuddered at the question, but Peter could just make out the subtle nod of his head. "They tried other ways to make me stay put. One of them even managed to dislocate a hip and left me like that for days. But when pain didn't keep me caged, they put it in my food, in the water they let me have. When I figured stopped eating, they would just pin me down until I swallowed them."

Peter barely suppressed his own shudder. Four months of being in a drug induced slumber, in pain when you were awake. Long term usage of those kinds of drugs caused all sorts of problems, one of which was a tolerance, which explained why they could give him enough tranquilizers to down a horse and Neal would still be awake and fighting it. Another side effect was conscious sedation, which was something like a waking coma. Someone could be awake and unable to move, but perfectly aware of what is going on around them or what is being done to them.

"What if when I wake up, this is gone?" Neal whispered, and Peter could watch his entire face pale. He dropped his outstretched hand, using both to cover his mouth. Whether or not keep them from giving him his meds or from throwing up what little he'd eaten, Peter didn't know. Neal started rocking, burying his face in drawn up knees, horrible, wrenching sobs shaking his shoulders.

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real…" he repeated. "None of it is real."

Peter threw caution to the wind, crossing the room in three short strides and sitting on the mattress in front of Neal, who only scrunched down further. "Neal, listen to me. Look at me, Neal," he ordered. When Neal refused to listen, Peter lifted his chin so the conman had no choice but to look him in the eye. Neal tried to twist away, but Peter kept his grip, gentle but insistent. "This is real, Neal. All of it is real. You're home, you're safe, you're here with us. Not there. Do you understand?"

Neal shook his head, unaccepting. "Not real."

Peter pulled Neal forwards in a paternal hug. "Very real, Neal."

He could feel Neal's shoulders drop, deep shuddering breaths as he fought to control his breathing. The younger man's head was just to side of his own, and he could barely hear the next words.

"Promise?" he whispered.

"I promise," Peter whispered back.

And suddenly Neal's arms were around his neck, holding on like he was an anchor to reality and almost painfully tight and he could hear Neal whispering to himself.

"It's real…it's real…"

Once I was real
Once I was somebody's child
Once I could feel
Some feeling once in a while

Once I was here
Once I was somebody's friend
Once I appear
I will be real once again

- Once, by Caleb Kane

Sooo...like it? Hate it? Want more? Less? Did it seem to flow? I really appreciate any comments on the actual style of writing just as much as the plot. Really, it helps me out a lot with future writings. Knowing whether or not people like a style of writing is really quite handy.

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