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Peter hears the crash of a window breaking on the other side of the door, and he just knows it’s Neal. He can’t get through the door, can’t see what’s happening, but it’s Neal. It has to be Neal. No one else would be that stupid—or reckless.
BANG
Peter’s blood turns to ice when he hears the gunshot.
Neal’s not a murderer, he knows that, but all of a sudden he’s not so sure. Neal’s been falling apart for months, and Peter doesn’t trust him to think clearly when confronted with Kate’s killer.
He holds his breath and holds out hope—there are still voices on the other side of the door.
Good. Fowler’s not dead yet, which means Peter can still save Neal.
Peter turns and runs towards where he’d seen a fire extinguisher and nearly collides with Diana.
“Caffrey’s in there,” she says, though Peter’s already figured that out.
“He’s with Fowler,” Peter replies through gritted teeth, and he doesn’t need to finish the sentence for Diana to understand—Neal and Fowler are both in danger if they don’t get in there. Peter hefts the fire extinguisher, barely noticing its weight because he’s so full of adrenaline. He has a bad feeling that not everyone will make it out of that room alive.
Peter slams the extinguisher against the door over and over again, trying to break it down. He hears shouting now, and Peter increases the strength of his hits, until the door finally buckles and gives way. Peter pushes through, stumbling in his haste to keep Neal from making a huge mistake.
The scene on the other side is as bad as he feared: Neal has Fowler at gunpoint, his finger already on the trigger.
Peter unholsters his own weapon, feeling sick as he points it at Neal.
“Stay outta this, Peter!” Neal shouts, the words tumbling out of him with none of the usual grace or elegance he normally speaks with.
“Neal, put the gun down,” Peter commands, his desperation leaking into his voice. He can’t let this happen. He won’t. “Neal, don’t do this.” Diana has her gun out too, aiming at Neal.
“You know he killed Kate,” Neal says, his voice colder than Peter has ever heard it.
“I didn’t kill her,” Fowler says. Good—that’s good. Keep Fowler talking and maybe Neal won’t kill him.
“Who did?” Even from the side Peter can see the wild look in Neal’s eyes, desperation born from someone who thinks they have nothing left to lose.
But there’s a lot Neal can still lose, even if he can’t see it.
“I’m…” Fowler starts, then trails off, a smirk sliding across his face for a moment, like he knows something they don’t.
“What do you know?” Neal demands. “Tell me what you know!” Peter inches forward, his gaze darting between Neal and Fowler. He lowered his gun without realizing it, and can’t bring himself to raise it again.
“You wanna kill me, Neal? Go ahead and pull the trigger,” Fowler says, like he thinks Neal won’t do it.
“Jesus, Fowler, you’re not helping,” Peter growls. He takes another cautious step forward and puts all his authority into his voice. “Neal, don’t do this.”
“I know he killed her,” Neal whispers. “He killed Kate.” Neal’s voice hardens, and Peter recognizes the tell a split second too late.
BANG
BANG
Fowler falls.
Neal stumbles. Drops the gun.
Peter points his gun at the origin of the second shot on instinct—
He aims at Diana.
Diana looks back at him with wide eyes, uncertainty and a little bit of fear flashing across her gaze. Peter lowers his gun, but it’s too late. They were too late.
The two of them turn and look at the two other people in the room—well, one other, now. Fowler’s splayed out on the ground, his brains decorating the wall behind him. Peter can’t bring himself to feel sorrow that Fowler’s dead, not beyond anguish that Neal is the one who killed him.
Neal staggers sideways and grabs at his right shoulder, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Fowler’s body. Peter holsters his gun and rushes forward, his stomach dropping when he sees blood seeping between Neal’s fingers, and he glances back at Diana. She meets his gaze for half a second before lowering her eyes and stowing her weapon. She walks over to Fowler's body and crouches as if looking for a pulse. Fowler is beyond help, but Peter recognizes it for the gesture it is—she’s giving them space.
“Neal,” Peter says, then stops, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. Neal’s eyes are glassy and vacant, a hunted expression on his face as he stares at Fowler’s body. “Neal, look at me.”
“I wanted him to know how it felt,” Neal breathes out, so quiet Peter would’ve missed it if the room weren’t deathly silent. “How she felt.”
