87Have you ever been hurt and the place tries to heal a bit, and you just pull the scar off of it over and over again?
—Rosa Parks
PART IV
Peter was in an especially good mood when he got home. He kissed El in the kitchen as he passed her on the way to the living room, and, feeling more relaxed than he had in days, kicked back on the sofa and turned on the game. When Satchmo nudged Peter's hand with his nose, he scratched the dog's ears.
He had just come from Neal's place, and was pleased with his friend's progress. Besides being physically better, Neal seemed relatively himself when Peter had dropped in on him this morning.
There were little differences, of course: his friend was clearly tired, as though he hadn't been sleeping well—which, honestly, Peter had expected—and then there was the fact that Neal looked a shade thinner than before. Neal had waved that one away with surprising ease, making a joke that, if it wasn't the concussion making him nauseous, it was the meds.
All in all, Neal's condition was so much better than before that Peter couldn't find a single thing to worry over or obsess about. And frankly, that was such a relief. Last week had been a nightmare.
Southern Cal was up 10-0 on Stanford and Peter was nodding off with Satchmo's head in his lap when his cell phone buzzed.
He glanced at the caller ID, planning to ignore it, when he realized that it was Neal. Sitting up, pushing Satchmo away, Peter answered the call. "Neal?" he asked, a bit worried. He had just been at June's, after all.
He was startled when a different voice answered. "No, Suit, it's me."
"Mozzie?" Peter asked, shocked. Mozzie's voice was almost unrecognizable, tense and almost . . . panicked?
"Listen, you need to get over here right now. It's Neal."
His heart hammering, Peter started putting his shoes on. He was pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder a little harder than necessary. "What happened?" he asked sharply.
"I have to go. Hurry," Mozzie said, and then the line went dead.
Neal was sitting on the Burkes' couch, staring down at his hands. He could hear voices in the kitchen, Mozzie's and El's and Peter's, all hushed and serious. As if they thought he couldn't hear them.
He wished he could find the energy to care. Knew that he should care what they were saying about him. But it all just seemed too much.
He wanted to lie down again, to sleep—or whatever he had been doing the last few days—but he knew that was what had landed him here in the first place, and he didn't want anyone else hovering, looking at him like that.
Neal felt guilty about scaring Mozzie so badly. Almost. It had been Peter's fault, really, for showing up unexpectedly this morning and using up all of Neal's energy so that there was none left for Moz.
That sounded bad, even in Neal's head. Maybe he did need to be here.
"Neal?" a voice asked, closer, and he turned a little to look at Mozzie, who was poking his head out of the kitchen. Neal blinked, showing that he was listening.
"I'm going to go get some of your things from June's."
Neal nodded a little, resigning himself to the fact that his friends thought he was too unstable to be left alone.
Mozzie's face was unreadable, but Neal knew that he was worried. The usual smugness was gone from his voice as he said, "I would send the Suit, but I'd have to debug your apartment again. And you'd end up with mismatched socks."
Neal just looked at him, knowing he couldn't force a convincing smile.
"Neal?" Mozzie prompted, now visibly concerned.
Neal didn't want to be any more alarming than he already was, so he forced his voice to work. "Okay. Thanks, Moz."
"Sure. And, Neal, listen, if you want to talk about . . ." He let his voice trail off.
"Okay," Neal said, looking away.
"I'll be back soon," his friend promised, and then slipped out in typical Mozzie fashion: sideways, his eyes darting up and down the street. The door closed quietly behind him.
For a moment, Neal simply sat silently—something he seemed to be doing a lot of, recently—and listened to the rise and fall of Peter and El's voices. He didn't bother to separate or understand them until there was a sudden, jarring crash—a dish shattering. The words became clear.
"Dammit, El, how could I have missed this?" Peter said heatedly, sounding furious with himself. Neal cringed. "I know Neal. I know when he's conning. How could I have missed this?"
El sounded decidedly calm as she soothed her husband. "Neal knows you, too. I'm sure he was trying very hard to make sure you didn't notice anything. And I don't think he was conning, Peter. He wants to believe that everything's okay just as much as you do."
"How do we help him, El? I just—I don't know what to do." And Peter really did sound lost.
There was a long pause—El was probably wrapping her arms around him—and then she said, simply, kindly, "You just have to be there, Peter."
There was another lengthy silence, and then Elizabeth came out of the kitchen. Like it was a perfectly ordinary day, she came to sit down beside Neal on the couch. "Can I get you anything, Neal?" she offered, touching his shoulder. "Are you hungry?"
Neal shook his head.
El smiled. "That's okay. Peter's busy breaking all of my dishes, anyway. Just let me know if you want something later."
She sounded so normal, and there was no trace of discomfort or pity in her eyes. Remembering Mozzie's forced sarcasm, and Peter's uncertainty, Neal couldn't help but love her for that. "Thank you, El," he said sincerely.
Elizabeth gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to take Satchmo for a walk. I'll be back soon, okay?"
"Yeah." And Neal was sorry when the door closed behind her.
He was even sorrier when Peter came into the living room and sat down in a chair across from him.
