87Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.
—Michel de Montaigne
PART III
The words washed over him, lapping gently, but most of them got pulled back by the tide.
"Careful now . . . the IV."
"Is he—"
". . . doing well, Mr. Burke."
"But he was . . ."
"I'm optimistic . . . no permanent . . ."
"When do you think . . . wake up?"
The second voice was anxious and unsettling. He liked the first voice better; it was calm, soothing, comfortable. And he was very comfortable, he realized, warm and sort of buoyant.
Floating.
For some reason, that didn't seem right. There had been pain, hadn't there? Everything was supposed to make more sense now, but it didn't.
And then he wondered where that thought came from.
It had something to do with Kate, he was certain, and his thoughts unraveled. He was drifting, caught up in her smile, the way she played with her hair, the sound of his name on her lips. The feel of her: where her head rested on his shoulder, the way their fingers laced together. Silk and soft skin and twisted sheets.
"Neal."
The moment ended suddenly, and he was sorry to see it go.
"Neal? Can . . . hear me . . . okay, buddy. You're going to be . . ."
Peter. That was Peter's voice. Neal tried to open his eyes, but either he had just forgotten how, or he couldn't feel his eyelids—he wasn't entirely sure that he was supposed to be able to do that anyway.
Nothing really felt right, too heavy and numb. His throat was dry and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to make a sound, but nothing came out. Suddenly, the limbo he was caught in didn't seem as comfortable anymore. He was trapped, unable to struggle.
A soft beeping in the background picked up speed.
". . . think he's waking up."
"Neal? Neal!"
There was a hand on his arm, the grip firm but not painful. And there should be pain, he was sure of that now.
He had been on the plane, after all.
"Open your eyes, Neal. Come on." The voice was urgent, almost nervous. Peter never sounded like that.
So Neal tried.
Everything was white at first, but then Peter's worried face swam into focus. "Hey, Neal," Peter said, sounding tentative, like he was afraid how his friend would react.
Neal just blinked.
The hand around his arm tightened. "Hey," Peter said again, as though it were the first time.
This was all very confusing, and Neal was exhausted. He let his eyes close.
"Neal?" Peter asked anxiously.
"S'okay. Y'worry too much, Pet'r," Neal mumbled through numb lips.
As he drifted off, he thought he heard a quiet laugh.
The next time Neal woke, the heaviness that had been pressing on him had let up somewhat, and his thoughts were less muddled. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to piece together what had happened. The warehouse, the explosion, and then Peter's voice. Peter. Where—?
Neal tried to sit up, but a pair of hands pushed him down again, gently but firmly. His head was suddenly throbbing, searing pain shooting through his skull with each heartbeat.
"Take it easy, Neal," Peter said, and Neal blinked away tears of pain to focus on his friend's face. Peter was frowning, but not in a way that suggested he was angry. It wasn't I'm going to kill you when I find out what you've done, but I'm worried about you, Neal. And Neal knew people well enough, knew Peter well enough, after all they had been through, to know the difference.
"What . . .?" Neal said, but he wasn't really sure what he wanted to ask. He let the word trail off.
Peter seemed to understand, though. "Fleischer had rigged the place with explosives. Turns out he was the head honcho, after all. I realized what was happening not a moment too soon."
And Neal remembered with a clarity that was startling, after all of the haziness and confusion, those last few moments in the van. It was almost surreal: he and Jones, monitoring Peter's conversation with Fleischer over coffee—God, over coffee, like it was a typical sting—and then the jamming signal. Jones, giving Peter ninety long seconds before alerting SWAT and moving in. But it was too late. There was a huge blast, the side of the warehouse was gone, and all was chaos.
Perhaps nothing more so than Neal's mind.
He had called for Peter, pleaded with him until his voice was hoarse, but when there was no answer, he couldn't breathe. Jones had had a hand on his arm ("Calm down, Neal, we just lost contact. That doesn't mean—" ) and then he was stumbling out of the van.
That was when things first started to slip. Maybe it had been a flashback, but when Neal had looked at the warehouse, looked at the flame and the raining debris, he felt a terrible loss, a pain that overwhelmed him. And, without knowing where he was going, he was running. It was his last clear memory; when the building came down, and he was thrown off his feet, things made less sense.
"Neal?" Peter asked quietly, bringing Neal out of his thoughts.
"You got out," Neal whispered, trying to understand.
Peter made eye contact. "Yeah, I did."
"Are you—I . . . You didn't answer me." Neal swallowed hard, looking away.
"I'm okay, Neal," Peter said patiently, waiting for him to sort things out. "The explosion took out my feed."
"Is Diana okay? And Jones? He was fine the last time I saw him . . ."
"They're both in perfect health, Neal. You're the only one who ended up here."
"Here?" Neal asked. He couldn't look around much, since he was unwilling to move his head after the last attempt.
"St. Margaret's. You have a grade three concussion, and you managed to bruise a couple of ribs while you were at it."
"Oh."
"Yeah. 'Oh,'" said Peter. "What were you thinking, Neal, running into a dangerous situation like that?" His voice was gruff, but Neal knew that was the way he got when he went into "overprotective friend mode."
"I thought . . ." Neal closed his eyes. He couldn't continue.
"You thought I was dead, Neal? Like Kate?"
Peter's bluntness didn't surprise Neal, exactly—Peter wasn't one to beat around the bush, after all—but he was a little . . . unbalanced. Uncomfortable. They never talked about what had happened that day on the tarmac, not since . . . well, not really ever.
And now Peter was saying Kate's name, something they'd both been dancing around for a long time.
"Neal, what could you have done for me?" Peter asked quietly.
"I don't know," Neal admitted. "I wasn't . . . I wasn't thinking straight. I had a—a flashback, or something. I couldn't stay where I was. I had to do something. Not like last time. Not again." His voice was shaking, and so were his hands, and he didn't know how much more he could say without losing control of himself completely.
Peter noticed. He put a hand on Neal's shoulder, and Neal opened his eyes, meeting his friend's steady gaze. "Neal, listen, you need to rest. We can talk about this later, okay?"
"Sure," Neal said obediently, like he knew he was supposed to, but he didn't have any intention of talking about . . . about Kate. Not later, not ever.
He just wanted to forget.
Author's Note: Okay, I lied. There is definitely one more part to this story (seriously, this time). Please do let me know what you thought of this installment. Your feedback thus far has been very encouraging, and it really makes me want to write more WC fanfic!