“Look at me, Neal, c’mon.” Peter turns him away from Fowler, trying to catch his gaze. Neal drops his hand, staring at his palm stained red with blood. He doesn’t look at Peter.
Peter swallows hard and grabs a nearby rag, pressing it against the wound and trying to stop the flow of blood now that Neal’s given up on it. It’s not much of a wound; the bullet only grazed his upper arm, and Peter doubts he’ll even need stitches. It’s a light injury, all things considered. Diana’s a good shot—if she hit his arm, she hit it on purpose. Peter… doesn’t know what to do with that right now, so he turns his attention back to Neal.
“Boss.” Peter looks at Diana when she speaks, and it’s only then that he hears the sirens outside.
There’s not much Peter can do for Neal after that.
Police flood the scene, though Peter somehow manages to swing the whole catastrophe as FBI jurisdiction. Diana calls in more of their own agents to take charge of the building, but Peter doesn’t leave Neal’s side.
The EMT’s patch up Neal’s arm easily—Peter was right, it doesn’t require stitches. Neal still has that blank, dead-eyed look to him, and doesn’t react at all to the process.
Unfortunately, the scene being FBI jurisdiction means that Peter has the displeasure of handcuffing Neal.
“Neal,” Peter says when he takes out his handcuffs, but Neal won’t look at him. He doesn’t react, not even when Peter pulls his wrists behind his back. He tries to be mindful of Neal’s injury, but the movement has to hurt. Neal doesn’t fight it, and there’s only so much Peter can do as more and more people arrive.
Peter puts Diana in charge of the scene, then leads Neal to the car. It feels wrong to put Neal in the back, and Peter has trouble remembering what the procedure is for dealing with a dangerous criminal.
Because that’s what Neal is now.
A dangerous criminal.
The drive back to the FBI building is eerily silent. Neal is still unresponsive to the world around him, while Peter tries to reconcile the Neal he knows—the one who’s not a killer, who hates guns, who only ever tries to help even in misguided ways—with the Neal who murdered a man.
Neal looked Fowler in the eyes and killed him.
And Peter didn’t stop him.
Peter can’t even begin to think about how it’ll play out from here. If Neal will plead guilty or try and fight it. There’s not much to fight, given both Peter and Diana were there to witness it, but knowing Mozzie there’s probably something he can do.
Either way, this is the end of their partnership. Neal killed someone on Peter’s watch, right in front of him. It’ll reflect poorly on Peter’s record, but that is so far out of the realm of what he’s worried about that it barely even registers.
They arrive at the office quicker than Peter would like, neither of them having said a single word during the ride. Peter gives himself a second outside the car to try and get his bearings, but he can’t get over the feeling that he could’ve stopped this, somehow. Peter forces a deep breath and helps Neal out of the car. Neal hasn’t even tried to pick his cuffs, even though Peter knows he could’ve, which goes to show the seriousness of the situation.
Neal keeps his head down as Peter leads him into the FBI building. Neal’s steps are slow, mechanical, so unlike the lively bounce he normally walks with. People stare at them as they pass, and Peter is sure rumors are spreading about what happened, but he can’t deal with that right now. Peter ignores every look, every double take at seeing Neal in handcuffs, and leads him to the interrogation room with as much dignity as he can manage.
Peter unlocks the cuffs once Neal sits down, only to loop them through the metal bar set into the table and cinch them back around Neal’s wrists. Peter knows Neal could pick them if he wanted to, but given Neal’s blank stare, Peter doubts he’ll want to.
“Neal…” Peter doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to act in the face of this. His whole world has flipped upside down, and he doubts every gut instinct he’s ever had that’s led him here. Neal turns his head and meets Peter’s gaze for the first time all day.
“He killed her,” Neal says. His voice is flat but his eyes swim with unshed tears. “I know he killed her.” Peter swallows hard, then turns and leaves. The last thing Peter sees of him is Neal collapsing on the table like his strings were cut.
Peter goes straight to his office. He has a million and one things he needs to do, processes he has to start, people he has to answer to, but instead Peter puts his head into his hands and mourns. He mourns for Neal, for every action that led him to believe killing Fowler was the only option. He mourns for their partnership, everything they’ve done together, the bad guys they’ve stopped, the ones they won’t be able to stop because of this. He mourns for the life Neal built here, for everyone that will miss him when he spends the rest of his life in jail.