Peter was silent for a long time, visibly trying to calm himself down. Neal found himself waiting for Peter to ask him what was wrong, to push until he got an answer, like an interrogation.
Finally, unexpectedly, Peter said, "I'm sorry, Neal." His voice was very quiet, and he was staring down at the floor.
"What?" Neal asked, surprised. He didn't know what to do with an apology. None of this was Peter's fault.
Peter looked sad, tired. Old, somehow. "I had no idea . . . I didn't know it was this bad. I wish you'd told me."
And Neal wondered, for the first time, what Peter had felt when he'd gotten Mozzie's frantic phone call. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling a surge of guilt.
"Don't be," Peter said steadily, meeting his gaze for the first time. "You don't have to apologize for being . . ."
The words fell away, and silence stretched.
Finally, hesitantly, Peter said, "Neal, I think you've got PTSD."
Neal looked at him blankly.
"I know we never talked about . . . about before, with the plane, and I know you never talked to Mozzie. But I can't think of any other explanation for . . ." Peter ran a hand through his hair. "When Mozzie called me today, when he told me what he thought you'd done . . ."
Neal looked away.
Peter sighed. "Neal, I'm not very good at this. I'm sorry. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if you want to talk this time, I'll listen. And you don't have to act like you're fine if you're not. Okay?"
Even though Neal already knew that Peter didn't expect him to be all right, not yet, it was a relief hearing the words. He swallowed around the lump that had suddenly blocked his throat and managed to say, "I know. And I really do appreciate that."
They sat quietly for a few more minutes, and it wasn't altogether uncomfortable. Neal hadn't realized how much he actually needed this, this silent support. Without realizing that he had decided to talk, words were pouring out of him.
"It's not usually this bad, you know. I just—I couldn't sleep last night. I was a mess. And then you showed up without telling me, and I didn't want to worry you, so I tried to make everything seem okay. I almost believed it. And then when you left . . ."
He swallowed. "I don't know. It's like I'm missing the hours after that. I was just so exhausted."
"So when Mozzie showed up . . .?" Peter prompted gently.
"I wasn't asleep, not really, but I couldn't answer him. He was worried, calling my name, but it was like . . . like something in a play. Nothing was real."
Peter nodded. "He thought you'd overdosed on sleeping pills, you know."
Neal looked away. "I did finish the bottle. But there were only two left. I wouldn't . . . if it was that bad . . . Peter, I wouldn't . . ."
"I know, Neal."
Suddenly, without warning, Neal's anger flared up. "Do you?" he said, louder than he intended. "Because that's why I'm here, isn't it? None of you trusts me to be alone. You think I'm going to try . . ."
Peter looked briefly surprised, but then much calmer, more assured, than before. Neal's anger was something he knew how to deal with. "If we thought that, Neal, you'd be in a hospital, not here. Believe me, I wouldn't have hesitated, not for a second."
Neal stood up, finding energy that he didn't know he had. "Why, then?"
"Because we think you need the company, Neal. And because I need it. You think you're the only one who's having problems dealing with this? The first night we took you back to June's, I had to take the battery out of my phone. Otherwise, I would have been calling you every five minutes to make sure you were okay."
"It's not the same," Neal argued, just to argue. Now that he had let his anger loose, he couldn't seem to call it back.
Peter stood up, too. "Don't you dare tell me that. When I found out that you'd run off into the wreckage, when I saw the ambulance in front of your apartment and Mozzie told me what he thought you'd done . . . don't you dare tell me it's not the same. You really could have died, Neal."
"So could you," Neal said. His anger broke, and suddenly he was shaking. "And Kate really did. I just couldn't watch it happen again." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "She was my whole life, Peter. My reason for everything."
"I know that," Peter said gently, not thrown by Neal's sudden mood swing.
"And just when I'd thought I had gotten over her, over what happened . . . I thought my new life was gone, too. And ever since, I've just been trying to pretend like it never happened. And it's just been getting worse."
Peter looked thoughtful. "I think you've just been trying too hard. This isn't going to go away overnight, and you can't con your way out of it. So don't try. Take the time you need, and don't force it."
Neal sat back down, and Peter did too, this time beside him on the sofa. They were quiet for a moment as Neal processed his words. Had he really been rushing things, making himself miserable trying to fit back into his normal routine?
Or had he gotten so good at conning that he had fooled himself?
The thought was not comforting.
Still, Neal mused, even if he couldn't do it, there'd always be someone to keep him honest.
"Thank you, Peter," he finally said, meaning it.
"No problem, Neal." Peter clapped his friend on the shoulder, giving him a genuine smile. "Hey, you hungry?"
And, surprisingly, Neal realized he was. "Yeah," he said.
"I think El made you some food," Peter said, standing up and offering Neal a hand. Together, they walked toward the kitchen, in a silence that was much more comfortable than before.
Neal was just about to ask what delicacy Elizabeth had made to ply him with (capons and white wine?), when Peter suddenly flung out a hand to keep him from walking into the kitchen. Neal looked at him questioningly.
"Sorry. Just watch out for broken glass," Peter said sheepishly, moving aside so that Neal could see the shards of several smashed plates. "I might have been a little upset earlier . . ."
And Neal laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a week.