He doesn’t mourn for Fowler.
How could Neal do this? How could Peter have let him do it? Peter should’ve known Neal wouldn’t take being benched. He should’ve known Neal would do something crazy. Now Fowler’s death is on his head. Peter is sure Neal hadn’t thought any of this through, and some part of him worries that Neal expected to die alongside Fowler.
A knock on his door draws Peter from his thoughts, and he looks up to see Diana hovering there. She looks… uncertain. Nervous in a way Peter hasn’t seen since she graduated from being a probie. He doesn’t blame her, given he pointed his gun at her earlier.
“Peter,” Diana greets, oddly formal.
“Is everything at the museum…?” Peter asks. She nods, even though he didn’t complete his sentence.
“Our crime scene guys are taking a look at it now. I left some agents there to oversee things, but I need to write my report.” Peter nods, hearing the unasked question—they need to get their stories straight.
“You shot him,” Peter says, too tired to beat around the bush. To her credit, Diana doesn’t flinch.
“I did,” she agrees. “I had to.”
“Why?” They both know he’s not really asking her, but she answers anyway.
“I knew you wouldn’t.” Peter wants to argue, wants to defend himself, wants to insist he’d uphold the law—but he knows she’s telling the truth. He’d lowered his gun before Neal did, before the threat was neutralized, because he hadn’t been able to see the danger right in front of him.
“You hit his arm,” Peter says, not really a question. Diana drops her gaze and shifts on her feet.
“He’s been through a lot,” Diana says carefully. “And… he’s grown on me.” Peter knows that’s the closest she will ever come to admitting she cares about Neal.
Peter wants to say thank you, wants to berate her for shooting Neal at all, wants to do a lot of things. He’s cut off by Jones running up the steps to his office.
“Peter,” Jones greets, out of breath.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, instantly on high alert. Jones gasps two more breaths and then straightens up.
“We got a report from the hospital.”
Neal doesn’t remember how he ended up in the FBI interrogation room. Peter was there, and… maybe Diana? He rolls his shoulder, feels the bandage wrapped around his upper arm.
Yeah. Diana was there.
He doesn’t blame her for shooting him, though some part of him wishes she’d been a better shot. But that doesn’t explain how he ended up here. Sitting alone in a holding cell with nothing left to live for.
Neal does remember shooting Fowler. Killing him. Seeing his brains splatter against the wall and knowing it’s his doing.
He doesn’t regret it.
Fowler killed Kate, so Neal killed Fowler.
Simple.
Maybe he should feel worse about ending a life, but he can’t bring himself to care.
He really is his father’s son.
There’s a noise, and it takes Neal a few seconds to realize someone is speaking. He looks up and is unsurprised to see Peter. He hadn’t heard the door open, but the world feels… distant. Muffled.
“Neal,” Peter says—probably not for the first time.
“Peter,” Neal echoes, but his voice sounds foreign to his own ears.
Peter takes a seat across from him, posture wooden and tense. He places a folder in front of him, but Neal can’t dredge up the energy to ask about it. He’s going to jail, so it’s not like anything else matters. He knows he’s not getting out of this, and he’s accepted that.
Peter looks at Neal like he’s waiting for something, but Neal can’t figure out what he’s waiting for. There’s nothing for him to say. Eventually Peter sighs.
“Why?” Peter asks. Neal almost laughs at the question—isn’t it obvious?
“You know why,” Neal answers. Peter drops his gaze and taps his fingers on the folder. It’s then that Neal notices the tight set of Peter’s shoulders, the slight crease of his brow. Peter is worried, and it’s more than the fact that Neal killed a man.
“Something happened,” Neal says—not really a question, because Neal is too out of it to ask, but dread settles in his stomach as he watches Peter. Peter inclines his head the barest amount, and Neal feels cracks begin to form in his cold exterior. He thought he didn’t care what happened to him, but something else is in play now.
“Mozzie’s in the hospital,” Peter says. Neal stares at him for a long moment, the words refusing to process.
“What?” Neal chokes out. He’s been so obsessed with Fowler and getting revenge for Kate that he hadn’t thought about Mozzie all day. He doesn’t remember the last thing he said to Mozzie—they were at the antique shop, he thinks, but he doesn’t remember. God, how can he not remember?
“He was shot. He’s in surgery now.”
“Do we know who did it?” Neal asks, desperate. Peter hesitates for a moment, then pushes the folder towards Neal. It’s a little awkward to reach for it with his hands still cuffed to the table, and when he flips it open he doesn’t recognize the face inside.
“We went through- through Fowler’s old contacts,” Peter hesitates for a split second over the name, “and this man, Julian Larssen, matches the patchwork man we’ve been looking for. We think he’s the right hand to whoever is trying to find the music box.”
“And he shot Mozzie,” Neal adds under his breath. He stares at the picture, burning Larssen’s face into his mind.
“We’ll get him, Neal,” Peter says. Neal swallows hard and forces himself to nod.
“You said Mozzie’s in surgery, do you know if-?” Neal can’t bring himself to finish the question.
“We don’t know yet. But the doctors are doing everything they can,” Peter says, and Neal barely refrains from scoffing—he’s heard that line before, and it never means anything good. Neal drops the folder and slides it back towards Peter.
“Find him,” Neal says, his voice shaking. Peter meets his gaze and holds it for a long moment.
“We will.” Peter takes the folder and leaves.
Neal blows out a breath and tries to run a hand down his face, only to be stopped by the cuffs on his wrists. He’d forgotten they were there, doesn’t even remember getting them put on.
The room suddenly feels suffocatingly small, the walls pressing in on him from all sides. Neal is trapped in place like a bug under a microscope, stuck in the FBI building while his best friend is in surgery.
He can’t do this. Not again.
Neal’s known Mozzie for so long that he can’t imagine life without him. This was supposed to be the end. Neal locked away for life, satisfied that he got revenge for Kate. Now Mozzie’s in surgery and Neal doesn’t know if he’ll make it and-
Neal got revenge for Kate.
He’s already going to jail for murder. He can’t get out of that, and doesn’t want to. He’s already broken his “no killing” rule. He is his father’s son, and he can’t leave a job half finished.
There’s nothing holding him back anymore.
The icy exterior around Neal shatters, leaving behind a burning red-hot fire of deep, focused anger.
Neal already has an escape route mapped out—has had one since the first day he walked into the FBI. No one expects him to try anything now that he’s avenged Kate. They think he has nothing left. Peter didn’t even bother taking the second set of lock picks tucked in his sleeve. It’s like he wanted Neal to escape.
He’s going to make it clear to everyone that there’s a price to pay for hurting the people he loves.
“Hey, Boss?” Peter looks up blearily to see Diana knocking on his office door. He’s finally gotten started on all the paperwork required for this disaster of a day, and he welcomes any distraction.
“Yeah?”
“Did you transfer Neal?” Peter frowns at her question.
“Transfer him? No. Why?” Last he saw Neal was falling to pieces in the interrogation room, his gaze distant, like the world was no longer real to him.
“He’s not in the interrogation room.” Peter stares at her for a moment, uncomprehending, before he shoots to his feet. He moves as fast as he can without running, drawing stares as he hurries to the interrogation room.
It’s empty. The only thing left is a set of handcuffs.
“Oh, Neal,” Peter breathes out. “What have you done now?”
Peter turns and races back to his office, Diana hot on his heels. He pulls up the security footage and rewinds it, his heart thumping in his throat.
Peter rewinds far enough for Neal to reappear and then presses play. He watches Neal pick his cuffs, dust himself off, then exit the interrogation room. He pauses before leaving and turns his face to the camera without looking at it.
“I’m sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
Peter checks the time stamp: ten minutes ago.
“Son of a bitch,” Peter mutters. For most people, ten minutes is not much of a head start.
Neal is not most people.
“Diana, get the techs to comb through every second of security footage in the entire building. I want to know how he got out.” Diana nods and races to her desk. Peter squares his shoulders and steps onto the landing outside his office. He whistles to get everyone’s attention, though most people are already looking at him, having noticed something is amiss.
“Neal Caffrey has escaped,” Peter announces. The bullpen breaks out into hushed whispers, and Peter clears his throat to get everyone to fall silent. “Lambert, get NYPD on the line to help coordinate a manhunt. We don’t know what his goal is, so for now I want eyes on every major mode of transport out of the city. Neal is unarmed, but-” Peter chokes on his next words, and has to force them out, “but is considered dangerous. If you find him, do not engage, and report to myself, Diana, or Jones.” The bullpen erupts into movement the second Peter finishes speaking.
Peter blows out a breath and braces his arms on the railing. He doesn’t know how it’s come back to this, back to Peter chasing Neal all over again. He thought Neal couldn’t do anything stupider than kill Fowler, but he was clearly wrong.
Peter shakes his head and heads over to Neal’s desk, hoping Neal might’ve left behind a clue or note or something as to what his plan is. He knows it’s useless, but he has to do something to occupy himself while grappling with Neal’s decision.
When Peter talked to Neal he’d seemed so… broken. Like he didn’t care what happened to him anymore. Neal had accepted going to jail for killing Fowler, had accepted that long before he actually pulled the trigger. So why did he escape?
Of course, Neal’s desk contains no cryptic clues, no hint as to what his motive is. There’s no secret compartment in his tie drawer, there’s no message scrawled across the rubber band ball, there’s no note hidden beneath the Socrates bust.
Diana walks by, and Peter can’t stop himself from calling out to her.
“How’d you notice he was gone?” The room is busy, but Diana hears him.
“I wanted to talk to him,” she admits. “See if he would talk to me, after what I did.” Peter nods and leans back in the chair, thinking.
“It’s a good thing you did. Who knows how long it would’ve taken to realize he was missing otherwise.” Peter sighs and shakes his head. “I just can’t figure out why. He got Fowler. What else is left?”
“Did he say anything when you talked to him?” Diana asks. Peter shakes his head.
“No, he barely said anything. He didn’t seem to notice me until I told him about Mozzie, and then-” Peter cuts himself off, icy dread forming in his stomach.
“Boss?” Diana prompts.
“I told him about Larssen,” Peter says, voice wooden. He sees the change in her expression when she understands what he’s implying.
“You don’t think…?”
Peter really, really wishes he could say no. But he knows Neal too well. Knows the places his mind goes. Knows how often he goes all or nothing when he disagrees.
“We need to find Larssen. Before Neal does.”
Peter won’t have another death on his head.
Neal very rarely appreciates Mozzie’s extensive criminal network. Sure, there are people Mozzie doesn’t like, or who don’t like him, but even his so-called enemies are more than willing to lend a hand when Neal says he’s looking for Mozzie’s killer. It only takes a day and a half for the other criminals in the city to come through, and Neal knows where Larssen will be, and sets up an ambush that evening.
The FBI has to be hot on his trail, and he knows Peter will have already figured out his plan. But he has to get to Larssen first. He has to, or none of this will be worth it. Neal heard from some forgers in the city that the FBI have gone after Larssen hard, burning as many aliases as they can find. The FBI may have more resources at their disposal, but Neal knows the city, knows where people go to hide from the FBI.
Finding Larssen is easy— too easy. But Neal is desperate enough to walk into what is almost certainly a trap with no back up. He hides out in the dark corner of a breezeway, newly acquired gun heavy in his hands, and waits for Larssen to arrive. When Larssen walks by, Neal steps out of the shadow, gun drawn, his aim steady. Larssen stops, but doesn’t turn around.
“Your FBI friends are making it very hard for me to leave the city,” Larssen comments idly.
“They’re not my friends anymore,” Neal answers. Larssen wheels around slowly, raising an eyebrow when he sees the gun in Neal’s hands.
“So it’s true, then? You’ve become a vigilante.”
“Tell me why you shot my friend,” Neal growls.
“Killed him, I should think.” Larssen gives Neal a cold smile. “I’m very good at what I do.” Neal swallows hard—he hasn’t gotten any updates on Mozzie’s condition since what Peter told him in the interrogation room the previous day. He has no idea if Mozzie even made it off the operating table.
“Then what’s stopping me from killing you?” Neal asks, focusing back on the present.
“I was hired to kill your friend. Don’t you want the man behind the curtain?” Neal hesitates—is that what he wants?—which is all the time it takes for Larssen to draw his own gun and aim it at Neal. “You’ve killed one person, I’ve killed hundreds. Do you really think you can get out of this alive?” Larssen challenges.
“What do you want?” Neal spits. He’s not shaking, but adrenaline buzzes under his skin.
“I give you the information you want, and I get to leave the city,” Larssen offers. It’s tempting, but Neal is already in too deep. The justice that Peter wants will take too long, and Neal is already heading to jail.
“Not even that.” Larssen sighs, like they aren’t pointing loaded guns at each other.
“Then I guess you’ll never know who ordered the shooting,” Larssen says, then tilts his head to the side. “Or who killed Kate.” Neal freezes at that—Fowler killed Kate. Neal knows that. Doesn’t he?
“Freeze! FBI! Drop your weapons!”
Neither Neal nor Larssen move as the breezeway suddenly fills with FBI agents shouting, flashlight beams bouncing around.
“Neal.” Neal flinches at Peter’s voice, but he keeps his gun trained on Larssen. “Neal, don’t do this.”
“Why not?” There are easily a dozen other agents surrounding them now, and Neal knows that this time if they shoot, they won’t hit his arm. “He killed Mozzie. Why shouldn’t I kill him?”
“He didn’t.” The sharpness in Peter’s tone throws Neal off, and he almost looks away. “Mozzie is alive, Neal. And he doesn’t want you to do this.” Neal’s hand wavers on the gun. He can’t tell if Peter’s lying, telling him what he wants to hear just so he won’t shoot.
“He said he killed Mozzie,” Neal breathes, but who is he to believe a murderer over Peter?
“Neal, look at me,” Peter says. “Look at me, Neal, c’mon.” Neal swallows hard, hearing the pain and desperation in Peter’s voice, and finally turns his head.
Peter’s warm brown eyes stare back at him, so full of certainty and determination and hope. Despite everything Neal’s done, Peter doesn’t shy away from him.
“This isn’t who you are,” Peter says, and he sounds so sure of himself that Neat desperately wants to believe him.
“It is,” Neal says, his voice breaking.
“No, it’s not.”
“I killed Fowler!” Neal shouts, his voice echoing off the brick. “I killed him, because he killed Kate, and I…” Neal looks back at Larssen, who hasn’t moved a muscle.
“That doesn’t make you a killer. Mozzie’s alive, Neal. You can find your revenge in the justice, it’s there, I promise, but we can’t do that if you kill him.” Neal’s chest heaves, his arms shaking from having held a gun up for so long. He looks to Peter, the words finally sinking in.
Mozzie’s alive. Neal doesn’t need revenge.
Neal drops his arm, the gun hanging limply in his grasp.
BANG
BANG
Pain rips through Neal, blinding him as he stumbles backwards from the sudden force that hits his stomach. When his vision clears, he’s staring up at the ceiling. There are people shouting around him, but he can’t hear past the blood pounding in his ears. Neal rolls his head to the side and sees Larssen on the ground a few feet away, shouting and struggling against the FBI agents pinning him down even as blood pools around him.
There’s blood pooling around Neal too. His hands are wet with it, and he feels it soaking into his clothes. Someone puts pressure on the wound in his side and Neal shouts, attempting to curl in on himself. Everything hurts, a fire spreading throughout his body, and Neal wishes he could go back to the cold detachment from when he’d killed Fowler. He’d barely even noticed he’d been shot that time. It didn’t hurt like this.
“I’ve got you, Neal, c’mon.” Neal is vaguely aware of Peter speaking, his voice sounding distant and far away like it’s coming down a tunnel, but the rest of the world is fading to black.
Maybe Neal should stop fighting it. He got revenge for Kate, and Mozzie will be okay. He has nothing else to do.
“Stay with me, Neal, just a little longer.” Peter’s words are a life raft that Neal clings onto with both hands. There are still people who care about him, and even if he’s going to spend the rest of his life in jail, he can’t do to them what Kate’s death did to him.
Neal’s last thought before the world goes dark is that what he wants might not matter anymore.
Neal wakes up slowly, as if coming out of a dream. His body feels fuzzy, but there’s a beeping sound near him, and something cold encircles his wrist that makes his breath hitch. He tries to lift his hand, and his panic mounts when he can’t. His eyes snap open, taking in the sterile white walls of a hospital room, and he tugs at the handcuff again. Before he can panic too much, a voice speaks.
“You know, I expected you to be by my bedside when I woke up.” Neal turns his head, finally noticing the figure that sits by his bedside.
“Mozzie,” Neal breathes out. Some—but not all—of his panic leaves. Mozzie’s alive. Peter hadn’t been lying.
“Then I learned you were not only locked up for killing a man, but you then escaped to do it again.” Mozzie puts down the book in his hands and levels an unimpressed glare at Neal. “I’m touched that you tried to avenge my death, as it were, but I reserve the right to hold this stupid decision over you when I come to visit you in prison.” Neal sighs and slumps back in bed.
“I figured I’m already going to jail,” Neal starts.
“So why not double down?” Mozzie finishes for him, then shakes his head. “If you’re lucky, your lawyer might be able to talk you out of life in prison. Get it down to a reasonable twenty five years or so.” Neal shrugs—he’s accepted life in prison.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Neal says. Mozzie shakes his head and picks his book back up. “Do you know what happened to Larssen?” Neal asks. The last thing he remembers is Larssen on the ground next to him, both of them bleeding out. Mozzie shrugs.
“He’s also in the hospital, but he’s in worse condition than you are,” Mozzie says. “The Lady Suit shot him.” It takes Neal a second to process that.
“Diana?” He asks. “Why?”
“Why do the Suits do anything?” Neal frowns, turning that over in his mind. Before he can speak again the door to his room opens, and Jones sticks his head in.
“Time’s up,” Jones says. Mozzie marks his place in his book and reaches for the controls on his wheelchair, but pauses before rolling away.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Mozzie says slowly. “Even if that was the stupidest decision you’ve made in your life.” He exits the room before Neal can respond. Jones ambles closer.
“How are you doing, Caffrey?” Jones asks, reaching to make sure his cuffs are still secure—Neal can’t fault him for that.
“Oh, you know,” Neal answers evasively.
“You killed a man.” Neal swallows hard at the reminder—that’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.
“Yeah. I did.” Neal fidgets in his bed. “Did Diana really shoot Larssen?” Jones huffs out a laugh.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“To stop him from shooting you,” Jones says, giving Neal a strange look. “That’s what we’re trained to do—disabling shot to stop someone from attacking.”
“He’s in bad shape.”
“Yeah,” Jones says with a laugh. “But he’ll make it. She’s a damn good shot.” Neal nods, turning that over in his mind. He rolls his shoulder, though the wound Diana gave him barely stings at this point.
“Where’s Peter?” Neal asks.
“Cleaning up your mess,” Jones says, not unkindly, but Neal still winces. “I still don’t know what your plan was with all of this.”
“There wasn’t one,” Neal admits.
“Kinda figured that.” Neal fights back a yawn and Jones chuckles. “You should get some rest.”
“Yeah,” Neal murmurs, his eyes already closing.
“I’ll let Peter know that you’re awake,” Jones says on his way out.
The door opens, and Peter walks in. He's frowning, and stops a couple feet away from the bed, his arms crossed.
“Neal.”
“Peter.”
“That was a really bad plan." Neal swallows hard and nods.
“I know.”
Neither of them speak for a moment.
“You're lucky to still be alive.”
Neal laughs a little at that. “Diana's a good shot.”
“Yeah, she is.”
There's another pause, and all the words Neal wants to say piling up in his chest, too many things to speak all at once.
“I'm sorry,” he gets out finally. “I just didn't know what to do and I-”
“You've always been one to jump to extremes.” Neal nods, unable to argue.
“Thank you.” At Peter's confused look he elaborates. “For stopping me from killing Larssen. I never wanted to kill anybody, I just-”
“Got caught up inside your own head,” Peter finishes for him. Neal shrugs. “I've gotta tell El that you're awake.”
“She asked about me?” Neal didn't expect that from her. Peter raises an eyebrow, gives Neal a look that says really?
“She cares about you. A lot of people care about you.” Neal swallows hard and can't meet Peter's gaze. “Despite what you seem to think, your life isn't over.”
“I killed somebody.”
“But you're still here. And that's all that matters.”